LITMIR.BIZ

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skewering his heart.

      “You’re right, of course,” said David. “Thank you.” He clapped his son on the back, then the two men looked down at Albert. An enormous quantity of blood had run from his mouth, soaking the front of his shirt red. He stared back at them with fear and loathing in his eyes.

      “This is long overdue,” said David. “I should have done this more than a decade ago. Your mother persuaded me to let you be, convinced me that you might eventually work out what it means to be a man, to be a Harker. Letting her do so was my mistake, and I see it now.” He looked up towards the door and gave a nod. “Get him out of my sight,” he said. “I don’t ever want to see his face again.”

      Albert’s mind was suddenly overcome with terror.

      They’re going to kill me, he thought. They’re going to kill me, oh God, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t think they’d really do it, oh God, I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

      Hands grabbed his arms and he began to scream, thrashing wildly in the grips of the men who held him. He screamed for his brother, for his father, screamed that he was sorry, screamed for another chance, one last, final chance. But Robert and David merely watched, their expressions calm, as Albert was dragged out of the room.

      He fought them all the way to the front door, kicking and bucking and howling his head off, and when one of the hands released its grip on his arm, he redoubled his efforts. Then something huge and heavy crashed into his lower back and all the fight went out of him. The pain was monstrous, indescribable, and he vomited helplessly as his suddenly limp body was dragged from the house and towards the idling car.

      The man in the sunglasses was waiting for him, leaning against the wide black boot with something in his hand. As they approached, Albert saw that it was a hypodermic needle, half full of a clear liquid. He tried to force his reeling limbs to move, to propel him away from the man and the syringe, but nothing happened; the combination of the blows to his face and kidneys had rendered his body unresponsive. He was hauled upright as the man in the sunglasses stepped forward, the faintest flicker of a smile on his face.

      “Don’t…” managed Albert, his voice little more than a plaintive croak. “Please… don’t…”

      The man didn’t respond and, as the needle slid into his neck, a single thought filled Albert’s mind.

       This isn’t real. None of this is real.

      His eyes closed and his body went limp as he was bundled into the back of the car.

      When he awoke, it was dark outside.

      As his eyes fluttered open, Albert tried to lift his arms and found that nothing happened. His mind was thick and fuzzy, a state of being he knew very well from years of heroin addiction, but this was something else. Something unfamiliar. He concentrated hard and managed to slowly bring his shaking hands up to his face. His mouth was swollen and covered with blood that had dried to powder. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and looked around. He was alone in the back of the car, which was stationary. In the front, the driver stared rigidly forward; beside him, the passenger seat was empty. Albert shuffled across the seat to his left and peered through the windscreen.

      A large building loomed in the distance, lit by circles of yellow light set into brick walls. In front of the car, the man with the sunglasses was standing beside a chain-link gate, talking to a woman in a white coat. As Albert watched, the woman gestured animatedly, waving her hands and shaking her head vehemently back and forth. The man in the sunglasses appeared to let her finish, then leant in close and talked for almost a minute. When he pulled away, the woman looked utterly deflated, her face pale, her shoulders slumped. The man pulled a sheaf of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her; she gave it a cursory scan, took a pen from one of the pockets of her white coat, and signed each page. She handed them back, turned, and walked away without a backward glance. The man in the sunglasses watched her leave, then walked briskly back towards the car. He opened the passenger door, slid in next to Albert, and gave him a wide smile.

      “Welcome to your new home, Mr Harker,” he said, his tone smooth and oily. “Driver, carry on.”

      They crept forward and, as Albert watched, the chain-link gate slid open. The big car passed through the widening gap and, as it did so, Albert saw a white rectangle moving slowly past his window. He slid away from the man in the sunglasses, fear and misery clawing at his drifting, reeling mind, pressed his face against the glass, and read the two words that were printed on the sign in bold blue letters.

       BROADMOOR HOSPITAL

      12

      READY TO ROLL

      As Jamie expected, Morton and Ellison were waiting for him in the hangar.

      On time, he thought. That’s a good start, at least.

      The two freshly commissioned Operators were standing at the rear of the black van that had been assigned to Operational Squad M-3. He walked over to them, his boots thudding on the concrete floor, readying himself to say what he needed to say. He had spent the journey up to the hangar trying to decide whether to tell his rookies what had happened to Angela Darcy’s squad; he was far from sure that the extra pressure would be helpful, but was also reluctant for them to start their first mission in the dark about what they were really facing.

      “Operators,” said Jamie, stopping in front of them.

      “Lieutenant,” they replied.

      “Weapons and kit prep complete?” asked Jamie, eyeing their uniforms. He could already see that they were perfect, the result, no doubt, of dozens of checks and re-checks in the dormitory on Level C, but there were protocols to be followed.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Intelligence analysis complete?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Operational parameters clear?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good. Operator Morton, who is our target?”

      “Eric Bingham, sir.”

      “Operator Ellison,” said Jamie, turning to face her. “What intelligence has the target’s identification provided?”

      “A long history of violence, sir,” replied Ellison. “Paranoid schizophrenia, diagnosed more than ten years ago. One conviction for attempted murder, numerous previous incidences of assault.”

      “All of which means?”

      “Shoot first, sir. And keep shooting.”

      “That’s exactly right. Listen to me, do what I tell you, don’t waste time trying to talk to him or bring him in alive. We track him down, destroy him, and move on. Clear?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good. Now listen carefully. An experienced squad, led by one of the finest Operators in this Department, returned to the Loop this morning with two seriously injured members. They were both hurt by a single vampire, one of the escapees from Broadmoor. The squad in question were not in possession of the full facts and paid the price. We will not make the same mistake. Is that clear?”

      Neither Ellison nor Morton replied. Their faces had paled slightly and their mouths were set in thin lines.

      This is it, thought Jamie. They can handle this or they can’t. They’re ready or they’re not. Time to find out.

      “OK,” he said, hauling open the rear door of the van. “Let’s move out.”

      The van sped through the thick forest that lay beyond the perimeter of the Loop, its powerful engine humming beneath its passengers’ feet.

      Operational Squad M-3 were strapped into three of the moulded seats in the vehicle’s rear, their weapons and kit stowed safely in the slots

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