Renegade (Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence) (29 page)

Jack was dozing, somehow, in the back of the Hercules transport plane. The noise inside the cargo hold was deafening and we were all wearing ear protectors, but he'd managed to fall asleep.

Escaping from the US had been disturbingly easy. We'd taken a short, bumpy ride to a large farm run by a pair of werewolves. From there, after a night's sleep and plenty to eat, we had driven north and simply crossed the border into Canada. I was stunned at how little it had taken. Kyle and Terry had driven into Prescott County and had managed to lay their hands on some fake Canadian passports. They never said where they'd gotten them from but I strongly suspected Tyler was involved somewhere. Especially given that  Natasha was the one who had delivered them to us.

From the Canadian border we went to the Embassy and were shuttled to a Canadian Air Force base in Nova Scotia and loaded on to a Royal Air Force Hercules that just happened to be there. Suspicious timing but nobody was about to argue.

We took off and for the next few hours it was constant noise and discomfort. We were given food halfway through the flight in the form of white cardboard boxes. Inside were suspicious sandwiches, bags of bargain basement crisps—the  choice seemed to be cheese and onion or cheese and onion—a slightly soft Penguin bar, and a can of Panda cola. These last seemed to be a joke. The back of a bumpy, bouncy cargo place was hardly the place for fizzy drink. More than one of us found this out to our cost.

Everyone was thrilled when John opened his bag to reveal he'd stashed something for the ride home. Bags of beef jerky, crisps, cookies and sandwiches stuffed with more beef than the average cow.

Cam was especially pleased. He actually liked the nasty, vaguely fishy filling in the suspicious sandwiches and went around collecting them from everybody. Then sat down in one of the silly net seats and ate them with every sign of enjoyment.

Even the crew of the Hercules came and shared in the bounty. Except the stern-faced armed guards, that is. They sat in the rear of the cabin, wearing red berets, red belts and standard Army uniforms with red shoulder patches with 'MP' picked out in black thread. The Royal Military Police. Here to arrest us the moment we entered British airspace. Apparently the MPRD's status as a semi civilian police force was being ignored at this point.

I finished my sandwich and stood up, stretching and twisting to relieve the cramping in my back. The eyes of the guards followed me as I crossed the hold of the cargo plane and sat down next to Jack. He stirred slightly and shifted against my shoulder. His arm was now covered in a cast, an Army jacket over his torn t-shirt. With only the slightest hesitation I ducked under his good arm and lay my head against his shoulder. I took a few deep breaths, inhaling his scent, and then fell asleep.

C
HAPTER

50

“
So what are they doing here?” said John, peering out of the window. “I thought they were being retired.”

The C-130 transport plane had landed at Brize Norton and was taxiing across the base. Our brief journey had taken us past a group of BAe Harriers, a couple of dozen of them, the planes the government had supposedly retired earlier this year. Except they didn't look retired. Each aircraft was armed and techs in overalls were swarming around and over them. Something was definitely up.

“Wait,” said Bolt, “is that the MPRD badge on the side? Look, where the squadron bar usually goes above the jet nozzle? It is! Why do we need Harriers?”

“
I dunno,” I said, leaning back against the seat. “I could think of a couple of uses. It would save us borrowing those expensive Eurofighters from the crabs.”

The Herc swept by the little group of aircraft and rolled to a stop in an open expanse of concrete, its engines slowly winding down. The rear hatch cracked open and the ramps descended. As it did, the Redcaps who had been guarding us stood up and started giving us pointed looks.

“Okay, everybody out!” bellowed the sergeant in charge.

I pulled myself to my feet, ignoring my protesting muscles, and marched smartly down the ramp. Outside were more Redcaps, led by a Lieutenant. The officer was a kid who looked like he was barely old enough to shave. He was looking me in the eye, his chin jutted forward, trying for the steely-eyed look and missing. The burley fucker with the sergeant's stripes stood behind him looked much more threatening.

“Sergeant Jack Henderson, I'm here to take you into custody,” said the officer.

“
Yes sir,” I said with more energy than I felt. Custody? Not arrest? That was strange.

The officer and his squad hustled us across the base in their land rovers and into a building. I remembered this one, it was the same building, about a billion years ago, where I'd been sent to plan the attack on Havelock Manor, that had ended in the death of Glavidia.

I was deftly separated from my  team and stuffed into an office. Minister Tilehurst was sitting behind the desk and talking on the phone. He motioned me to take a seat and then indicated that the officers should leave us alone.

“
I understand and I'll deal with it. He's here now. Okay. Sounds okay to me.”

He hung up and folded his hands in front of him. He spent a few seconds staring at me over his fingers.

“So you came back with your shield,” he said finally. “That's something at least.”

“
Yes, Sir,” I replied.

“
But you caused a gigantic shit storm in the process. How do you manage to do that so often?”

“
Couldn't say, Sir.”

