Captain Guérin watched the missile appear on the radar screen inside the command centre, his eyes wide and staring.

The red dot appeared off the coast of Perpignan and began to move steadily north-west as alarms and alerts and a hundred incredulous conversations burst into life; the radio surveillance screen was instantly overwhelmed as seemingly the entire global intelligence community asked what the hell was happening at the same time. A dozen calls appeared on the comms screens, all of them marked urgent, but Guérin ignored them. There was nothing he could do to stop what was happening; all he could do was watch, along with everyone else.

The noise had increased to a relentless scream around him and the muffled voices of the vampires trying to get to him were much closer; he knew it was only a matter of time before they got in, but as he watched the red dot move across the radar map, he was strangely comforted by the realisation that it would soon not matter in the slightest. He stared at the screen for a long moment, then reached out and opened a comms line to General Allen.

He deserves to know what’s coming, thought Gúerin. Even if there’s nothing he can do about it. I owe him that much.

Julian Carpenter waded through ankle-deep blood, his eyes locked on the drawbridge above him, his stomach churning.

He was a veteran of a great many conflicts, and he knew better than most that the battle would not be won – if it was won – on the ground, in the thick of the killing; it would be won by cutting off the enemy’s head, not by hacking at its body. He could do nothing about Dracula himself – he had gathered from overheard discussion in the displaced persons camp mess that a team had been sent into the city with the sole aim of destroying the first vampire – but as he looked up at the entrance to the old city, he realised he might be able to do the next best thing.

A vampire holding a radio was floating above the drawbridge, his eyes locked on the battle raging below. Julian had watched him as he fought his way across the blasted landscape, trying not to lose sight of him as he staked vampire after vampire. He was now far from a hundred per cent – he had taken a crunching blow that had broken at least three of his ribs, and he had a deep gouge across his neck where a vampire had come within millimetres of tearing out his throat – and he was exhausted, running almost entirely on adrenaline, but he was far from done; his heart was still beating, and his eyes were shining with determination.

There had been a dozen vampires surrounding his target when the battle began. Julian had seen several of them fly into the walled city, and at least two had been taken out by long-range gunfire; now, after God only knew how much time had passed, there were only four left. They surrounded his target, their glowing eyes scanning the landscape on all sides, but a plan had formulated in Julian’s mind as he battled his way towards them; a plan he was now ready to put into action.

A vampire crawled across the blood-soaked ground in front of him, its arms and upper chest riddled with bullet holes. He strode forward, grabbed the man by his bleeding shoulder, and pulled him to his feet; the vampire hissed in protest, then grunted with shock as Julian jammed his stake into its back. The vampire went limp, the fire in its eyes fading to a low glow as he leant it back against him. Then he dipped his head and pushed the stricken vampire up the hill, hiding himself behind it as its blood soaked into his uniform.

He was within ten metres of the drawbridge when the vampires surrounding his target noticed the shambling approach of the vampire he was holding before him like a shield, and bellowed for him to stop. Julian did as he was told, then ripped the stake up through the vampire’s body and pierced its heart.

The man burst in a huge spray of blood, as Julian drew his MP5 and fired through the gore. The vampires – guards, that’s what they are, they’re guards – went down, blood pumping out from dozens of wounds, but the man holding the radio shot up into the air like a launching missile, twisting away from the gunfire. Julian raised his gun, trying to sight him as he sped through the air, but was nowhere near fast enough; the vampire rocketed down out of the sky and threw a punch like a piledriver into the side of his helmet. A bolt of pain sliced through Julian’s head as he was sent sprawling back down the hill, his vision greying at the edges. He hit the ground on his shoulders, hard, and for an awful second he thought the MP5 was going to spill from his hands; he held on to it tightly as he skidded to a halt, and looked up, searching the sky for his attacker.

The vampire was charging down the hill, a look of incredulous anger on his face as Julian raised the MP5 and pulled the trigger again. The man darted to his left, but one of the bullets found its target, punching a hole in his arm and spinning him to the ground. He got up, screamed with primal fury, and advanced towards Julian again, his eyes full of homicidal fire.

Bob Allen raced across the battlefield, leaving Ovechkin and Tán behind as he chased a vampire towards the remnants of a hotel at the bottom of the steep hill. He found solid footing, brought his T-Bone up, and was about to pull the trigger when Guérin’s voice sounded in his ear.

“General Allen?”

“Damn it!” he shouted, lowering his weapon. “What is it, Guérin?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the French Captain, and something in his voice made Allen pay attention; it sounded like the man was on the verge of tears. “I really am. There was nothing I could do.”

“About what, Guérin?” asked Allen. “What’s going on?”

“The President gave the order, sir. The missile is in the air.”

For several seconds, Allen couldn’t speak; shock had momentarily paralysed him. “When?” he managed. “How long have we got?”

“Five minutes,” said Guérin. “The safe distance is eight miles. I am so sorry.”

Allen stared out across the battlefield. Thousands of men and women were surging back and forth across the wide space, running and thrashing and fighting and dying.

There’s not a chance, he thought. No way we can disengage and get to the safe distance in five minutes. Not a chance in hell.

“It’s not your fault,” he heard himself say, as if someone else was using his vocal cords; his mind was reeling from the enormity of what was on its way towards his army. “I’m sure you did everything you could, so don’t do anything stupid, OK? Do you hear me? Stay where you are. Stay safe.”

“I do not think that is an option, sir,” said Guérin. “But thank you.”

The connection was cut, but for a long moment Allen didn’t move. He was still staring at the battlefield, his mind trying to process the reality he had been presented with.

Everyone I can see, vampires and Operators alike, is going to die. Every single one of them. There won’t be anything left but radioactive ash.

He twisted the comms dial on his belt and opened a line to the strike team.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “There isn’t much time.”

Jamie slammed his stake into a vampire’s chest and leapt back, a deep frown on his face.

“Say again, sir?” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the chaos. “The French have done what?”

“They’ve given the order,” shouted General Allen, directly into his ear. Jamie’s helmet was gone, lost somewhere in the frenzy of battle, but his earpiece was still in place, and the backup microphone on his collar was doing its job.

“What order, sir?”

“The nuclear order!”

Cold spilled down Jamie’s spine. “They can’t do that.”

“It’s done!” shouted Allen. “The missile is in the air. It’ll be here in five minutes.”