The security door slammed shut and locked behind him as Guérin sprinted into the command centre. The entire building shook as something hit it with a deafening thud, followed by another, and another. The lights above his head flickered but he ignored them, as he ignored the sound of the outer tents being ripped apart as the vampires sought a way into the command centre. There were several centimetres of reinforced steel around its nerve centre, but he had no idea how long it would withstand their efforts; he would just have to hope it was long enough.

The main screen above the comms bench was displaying a high-resolution satellite feed of the battle, and Guérin felt his blood run cold as he stared at it. The Multinational Force was still fighting, and still numbered in the many hundreds, at least, but was about to be encircled by the second front of vampires approaching from the north, from in front of the vast fire caused by the destruction of the helicopters. He scrolled through the secure comms list, selected Central Director Vallens’ name, and paused.

Maybe you shouldn’t try to stop them, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s the only way to save this situation.

He stared for a long moment, then clicked CALL. He could not allow a nuclear launch on French soil without at least being able to say he had done all he could to stop it.

“Guérin?” said Vallens.

“Sir,” he said. “The camp is overrun, and I don’t know how long I can stay on the line. But you can’t let them do this, sir. You have to give the Operators more time. You have to—”

“Captain,” interrupted Vallens. “There’s nothing more I can do. It’s out of my hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The codes have been transmitted to Mont Verdun,” said Vallens. “The decision now rests solely with our President.”

“Has he given the launch order?” asked Guerin.

“Not yet,” said Vallens. “But if he decides to, there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”

Guérin stared at the satellite feed, unable to think of a remotely appropriate response to what the DGSI Director was saying.

“Are you still there, Captain?” asked Vallens. “Can you get out?”

He grimaced. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, sir,” he said. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Vallens, his voice low. “Good luck, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Guérin. “Out.”

He clicked END, and checked the magazine of his MP5.

Seven rounds, he thought. It could be worse. Could be a lot better, though.

There were thousands of full clips in the armoury, barely a hundred metres from where he was standing, but he knew without checking the camp’s CCTV monitors that there was no possible way he could reach them. The command centre door thudded again, and Guérin saw a large dent appear at its centre. The sounds of movement around the secure room intensified, until it sounded like he was standing at the centre of a hurricane. From somewhere beyond the reinforced inner walls came the shriek of rending metal, and he checked the magazine again before he loaded it back into the MP5.

Seven rounds.

Six for them.

One for me, if it comes to it.

Alan Foster ran along the hotel corridor with the vampire guard’s keys in his hand, opening door after door and whispering to his fellow hostages to follow him.

Several refused to move, shaking their heads with faces full of shame and fear, and two men told him to stop what he was doing, that he was going to get everyone into trouble. Foster ignored them; he had never believed for a single moment that the vampires were ever going to let them go, and if he was going to die then he was damn well going to do it on his feet rather than cowering behind a door.

By the time he reached the end of the corridor, Cynthia moving silently at his side, there were almost thirty people following him: men and women of at least a dozen nationalities and a range of ages, their faces pale but determined. Foster paused in the atrium at the end of the first floor, from where a wide staircase curved down to the lobby below, and darted his head round the corner of the wall.

“One by the entrance hallway,” he whispered, turning back to face the freed hostages. “Two directly below.”

“Only three?” asked a Japanese woman. “That is not many.”

Foster nodded. She was right; three was not many. He had been expecting to find the lobby crawling with vampires; if he was entirely honest, he had been expecting his escape to end in a Butch and Sundance charge, in which he would kill as many vampires as possible before he died a glorious death. But three? Three might actually be possible.

“We do this now,” he said. “So if you aren’t sure, this is your last chance to go back to your rooms. I promise that nobody will think any less of you.”

Not a single person moved; the hostages stared at him with clear eyes.

“All right,” he said, and pointed at a door on the opposite side of the atrium. “I want you all to go down the service stairs, as quietly as you can. When you hear shots, rush the lobby. There’ll be two guns lying on the ground. Take them, and meet me at the bottom of the staircase.”

“I’m staying with you,” said Cynthia.

Foster shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re not. I need you to go with the others.”

His wife stared at him, then nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Wait till you hear the shots. Now go.”

Cynthia led the hostages across the atrium, opened the door, and disappeared through it. The others followed her, as Foster risked a second glance down into the lobby.

The vampires hadn’t moved. The two below him were chatting to each other, as the one by the entrance hall stared out of the window, his fingers tapping its wooden frame with obvious boredom.

OK, he told himself. Let’s do this.

Foster took a deep breath and inched round the corner, the SIG raised to his shoulder. He settled his shoulder against the wall at the top of the staircase, then sighted along the submachine gun’s barrel, aiming at the head of one of the vampires standing below him.

Everything slowed down.

The years fell away as Foster’s heart beat steadily in his chest; it was as though he had never retired, had never been forced to waste his final years behind a desk.

It was like he was young again.

He took another deep breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

The vampire’s head exploded in a shower of bone and brain, but Foster was already swinging the gun to the right, targeting the second vampire who was now soaked in his partner’s blood, his face a perfect expression of wide-eyed shock. Foster shot him above the ear, blowing off the top of his head, and brought the gun round again, searching for the vampire by the reception desk on the far side of the lobby. The man had spun round at the sound of the shots, his eyes blazing red, but either surprise or indecision – or both – froze him to the spot; Foster sighted a third time, and shot him in the mouth. The vampire’s teeth erupted in a hail of blood, and he sank to his knees, clutching at his ruined face. Foster shot him again and the vampire folded to the ground, limbs twitching.

Below him, a door banged open, followed by the thunder of running footsteps.

Five seconds, he thought, pride flooding through him, as he ran towards the staircase. Three targets down. Not bad for an old man.

At the centre of the raging, relentless battle, Bob Allen surveyed the scene, and could no longer reject the truth that had been racing through him since the helicopters had burst into flames.

We’re going to lose.

Around him, Operators were fighting with everything they had, with astonishing dedication to a visibly fading hope. The ground was soaked with the remains of dead vampires, reducing wide areas to swamps of ash and blood, but there was no denying the reality. They were killing at a prodigious rate, but the Multinational Force was losing too many of their own; it was only a matter of time until simple mathematics decided the outcome, and, with each minute that passed without word from the strike team, that time was becoming increasingly short.