Red Eye - 02 (21 page)

God. She’d be crazy to stay with Redlaw, but crazier still to let an opportunity like this slip through her fingers.

Who was she? She was Tick Checkley. And what did ticks do? They fastened on until they had drunk their fill, got what they needed.

“No,” she said firmly to Redlaw. “You haven’t got a hope of making it there by yourself. I’m coming with you. It’s the only way.”

“Fine.” He was less grateful than she’d expected. But she guessed that with Redlaw it was all about what was expedient. “Let’s crack on, then. Miguel. All of you. I’m no shtriga, but for the time being I’m your best hope. I think I’ve proved that already. I have a plan, and if you’re wise you’ll follow it.”

The vampires deliberated amongst themselves, but not for long.

“Okay, we’ll put ourselves in your hands,” said Miguel. “For now. But we ain’t going to trust you. Mostly because we know you can’t trust us.”

“Can’t argue with that logic. Tina? What are you waiting for? There’s no telling when our attackers might reappear.”

Tina set off at a fast pace, head bent against the snow, which patted her face with a soft, insistent beat. Not far away, sirens were howling and wailing. The sound was undoubtedly coming from the direction of St Magnus’s. There would have been reports of gunfire, summoning the emergency services. She mapped out a route in her head, one that steered well clear of the church.

Her thoughts, however, were mostly on the bravery of her decision and what she might get out of it.

She didn’t have visions of a Pulitzer Prize medal in her hands, not quite, but almost. She’d nearly died tonight, and now she was throwing in her lot with the same vampires who’d been on the brink of sucking her dry. By some cosmic law, ballsy persistence like hers must surely be recognised and rewarded.

Cowards never prospered.

Do or die.

Dare or beware.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

C
OLONEL
J
ACOBSEN STUDIED
the creature in front of him, the vampire in priest’s clothing. Giacoia and Child were gripping the vampire by the arms, holding him upright. He couldn’t stand unaided. Jacobsen had made sure of that by stamping on his thighs until both femurs snapped.

“What in hell’s name are you?” Jacobsen said.

The priest vampire sneered. “I could ask the same of you. You’re neither one thing nor the other, neither fish nor fowl. Human, essentially, but tampered with. Augmented.”

“All you need to know about me is I’m the one doing the interrogating. Your life is in my hands.”

“Forgive me if I don’t cower and grovel,” said the vampire. “I don’t tend to do that to my inferiors.”

Jacobsen took a swing at him, landing a roundhouse that would have shattered an ordinary man’s skull.

The vampire shook off the blow, grinning fiercely. “I am Father Rudi Tchaikovsky. I am a hundred and fifty years old and counting. I have lived two lifetimes and met far worse than you. I do not fear you.”

“You should,” Jacobsen growled, “because I’m the guy who’s going to turn you to dust unless you start cooperating.”

“And I am shtriga,” Tchaikovsky retorted. “I could tear you apart with my bare hands.”

“Could, but can’t.”

In fairness, Jacobsen thought, Tchaikovsky’s threat wasn’t entirely an empty one. It had taken three Red Eyes to subdue him. They had had to wrestle him off Corporal Lim and pin him to the floor, Child using his considerable bulk to secure him in place while Jacobsen got busy breaking his legs in order to disable him. The average vampire wouldn’t have presented anywhere near as much of a problem to the team—but then they would have just eliminated an average vampire, whereas this one seemed worth capturing because he was so unusually
above
average.

“Shtriga, huh?” Jacobsen went on. “That would explain it. Kind of an
über
-vampire, right? Well, you gave Four a run for his money, that’s for sure.” Lim had in fact been in danger of losing his fight with Tchaikovsky until his comrades came to his assistance. “But against all of us? Crippled as you are? Really, I’m not worried.”

“I say we waste this scumbag right now,” Lim chipped in. He was nursing a sprained arm. Tchaikovsky had all but dislocated his shoulder trying to wrench the combat knife off him. “Cops’ll be on their way. We can’t hang around.”

“Noted, corporal,” said Jacobsen. “But I want some answers.”

“As do I,” said J. Howard Farthingale III in Jacobsen’s ear. “Who is he?”

Jacobsen lowered his voice. “That’s what I’m trying to ascertain, sir.”

“No, not the shtriga. The other man. The one who shot at your team.”

“I don’t know, but Red Eye Six and Seven are in pursuit. I’m sure they have him by now.”

“And I’m sure they don’t,” Farthingale said. “I’m monitoring all your feeds, remember? And I’ve lost contact with both Six and Seven. Their helmet cam signals are down. All I’m getting from either is dead air. Who is he? Ask.”

Jacobsen turned back to Tchaikovsky. “There was someone else here with you. He had a gun. Friend of yours?”

“What’s it to you?”

Jacobsen kicked him in the gut. Were Tchaikovsky human, inner organs would have ruptured.

Tchaikovsky coughed up a black tarry substance that might once have been blood.

“Why are you so interested in him?” he said. “Am I not enough of a prize?”

“Just tell me about him.”

“He’s eluded you, hasn’t he? That must make you very displeased. I saw him take several of my flock with him. Survivors. Loose ends. How aggravating for you.”

