The Blood Order (Fanghunters Book Two) (25 page)

"Dom! What's going on, man?"

"We've been betrayed by a contact, and now the Order are after us, we think they might have gone for Vincent already."

"Jeez
...
"

"Just do as Trixie says, buddy. Okay? Stay there at the lab. We'll be in contact soon."

"All right. But be careful."

"We will, bro."

Eddie ended the call.

"I don't think they'll attack Sun, it'll attract too much attention," Trixie suggested, replacing her cell.

"I hope so. I don't want anything to happen to Eddie."

"Neither do I." She began wringing her hands. "Can't this thing go any faster?"

Dom slammed down the gas.

T
hey made it back to the estate just as dusk was falling. Dom slowed to a crawl as he made his way past the drive leading up to the mansion. Trixie leaned forward in her seat, her face pressed up against her window. Dom stared out of his window as well, trying his best to get a view of the mansion. All he could see through the gates was the top half of the mansion. "Shall I go in?" he asked as he stared.

"I don't know," Trixie answered. She glanced back the other way. "Pull over here and we'll go by foot."

Dom parked the car off the road and up on the verge. They grabbed their dart guns and got out. A small wind cut through Dom as he stepped back out on the road. From where he was, he could get a better view of the mansion through the gates. A couple of lights burned in ground floor windows, but not much else. "Someone's in," he stated. "Looks quiet enough."

"Yeah, but I don't like it," Trixie declared with a shake of her head. "Why would Dad send that message if everything was cool?"

Dom shrugged and nodded his head in response. "Good point."

"Come on," Trixie then said before moving along the drive, her dart gun at the ready, her head spinning left and right. Dom followed, his tired limbs gearing up for round two. Trixie made it halfway when she veered off to the left. She pointed toward the right
-
hand side of the drive. Dom took his cue and moved that way. Now they advanced on the gates in a two-pronged formation. As they drew closer to the gates, the mansion came more into view. Dom now scrutinized it fully, staring at those rooms with the lights on, hoping to see signs of Vincent. Trixie reached the gates and she ducked to the left; Dom caught up and went to the right.

Trixie poked her head around and stared through the iron bars of the gates.

"See anything?" Dom asked.

She shook her head. "No."

Dom poked his head around and now he could see the whole mansion. It was still; quiet. Then someone walked past the window on the ground floor. A stocky guy in a khaki tee. On his shoulder was a strap that led down to a submachine gun hanging idly by his waist. Dom's jaw dropped. They both ducked back in synchrony.

"Shit!" Trixie sneered, her face reaching for the darkening sky.

Dom stared at the ground ahead of him. "Christ! They're here. What are we gonna do?" he asked in a loud whisper.

"We'll go around the back," Trixie suggested. "You go that way, I'll get this way." She pointed behind Dom as she spoke.

"All right. Be careful."

Trixie disappeared to the left and into the trees and bushes lining the perimeter of the estate. Dom turned and headed his way, soon finding himself stepping over shrubs and pushing away tall grass. Above him
,
the trees kept him sheltered. He pushed through the dense foliage, his movements sending birds and squirrels scattering in fright. He headed around to the rear of the mansion, using the wrought iron fence surrounding the property as a guide. His body was tired, his mind was tired, but he knew there was still more trouble to come. If the mansion was full of those Blacklake guys, then who knew what had happened to Vincent.

He might be dead.

Dom shook his head. "He can't be. No, he can't be."

But something deep down told him that was probably wishful thinking. Those masked thugs didn't look the type to mess around. It was moments like this that he realized just how deep things had got in his life. He suddenly pined for the normal American dream: the Super Bowl, hot dogs, apple pie and all the rest, not vampires and mercenaries in balaclavas armed to the teeth.
Man, what happened? What happened to the world?

Maybe it's always been like this,
he then realized.

Whatever the case, it wasn't time for thinking like that. He pushed past another bush, its leaves brushing against his skin, twiggy branches digging into him from all angles. His feet crunched on similar twigs on the muddy ground. He made his way around the perimeter of the yard, the rear of the mansion gradually coming into view.

Something else then came into view; his jaw dropped. A couple of black helicopters were stationed on the grass behind the mansion. He stopped and stared at them through the fence and the bushes. "Jesus..." he gasped.
Man, these guys are serious.
He stared at the helicopters in a drunken daze. "How the hell am I still alive?" he asked himself in disbelief. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as he stared. "Dude, you've actually been attacked by a unit of professional mercs and... survived." The realization sunk in and a laugh erupted from his chest. He cleared his throat and straightened his back. "Just call me John Rambo."

He got moving once more, seeking out a better angle to view the mansion from. He reached out for a branch of a great oak and used it to lever himself along through the undergrowth. He stepped through a final bush, faced the mansion, and ducked down. Through the iron railings, he scrutinized the area past the two helicopters. More lights burned in windows on the ground floor. A couple of mercs strode past the obliterated rear entrance. His eyes then fell downward; he spotted a prone body outside on the patio. His eyes widened.
Who is that?
He squinted to get a better look.
Is it Vincent?

