dents in the surface.
“You’re probably right,” Alice agreed. “But, I don’t have any virgins I need attacked in their beds at this particular moment.”
The elevator chime rang and then the doors slid smoothly open. Inside, the elevator looked like a narrow brass bullet, all contoured lines and burnished metal. Alice walked in and Chris followed, and a moment later the doors slid shut behind them, with a sound that was oddly like a protracted sigh.
“Actually,” Alice said thoughtfully, as the elevator began its almost imperceptible assent, “if I did, I’d probably take care of that one myself.”
Chris attempted to buff his cufflinks, and then gave up in despair when he realized the one had already been completely lost.
“That’s the problem with you,” he grumbled. “No sense of when to delegate.”
Alice chuckled, and then they were silent for a while, watching the slow climb of the red numbers in the LCD screen mounted above the door.
“And when we get to the top…” Chris proffered, looking at Alice warily.
Alice smiled back at him smugly.
“You kill everyone we find up there,” Alice said, her tone cheerful. “Don’t worry, I’ll be watching your back for you, so you can concentrate on convincing me that your little dalliance with our enemies was, in fact, accidental.”
Chris stared back in horror.
“You still don’t believe me? Why would I have approached you, then, I wonder?”
“So I’d look to you to watch my back, silly, and then you could stab me in it,” Alice said, cutting him off. “And you’ve had your hand in enough black ops to do it, too.”
Chris shook his head.
“This is insane, Alice! I’m not like you! I can’t do this,” Chris pleaded. “You’re going to get me killed.”
Alice took him by the shoulders and rested her forehead against his own, her eyes huge and, he couldn’t help but realize, quite mad.
“No, I am trying to bail you out,” Alice said, her voice calm and firm. “You were dead the moment you set us up, Chris, no matter what your intentions were, and you know it. Now, I’m not just making an exception for you here, I am making a huge, once-in-a-lifetime, never again to be offered exception.” Alice lowered her voice. “This is the hugest favor you’ve ever gotten, Chris, like fucking and winning the lottery at the same time, you know? You are the luckiest man — or whatever — on earth. And I don’t want to hear any more bitching about it, alright? You’ll make me change my mind about giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
Alice slapped Chris on the cheek lightly, and then released him. Chris rubbed his cheek, looking up at his sad reflection in the brass. The muscles of his fingers bent strangely, flexing at the first joint, the fingernails extruding to become something more like talons; five centimeters long and razor sharp, yellow as old bone.
“What’s at the top, then?”
Chris’s words were only a bit slurred through the fangs that poked out behind his upper lip.
“For you?” Alice asked, opening the other bag and extracting an automatic shotgun. “Opportunity.”
When the elevator chime dinged on the thirty-fourth floor, the assembled security personnel were smart enough not to wait for it to open. As soon as the alarms had gone off downstairs, they’d been issued heavy weaponry and given the okay to use it, and truth be told, a number of them were eager to. It wasn’t like they were mercenaries, after all, so the opportunities to use the AR-15s outside the annual trip to the company range for recertification were few and far between.
The actual mercenaries had seen more than enough automatic gunfire for a lifetime, and were a prudent distance back down the black marble hall, in cover or watching through rifle scopes.
There were half a dozen guards clustered around the elevator bank, and they each put the better part of a twenty-four round clip into the thin metal doors, the door mechanism whining and the grinding to a halt, partially opened. After a moment’s hesitation, the guards emptied their remaining rounds into the smoky interior of the elevator.
They were smart enough to reload. They were smart enough to wait until the smoke cleared. But from where Chris was standing, it looked like they didn’t notice the small pile of oiled cloth and foully smoking plastic that Alice had made him light in the front corner of the elevator, just to the side of the entrance.
They certainly didn’t notice the shaped Octol charge that Alice had left, attached to the far wall of the elevator with a suction cup, in an innocuous plastic case resembling a light fixture. Chris had been doubtful when he’d seen it, both about the effectiveness of such a small charge and about the dubious housing.
As it turned out, he was wrong on both counts.
The security guards filed cautiously into the elevator, one at a time, two inside, the rest clustered around the doors. Several meters down the hall, concealed behind a bulky reception desk, Chris watched Alice muffle a giggle.
The explosion was impossibly loud, even from a distance, and Chris had to fight the urge to cover his ears. It was like a wall, coming out of the elevator, concentrated into a column of flame and debris and concussive force, tearing apart the men, the furniture, and much of the elevator banks itself. The doors were torn off and hurled across the hallway, sending one of the partially concealed mercenaries scurrying backwards for better cover.
Chris gave him time to scream. Why not?
He stepped through the man as he tried to turn his gun in Chris’s direction, a look of confusion and fear on his face, his hand whipping out and across the man’s throat almost as afterthought. The man fell to his feet, clutching his throat as it came apart, the wound across his trachea opening like a deep red mouth. Chris could hear the man gurgle and hiss as he dove for the next two soldiers, his arms spread wide, moving impossibly fast, his feet barely even touching the floor.
He hit the first one running, driving him into the wall behind him with his shoulder, and then tearing at his throat with talons on his left hand, stepping neatly to the side to avoid the spray from his severed jugular. He felt the shells from the HP-5 tear through his abdomen, each burning a hot channel through the flesh, agonizing even through his diminished nervous system, and ignored them. He knocked the gun out of the man’s hands with a swipe, and then grabbed him by the neck and squeezed until he felt his spine crack. Next to him, Alice emptied her shotgun into the other two soldiers, turning them into mincemeat before they could turn and shoot.
Chris inspected the ruins of his jacket with an air of resignation.
“They aren’t trying too hard,” he observed, wiping at the blood splattered on his shirt with a piece torn from one of the mercenary’s uniforms. “Why do you think that is?”
Alice pumped fresh shells into the still warm gun, ejected the spent fat red cartridges with an expression of almost feral glee.
“Only one reason I can think of,” she said, glancing down at the mangled bodies with a craftsman’s pride at a job well done. “They want us to get wherever it is we are going.”
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“I’m an Auditor, Chris,” Alice said, hoisting the gun up to rest across her shoulders, behind her neck. “Cooperation always worries me.”
They followed the main hallway, an expanse of patterned blue carpet stretching out for much of the length of the floor, sprouting adjoining offices, glass-fronted meeting rooms and any number of rooms filled with shoulder- height cubicles, each with an identical workstation, all showing an identical screen saver. Chris shuddered a bit, looking at it. He’d never been able to understand how humans could tolerate working in such places year after year, in such cramped conditions. Vampires are horrified by monotony as a general principle.
Alice glanced down at the ruin of her Kevlar coat, mangled by the earlier explosions and a number of.223 rounds that had been pumped into it by one of the mercenaries, before she’d gunned him down. She shrugged out of the heavy coat and let it fall to the ground beside her before continuing on, her pace unhurried and her body language casual and loose. She wore a black tank-top with spaghetti straps, dense tattoo work stretching from the center of her back to cover both shoulders; the cabalistic tree of life in black ink, the furthest boughs curling around the pronounced line of her collar bone, Hebrew script interwoven in the design. It made Chris remember several cold weeks spent in Prague, almost thirty years before, when the ink had still been a fresh, vivid black, the skin still red and swollen where it had been abraded. He remembered what the little room they shared had felt like, what her
