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Murray shook his head. “No. There’s more.”
Doyle signaled the team. “Disassemble it. And do it fast.”
The team rushed forward, tools in hand, and Doyle stood back as they removed the bolts from the floor holding the system in place, then rushed forward when Murray held up a hand and called for the team to stop.
“Look,” he said, pointing to an almost-hidden lever on the far side of the last monitor station. “Clever.” He shot Doyle a significant look that had Doyle rounding up the rest of the team, weapons at the ready.
Then Murray pulled the lever and the entire monitor bank tilted backward, leaving a gap just big enough for a man to slide into. Murray met Doyle’s eyes, then did exactly that.
“There’s a drop,” he called back. “Hold on.”
Doyle bent, shining a light into the gap as Murray called back from the void below. “Crawlspace. Get the team down here asap.”
With Doyle moving right behind Murray, the entire team inched forward, the height of the crawlspace slowly increasing until they were able to walk upright. Another hundred yards, and they reached a set of stone stairs. The beam of Murray’s flashlight followed the stairs to an ornate iron door and the blackness behind it.
Doyle cocked his head, drawing in the scent. He caught Murray’s eye. Their prey was in there, playing dead.
“Blow it,” he said.
Within seconds, the door exploded, dust and bits of iron scattering as the team rushed in, stakes at the ready. They fanned out, backs to the stone walls for safety, as they quickly laid a hematite perimeter to not only weaken Dragos, but to prevent him from transforming into mist. Someone lit a flare and tossed it on the ground, and the cramped tomb filled with an eerie reddish glow.
And there he was.
Lucius Dragos stood not seven yards away, clad in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a long black duster, which undoubtedly hid a variety of weapons in its folds. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hands hidden.
The vampire wore wraparound sunglasses, the lenses so opaque that Doyle couldn’t even glimpse his eyes. But Doyle didn’t need to see the bastard’s eyes to know that Lucius was looking straight at him.
And then he turned, his gaze sweeping over the group, examining each face.
“Tariq’s not here,” Doyle said. Then he smiled. “Psych.”
His old friend’s face remained hard as stone, his jaw firm. But his right cheek twitched. Fear? Doyle couldn’t imagine Lucius Dragos being afraid of anything, no matter how much he should be.
No, Dragos wasn’t afraid. The sorry bastard was plotting.
Not that it would do him any good.
“Hands where I can see them,” Doyle said. “Now.”
One second of insolent hesitation, then Lucius slowly pulled out his hands. He held them up, showing the backs and then the palms as the rest of the team rushed in. Five men surrounded the perp, crossbows at the ready.
Another five fanned out, inspecting the hidden room.
“Over here,” one cried. “Tunnel.”
“Place is wired,” someone else chimed in, bending down to inspect the floor. “Not explosives, though.” He followed a lead wire around the room. “Aw, shit. Nerve gas. Gonna put us all to sleep.”
“And without any vamps on the strike force, you’d be the only one not affected,” Doyle said to Lucius. “Then you slip into your tunnel and go your merry way?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Lucius drawled. “Right now, I’m thinking a few more hours at the drawing board would have served me well.”
“Glad you’re so amused,” Doyle said, “considering we have you dead to rights on a solid murder charge.”
“I seem to recall something about a trial,” Lucius said. “This isn’t over, Ryan.”
“Oh, it is. You’re done, old friend. Finished. There’s nowhere left to run.”
“There’s always somewhere.”