No, the hair's black, it can't be Vincent, it must be...

His heart dropped.
Rufus.

"Bastards!" he spat in anger as he turned his head away. He grabbed his forehead, then ran a claw down his cheek.
No, no, no, not Roo, he never hurt anyone!

He let out a hot breath and had another look. Sadness overcame him; it definitely was Rufus. He was sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

Dom got on his radio. "Trixie," he said with a sigh.

"Yeah,"
came the reply after a brief bout of crackle.

"Rufus is..." He sucked in a long breath. "I'm sorry," he said before closing his wet eyes and rubbing them.

"I know,"
came her lamentable reply. "
I've... I've seen him.
"

"Assholes!" Dom raged, spinning his head away. "He was just a kid for Chrissakes! Why are they doing this?"

"They must be looking for whatever Dad said is in the safe. But they don't know where the safe is."

"So the chances are Vincent's alive," Dom said with a nod. "They'll need him to tell them where it is."

"I think that's about right."

"Reckon he's still inside?"

"I don't know. But, they'll probably do anything to get it outta him."

"You mean..." Dom gulped, "torture him?"

"That's exactly what I mean, Dom."

Dom turned back to the house. Another merc marched past a window. "What do we do?"

"I don't--"

"Hold on!" Dom interrupted her, his eyes fixed on the scene ahead. "Oh my God!" he exclaimed, his voice loaded with bewilderment. "I don't believe what I'm seeing."

Rufus was moving.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

R
ufus' eyelids flickered like the wings of a dying moth. The world was a dark haze of pain. His chest burned; it hurt every time he breathed.

He looked around with woozy eyes. I've been shot, he remembered. He touched a wound on his chest. It was bloody, ragged.

But, I'm still alive?

He gazed at the dark sky in confusion.
I'm alive? Or am I dead?

What's happening?

He gave the blood on his fingers a stupid glare.
Did I survive? How?

He went to get up, but the jagged pain in his chest stopped him. He flopped his head back down.

And then a thought hit him.
Vincent!

He had to help him. Had to make sure he was safe. It was his duty. With gritted teeth, he managed to roll onto his stomach. Through bleary eyes, he saw the back doors of the mansion were broken and smashed. He craned his neck around. Vincent was nowhere to be seen. A whole new wave of misery pummeled him. He had failed. Failed in his one duty in life; to protect Vincent. To save him from evil.

His head slumped down into the mud in defeat. He would die a failure. Die having failed in his duty. That would be his legacy.

I'm sorry,
he said in his mind.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Then, from the darkness behind his eyelids, a voice stirred.
"Rufus. Rufus,"
it whispered.

Somewhere in the well of pain Rufus heard it. It was a familiar voice. A voice he hadn't heard since childhood.

"Rufus. Rufus,"
it continued, swirling around the darkness like a wil-o'-the-wisp, like old smoke in a long forgotten chimney.
"Rufus. Rufus, wake up,"
it ordered.
"Wake up!"

Rufus' eyes snapped open and the outside world came into sharp focus as if he'd just had a colossal hit of adrenaline.

"Rufus. Rufus,"
continued the voice, but it now held a lucid quality as if a real person were speaking directly into his ear. His head jerked up toward the voice to see a figure now stood before him. A figure dressed in long, dark robes. A giant gold and blue crucifix hung around his neck. Although the face was a benevolent one, its warm eyes held a concerned countenance as if danger was soon arriving. Rufus stared at that face in perplexity.

"
Papa?
" he managed to blurt in his mind beyond the agony.

Papa gave him a solemn nod.
"Son, it's not yet your time,"
he informed him.
"There's still things you need to do."

Rufus threw out a trembling hand before a series of painful coughs erupted from his chest, immobilizing him.

"You must protect Vincent,"
Papa continued.
"The darkness in the snow. You must protect Vincent from the darkness in the snow. You will understand in time. But, you must be there. Get up. Get up!"

Rufus closed his eyes.
"Papa!"
he shrieked in his mind. He opened them again; the image of his father was fading into the surrounding atmosphere. He reached out his trembling hand once more, desperate for his father to remain by his side in the final moments of his life. But, Papa was fading. Fast. His warm eyes and benevolent smile were the last thing to sink back into the realms of the unknown before Rufus was alone again. His head dropped, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Papa, Papa, Papa,"
he repeated in his mind in an agonized chorus.

Seemingly from the ether, a surge of anger coursed through his battered limbs. He managed to curl his hand into a trembling ball. He brought it up and slammed it down into the mud. Again. And again. Suddenly, his pain had been displaced by rage and he was smashing both fists into the ground. With newfound strength, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the pain. Panting like an animal, he opened his eyes and scanned the area. Black helicopters were dotted around, meaning the enemy were still within distance. He could feel the bullets still stuck inside him like jagged thorns, but somehow, defying the odds, they hadn't killed him. And against all logic, he was rising like a phoenix with one and only one purpose. To protect. To serve.

Like a baby, he crawled on hands and knees toward the mansion and toward the enemy.