“Sir, I’m hearing sirens,” said Berger. “We’ve not got long.”

“Please give me permission to cut off this bastard’s head, then we’re good,” said Lim.

“The man’s name,” Farthingale insisted in Jacobsen’s ear. “Ask him if it’s John Redlaw.”

“Redlaw,” said Jacobsen. “John Redlaw. That name mean anything to you?”

Tchaikovsky gave a crooked smile. “If you already know who he is, why are you bothering to enquire?”

Farthingale started cursing and ranting. “I knew it! I knew I recognised him. Goddamn cocksucker limey bastard. Fucking with us
again
...”

Jacobsen tuned his voice out as best he could. “You and this Redlaw are in cahoots?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Tchaikovsky. “But if he has helped some of my flock escape, as I’m assuming he has, then I have much to thank him for. I only wish, with hindsight, that I had treated him a little more charitably. I undervalued him. I mistook him for just another brainless piece of human cattle, a convenient source of nourishment. I see clearly that he is better than that.” He heaved a rueful sigh.

“Sir?” said Lim. His knife was drawn. Even with his dominant arm out of action, there was no question he would be able to behead Tchaikovsky with ease. A single left-handed slash, that was all it would take.

“Go on, do it,” said Tchaikovsky. “I’ve done all I can. Some of my flock will live to see another day. My duties have been discharged.”

“Aargh!”

It was a cry of pure fury, from the direction of the crypt entrance. Red Eye Seven—Private Abbotts—staggered out from the doorway. He strode across the church, clothes sopping, leaving a trail of water splashes behind him. His helmet was a ruin, cracked in several places, camera unit dangling off on its cable. His face was ragged and bleeding.

“Seven,” said Jacobsen. “What the fuck?”

“Shot me,” Abbotts raged. “Shot me in the face. And killed Larousse.”

“Who shot you?”

“Who the fuck do you think? White-haired guy who was leading those vamps, the one you sent me and Larousse to deal with. Motherfucker got Kyle, nearly did for me too.”

Tchaikovsky started chuckling. “Oh yes, I did undervalue Redlaw. How I regret that now. He is sincere in wanting to protect vampire-kind. I thought it a pretty pose, mere words, but it seems not. He is as much God’s agent as I am. Truly the Lord does move in mysterious ways.”

“You can shut your mouth and all,” Abbotts snapped. “Stop that laughing. Friend of mine’s dead. Only one on this team who was worth a damn, only one who’d give me the time of day.”

Tchaikovsky just laughed louder.

“I said shut your mouth, bloodsucker!” Abbotts bellowed. “Enough of that jibber-jabber of yours!”

Tchaikovsky had no intention of complying. His throaty guffaws echoed to the rafters. “Oh, this is rich,” he said. “One man thwarts you. One lone man kicks the legs from under you. So much for your weapons and your armour and your unnatural strength. So much for your programme of assassination. One mere human makes a mockery of—
grrkkk!
”

Abbotts grabbed him by the jaw and neck and, before anyone could stop him, twisted hard. Tchaikovsky’s head rotated with a crackle of vertebrae parting, cartilaginous discs popping. His tongue shot out between his fangs. His eyes bulged.

Abbotts shifted his grip and pulled upwards. Skin ripped, muscle and sinew split, tendons were torn asunder. Tchaikovsky’s entire head came free in the soldier’s hands, and Abbots raised it aloft like some grisly trophy. The decapitated body sagged, now just so much dead weight for Giacoia and Child to support. They dropped it, and almost immediately it started the process of rapid atrophy, losing cohesion and becoming hot dust. The head Abbotts was holding did likewise, separately but simultaneously, and he cast it aside. It rolled along the floor, flinging off powdery clouds of decomposing matter, whittling to nothingness as it bounced and spun.

“That’s better,” Abbotts said, brushing dust off his gloves. A grin distended his ravaged face. “Now we can hear ourselves think again.”

Sirens skirled and honked outside, far off but getting louder.

“Get out of there,” Farthingale instructed Jacobsen. “Cut your losses and return to base.” He sounded deeply disgruntled, but nowhere near as disgruntled as Jacobsen himself felt.

“Everyone, quitting time,” Jacobsen said, circling a hand above his head.

The six remaining members of Team Red Eye began scrambling up the walls, making for the broken windows. Lim, with his bum arm, needed help from Child. Berger, too, had an injured arm, her elbow bruised from where she had been shot by Redlaw. Jacobsen offered her assistance, but she refused.

Jacobsen was last to exit the church. Outside, as he catapulted himself up over the eaves and onto the roof, he saw whirling flashes of red and blue light between two rows of nearby buildings. Police and fire crews, doubtless a SWAT unit as well. The vehicles were moving in a slow convoy, lightbars ablaze. They would have arrived a lot sooner if the driving conditions had not been so atrocious.

One man down
, Jacobsen thought bitterly to himself as he ran across the snow-padded tiles.
Three hurt
.

And the mission itself had been compromised, its full remit not achieved.

Whoever this John Redlaw was, he had just gone straight to the number one spot on Colonel Jim Jacobsen’s shit list.

And that was not a good or wise place for anybody to be.

CHAPTER