“
Well you are hereby suspended from duty pending an investigation. I just hung up with the Foreign Secretary. Today I've spoken to the Minister of Defence, the Home Secretary, the Prime Minister and the US Ambassador. The US government is taking the position that you were, as a police officer, in hot pursuit of a criminal. They are gently ignoring the question of the authorization for the pursuit. They are being aided and abetted in this by the majority of the US Media who are saying that the video released onto the internet the other day is a fake. More to the point that it is a scene from an upcoming movie which was leaked as a viral marketing campaign. The movie—a supposedly hard-hitting expose of the brutality and viciousness of the Ministry—is, no doubt, being frantically made as we speak.

“
They are also apparently being helped out by a certain Sheriff who is insisting to anyone who will listen that you, in your official capacity as a law enforcement agent, contacted him and arranged to liaise with his office on tracking an international kidnapper. Bizarrely, an official from the FBI is backing this claim, saying the three of you were working together. Know anything about that?”

I tried to keep my face impassive as I shook my head. FBI? What was that about? We hadn't had anything to do with the FBI while we were over there. Why were they throwing their hat in the ring?

“Anyway, seeing as the US Ambassador is not pressing charges, the Foreign Secretary is prepared to leave it at that. Apparently it would be potentially embarrassing if certain facts came to light concerning how easily certain highly placed vampires were circumventing the country's immigration procedures at will.”

He paused and looked at me. I was having to work hard to keep my face straight.

“What?” he said sharply. “What did you think would happen? Did you really think there would be a public outcry over international kidnapping and the rich getting around the law? That the world would suddenly see vampires as evil creatures? Jack, shit like this goes on all the time. Back room deals and agreements sealed with a handshake. Nobody gets egg on their faces, no ripples caused, no boats rocked. The vampires are just the newest bunch. The rich bastards have been above the law since the first law was ever written down.”

I actually had hoped there might be repercussions over the whole thing. That maybe something might come of it. It hadn't influenced my decision to go at all but I had hoped.

“You're not that naive, Jack surely?”

“
I used to think I was cynical but the world keeps doing things that make me look like an optimist,” I said finally.

“
Go home, Jack,” he replied. “You'll be called to appear at various hearings and committees and bullshit. You should think yourself lucky you're not headed to the Glasshouse. If you were still in the regiment I'd have you RTU'd in a heartbeat and bounced so far you'd never land. But between you and the government my hands are effectively tied. As it is you'll probably get a reprimand that'll get buried because it's too secret to deal with.”

He rubbed his face with his hands.

“There may not even be a Ministry to come back to,” he said wearily. “This was the straw that broke the camel's back. They're saying that the Ministry was set up as a knee-jerk reaction and now it's time to rein it in. We'll probably end up under the Ministry of Defence or absorbed into the police service under the Home Office.”

“
That's crazy,” I said, startled.

“
That's life,” he replied. “Get out of here. Go home. Get your story straight. We're done here.”

E
PILOGUE

Michael Tunbridge sat back into a deep leather armchair, cradling a wineglass. He took a sip  and considered the day's events. Sure, he'd gotten pretty torn up by those werewolves, and the skin on his face was still pink and raw, and Pagan had escaped, but he was considering it a win. Those in the know within the vampire community were making sure that the rumors were flying. Pagan had killed DeClerc, attacked the Fairborn Estate, killed several innocent vampires, and made his escape with the aid of persons unknown.

He took another sip, savoring the warm blood. He could feel the liquid fueling the healing process. That damn Huntsman and his team had left him with several wounds which would need time—and blood—to heal.

Having Pagan's body would have galvanized many into Tunbridge's camp, but no matter. He had other plans, other irons in the fire. The war between the vampires and the humans was inevitable, and the faster it got here the better.

He settled back further and permitted himself a small smile.

“
Pleased with yourself?”

The wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered on the hardwood as Tunbridge tried to spring to his feet. A pair of arms, immensely strong, pushed him back into the chair. In the dim light he could see a face, thin to the point of emaciation, with long, lank hair and deep, sunken eyes.

“Morder!”

“
Answer the question,” hissed the newcomer. “Are you pleased with yourself? You have interfered with the Mistress's plans. You have taken steps you were not authorized to take. You were
warned
.”

Tunbridge trembled in the other vampire's iron grip.

“
Answer
!”

“
No!”

“
Good. You should think yourself lucky that the Huntsman got away. Had you killed him this would be a very different conversation and, you would have found out that, vicious as he is, the Huntsman is but a babe compared to me when it comes to inflicting pain.”

Tunbridge trembled. He knew it was true. Every vampire knew about Morder and the sensible ones feared him. But why was he working for Lucia?

Morder leaned closer, his voice a low hiss.

“
It's irrelevant now. He got away. Now all I have to do is make sure the message gets through this time.”

“
No problem,” said Tunbridge. “The Huntsman's off-limits. Understood.”

Morder straightened and looked down at Tunbridge.

“No, you fool.”

With a single swipe of his hand, Morder tore Tunbridge's throat out, spraying blood over the furniture and up the walls. He bent down and stared into the other's eyes as the life ran out of him.

“There are those who say that when you end a vampire's life, you take on their power,” he whispered. “Makes you wonder if that's why the Huntsman is the way he is, no?”