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young man gestured, and Carpenter followed the sweep of his arm. Several people had walked through the blood when it was still wet, towards a door set inconspicuously in the corner of the wood panelling, through which they had disappeared.

      Carpenter nodded to Turner. The grey-eyed Major stepped carefully forward and placed his ear against the wooden door. After a couple of seconds, he stepped back, drew the T-Bone from his belt, and kicked the door open. The frame shattered and the door flew against a stone wall, cracking neatly in half. There was a pregnant moment, then Turner stepped through the opening.

      “Clear,” he said.

      They stood in a narrow stone corridor, lit by an overhanging light bulb. The walls were bare, and a worn staircase descended in front of them. Turner led them down it, his T-Bone pointing steadily before him. Carpenter drew his own weapon, motioned for the rest of the men to do the same, and followed.

      After perhaps twenty steps the floor levelled off and the passage widened into a large cellar. Shelves of dry goods lined one wall; sacks of rice and flour, barrels of olive oil and bottles of vinegar, sides of cured meat. The opposite wall was covered in a long row of floor-to-ceiling wooden racks, in which stood hundreds of bottles of wine, port and champagne. At the far end of the room, the final rack had been thrown over, smashing tens of bottles on the hard stone floor and filling the air with the strong scent of rotting fruit. They made their way through the cellar, and stopped in front of the downed rack. Behind it was an ancient carved stone arch, leading into utter blackness.

      “Light,” said Carpenter.

      Private Miller unclipped the torch from his belt, and shone the beam into the hole. It illuminated the snarling face of a vampire, his teeth bared, his eyes crimson as he rushed towards them.

      Julian wiped blood from his beard and flicked it disgustedly on to the floor.

      “First guard,” said Turner, quietly.

      “Agreed,” replied Frankenstein. “It’s possible they know we’re coming.”

      “I don’t think so,” said Carpenter. “I think it was expecting police, or one of the family. I don’t think it raised an alarm.”

      “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Frankenstein.

      The team moved into the darkness, the beams of their torches illuminating a round stone passage, moving as quietly as possible. The path led round a corner and began to widen, until they were standing in front of a heavy-looking wooden door. Carpenter motioned Connor forward, and the young Private lowered his shoulder and slowly pushed it open. The hinges screamed as he did so, the door opening on to another stretch of passage. Connor stepped through it, and as the order to wait rose in Carpenter’s throat, a dark shadow fell from the ceiling, driving him to the ground. The torch beams converged, and the team watched in stunned horror as a vampire girl, who appeared to be no older than eleven or twelve, ripped his helmet from his head and sank her teeth into his neck. Connor screamed, and thrashed in her grip. Blood flew in the enclosed space, splattering the walls and the floor, and when she clamped her teeth together and tore out his throat the scream dissolved into a terrible gurgling sound.

      Turner was the first to react, as always. He stepped forward, pulled the stake from his belt, and slammed it into the girl’s left eye. She howled in pain, released Connor, and jumped to her feet, blood and yellow jelly pouring from her ruined eye socket. Frankenstein had drawn his T-Bone, and he pulled the trigger. The projectile thumped into her chest, driving her back along the passage, until she exploded in a torrent of gore. The stake whistled back into the barrel, and the four men rushed to where Private Connor lay bleeding.

      Carpenter knelt beside him and took his hand. Connor was on the verge of going into shock, his eyes rolling wildly, his pulse irregular and rapid. Blood was gushing out of the hole in his neck, and Turner took a wad of gauze from the medical kit on his belt and thrust it into the wound, pinching the artery shut. Connor screamed, blood frothing from his lips as he did so, but Turner didn’t even flinch.

      “Easy, son,” said Carpenter. “Easy. We’re going to get you out of here.”

      “Oh God,” said Miller. He was standing motionless, staring down at the blood-soaked man, his face a mask of utter horror.

      “Come on,” said Carpenter. “Let’s get him up. Turner, call for an evac. We need to get him out of here, right now.”

      Nobody moved.

      “Come on!” roared Carpenter. “Those were direct orders!”

      “Julian,” said Frankenstein, in a low voice. “You know it’s too late for that. We’re at least two hours away from the nearest place we can give him the transfusion he needs. If he doesn’t die, he’ll have turned by then.”

      “I don’t accept that,” replied Carpenter, his voice bristling with anger. “And I don’t care if you’re right – we’re going to try anyway. I’m not going to let him die down here.”

      “Sir…” Private Connor’s voice was thick, as though it was being spoken underwater. Carpenter looked down at him.

      “I know there’s… nothing you can… do,” the young Operator continued. “Don’t… let me turn. Please. Don’t… let me…”

      Connor’s eyes rolled back white, and his mouth fell open. His chest was still rising and falling, but barely, and blood had started running from his neck again, soaking Turner’s hand red.

      Carpenter stood up, and looked at the three men around him. Miller was staring blankly down at Connor, his eyes blank and lifeless. Frankenstein was returning Julian’s gaze, an even look on his face, and Turner was looking up at him with his expressionless grey eyes. Carpenter clenched his jaw, reached down, and pulled the Glock from its holster.

      At the sight of the gun, Miller cried out. “What are you doing?”

      “What needs to be done,” said Frankenstein.

      “He needs a hospital!” shouted Miller, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. “He doesn’t need putting down like a sick dog!”

      “We don’t let people turn. Ever. And he doesn’t want to. You heard him say so.”

      “He doesn’t know what he’s saying!”

      “Yes,” said Frankenstein, firmly. “He does.”

      Miller’s face contorted into an expression of such terrible misery that Carpenter’s heart nearly broke.

      “But… it’s not fair,” he said, his voice cracking.

      “I know,” said Carpenter. “It’s not. But letting him turn would be worse than letting him die. You know that, right?”

      Miller nodded, slowly.

      Carpenter turned back to Connor, who was still unconscious. He knelt down beside him and placed the muzzle of the Glock against the young Private’s temple. Turner stayed knelt on his other side, staring levelly at his commanding officer. Julian placed his other hand above the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

      The remainder of the team were silent as they made their way deeper into the tunnels, passing through a second door and arriving at a large stone arch, topped with a sculpted image of the crucifixion. Turner shoved open the ancient wooden door, and the four Operators walked into a wide circular chapel. The walls were covered with statues of saints, and a huge stone crucifix stood behind a plain stone altar at the rear of the room.

      The floor was covered in vampires.

      There had to be at least twenty of them, sleeping tightly packed together, like bats. As they took in the scene, Private Miller gasped. The vampire nearest to them, an old man with a beard almost to his bare waist, opened his eyes, which instantly boiled red. He let out a piercing scream, and every vampire in the room awoke, and leapt to their feet.

      The Blacklight team launched themselves into the chapel, a blur of black uniforms and piercing

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