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He rolls out and across the ground, leaps to his feet, and opens fire, supported instantly by his team, even Timas, wielding a high-tech weapon that provides him with all sorts of fascinating feedback.
Meera and I share a worried glance, then slide out after the others onto the bullet-riddled Tarmac, leaving James and Marian to guard the helicopter. Antoine stumbles out after us, still praying, crouched low, sweat staining the collar of his otherwise spotless shirt.
The air is ablaze with gunfire. A number of guards are already lying wounded or dead. Others are firing wildly. It’s a simple matter for the well-trained members of Shark’s squad to pick them off.
The last few, realizing the futility of their position, discard their weapons and thrust their hands into the air. The gunfire ceases. Leo darts forward and makes them lie down, then handcuffs their wrists and ankles. While he’s doing that, the other soldiers advance to the open door and surround it. When Leo joins them, Shark holds up three fingers and counts down. Liam and Terry burst through, laying down a spray of advance fire. In pairs, the rest of the team follow them in. Meera and I bring up the rear, Antoine and Pip ahead of us. The bloodshed sickens me. I don’t mind slaughtering demons, but these are people. It’s not right. I know we have no choice, that these guys are murderers, but still…
Cool inside. Air-conditioned. Brightly lit. Liam and Terry are already at the end of the room and halfway through the door to the next room or corridor. No sign of anybody else. These are living quarters. Bunks, cabinets, racks for clothes, photos of models and relatives pinned to the walls. Those we hit outside must have been relaxing. They wouldn’t have been expecting an attack. I wish they hadn’t reacted so swiftly. If we’d caught them in here, we wouldn’t have had to kill so many.
“You OK?” Meera asks as we wait for the call to advance.
“Not really,” I groan.
“I know it’s hard,” she says quietly. “Try not to think of them as humans but as demonic assistants.”
“But they probably know nothing about the Demonata,” I protest.
“They knew about the seventeen Lambs they killed,” Meera snaps. “These aren’t innocents.”
“But they’re still people. I don’t feel comfortable killing like this.”
Meera smiles wanly. “That’s a good thing. Try and hold on to that attitude. The world’s packed with too many trigger-happy goons.”
“Like Shark?” I grin shakily.
Meera’s face puckers into something between a scowl and a smirk. Before she can answer, one of the soldiers — I think it’s Spenser — shouts affirmatively, and we’re moving forward again, farther into the heart of the compound.
We don’t encounter much resistance. The occasional guard or two. We’re able to overpower most of them and leave them handcuffed, alive. We only face one real obstacle, when several guards block a long corridor and fill it with furniture. They have a great vantage point. If we try to rush them, we’ll be cut down before we get halfway. But Shark isn’t fazed. He calls Pip forward. She studies the piled-up furniture, makes a few calculations, then takes off her backpack and roots through
it. Produces a small round object. It looks like a thick CD.
“Who’s good with Frisbees?” Pip asks.
“Here,” Liam says. He takes the disc, aims, then glances at Pip. “Do I need to press anything?”
“No. But if you don’t throw it quickly, you’ll lose an arm.”
Liam yelps, then sends the disc skimming down the corridor. It hits the mound of furniture near the base and explodes on contact. The desks, chairs, and cabinets fly backwards, obliterating the guards behind them. We’re on the scene seconds later, Shark’s troops handcuffing any survivors. Stephen bends over a seriously wounded man. Starts to cuff him, then pauses, studies his injuries, sets him down, and presses the barrel of his gun to the man’s head. I look away but I can’t drown out the retort of the muffled shot.
We push on, the air thick with the stench of scorched wood, blood, and whatever was in Pip’s bomb. Antoine’s still praying. I almost feel like joining in.
The corridors and rooms all look the same to me, but the soldiers know exactly where they’re going. A couple of minutes later, we’re at the door of Prae Athim’s office. There are no markings to confirm that, but Timas is certain. He steps ahead of us and raps softly. “Knock, knock,” he calls. “Anybody home?”
He pushes the door open and we spill in.
A large room. Grey walls. Harsh fluorescent lights. A single bed. A black, high-backed leather chair in the center of the floor. Someone’s sitting in it, facing away from us. I can only see the person’s lower legs, but I’m sure it’s Prae Athim.
“Hey!” Shark barks. No answer. He looks at us. Nods at Pip to advance and check for explosives. She creeps forward, skirting the chair, pistol trained on the person in it. As she angles to the front, she pauses, face crinkling. Shaking her head, she stoops, checks the chair for wires and devices, then puts her hand on one of the arms and swivels it around.
I was right. It’s Prae Athim. But, to my bewilderment, she’s strapped down, a strip of tape across her mouth, incapable of movement or sound.
We gape at the sight. Prae Athim glares at us. Shark gulps, then strides forward and grabs hold of one end of the tape over her mouth. Before he can tear it free, somebody shouts a weird word. Whipping round, I spot Antoine Horwitzer, arms wide, grinning crazily. He yells a couple more words and the air shimmers behind him. Too late, I realize the nature of the trap we’ve walked into. I start to roar a warning, but the window opens before I can.
It’s an enormous dark window. As I stare at it, horrified, a
deformed, miserable-looking creature slithers through. It has the general shape of a woman, but her flesh is bubbling with sores and boils. Pus and blood seep from wounds all over her body. There’s a rancid stink. The eyes are swimming bowls of madness in a ruined face. The mouth is a jagged gash. I know who this abomination is from Dervish’s description, but I would have recognized her anyway.
“Hello, Grubbs,” the thing that was once Juni Swan gurgles. “Have you missed me?”
