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 gray 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 understand 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 weapons. Frankenstein lowered his head and barreled into them, sending vampires flying in every direction. He pulled the MP5 from his belt and emptied it into the crowd of stumbling, half-asleep vampires, who were so tightly packed together, they were struggling to move. The bullets tore into them. Miller, whose young face bore the look of a man who had already seen more than he had ever wanted to, attacked the disorientated crowd with a fervor that bordered on mania, staking vampire after vampire, an inarticulate roar emanating from his wide open mouth. Turner sidestepped along the wall and drew his T-Bone. Calmly, without hurrying, he shot six vampires one after the other, letting the stake wind back in each time, then taking new aim and firing again. Carpenter ran to Frankenstein’s side, and the two of them pressed the howling, injured vampires back against the stone wall, then staked them in a flurry of sharpened metal.

It was over in less than a minute.

“Alexandru?” asked Carpenter, breathing deeply.

Turner shook his head.

“In there?” suggested Frankenstein, motioning toward the altar.

They walked forward. Behind the altar, beneath the sculpted crucifixion, was the entrance to a short corridor. Carpenter leaned down and looked along it. The stone passage was no more than twenty feet and ended in what looked like a prayer room; he could see a kneeling board against the back wall.

Frankenstein led them into the corridor, bending slightly to fit his large frame through the opening. He had replaced the empty MP5 on his belt and had drawn the silver and black riot shotgun he always carried with him; he loaded it with solid shot, and it could blow a hole through a tree trunk.

They were almost at the door when something emerged from it, moving fast. Frankenstein pulled the trigger on the shotgun, and fire exploded from the barrel as a deafening noise filled the passage. The thing smashed against the wall, slid to the floor, and started to scream.

As the smoke cleared, Carpenter stepped forward and looked at the shape. A beautiful female face, twisted into a grimace of agony, stared back at him.

“Ilyana,” he said. “Where is your husband?”

She snarled and then spit a thick wad of blood into his face.

“Too late, valet! He’s gone! Too late!” she shrieked.

Julian’s boot thumped into her ribs, sending her crashing into the wall. An enormous hole had been blown in her stomach, and blood was gushing out across the stone floor.

“Too late! Too late!” She started crawling again, screeching obscenities as she did so, and Julian walked back to the rest of his team.

“He’s not here,” Carpenter said.

“What do you mean, he’s not here?” asked Turner.

“I mean he’s not here,” Julian snapped. “He’s somewhere else, he’s gone, he’s not here. Understand?”

Turner didn’t reply, but nor did he drop his gaze. “I’ll finish her,” he said. “She’s a valuable target. It means the mission wasn’t a failure.”

“Tell that to Connor,” said Miller.

“No. I’ll do it,” said Carpenter, pulling the T-Bone from his belt. “You stay here.”

He walked down the corridor.

Ilyana had dragged herself into the room at the end, and Julian followed her in. Above the kneeling step, a carving of the Virgin Mary stared down at him as he entered, the door swinging shut behind him.