A peaceful smile rose on to Julian’s face.

Then his eyes closed, and he died.

Dracula strode towards the heavy doors of the Basilica, then turned back to address the remnants of his personal guard.

Barely a dozen had survived the massacre in the square below, a ragtag group of bloodied vampires with glowing eyes and faces full of fear. Their cowardice disgusted him, and the first vampire fought back the urge to kill them himself and be done with it.

“You will stay out here,” he said. “You will fight with everything you have left, and you will die with honour. If you run, I will personally make you understand the true meaning of pain. Is that clear?”

The vampires growled in agreement, their eyes locked on their master. He stared at them for a long moment, then turned and swept into the old church, slamming the doors shut behind him.

He strode down the centre of the nave, his heart pounding with anticipation. In the alcove on the left, the soldier hung limply from the cross, and Dracula smiled; he was sure the assassination team would try to save her when they arrived, a human weakness he had every intention of exploiting. Emery appeared from behind one of the carved pillars and bowed his head deeply.

“My lord,” he said. “Should I leave you?”

“No,” said Dracula, without slowing. “Watch her, and stay out of the way.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Emery, and backed towards the crucified soldier, his gaze fixed on the floor.

The first vampire floated up on to the chancel, and settled into in his chair to wait. He knew the vampires he had left outside would likely do nothing more than slow the approaching assassins, but there was always the slight chance that one of them might strike a lucky blow and injure a member of the squad sent to kill him. Either way, it was now almost time for the meaningful battle to begin; the roaring chaos at the bottom of the hill was ultimately a sideshow, and both sides knew it.

The real victory would be won inside the church.

Paul Turner stopped fighting as Guérin spoke a single word into his ear.

“Incoming.”

The Blacklight Director stood statue-still at the pulsing centre of the battle, his T-Bone in his hands, and scanned the darkening sky, his heart beating steadily in his chest. His greatest fear had always been that he would die because he made a mistake, that his death would be something that could have been avoided; being vaporised by a nuclear explosion did not qualify.

Out of the corner of his eye, Turner saw his fellow Directors also stop and raise their heads. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, full of awful inevitability, the certainty of utter hopelessness. The battle continued around them, as men and women who had no idea what was about to happen fought on with grim determination, and for a brief moment, Turner envied them. They would never know what hit them; he doubted they would even see the flash before they died.

“There,” said Tán, and pointed.

Turner followed the Chinese Director’s finger and saw a faint grey shape dropping out of the sky above the medieval city. It streaked down in front of the pale stone walls and he closed his eyes as it reached the ground.

An explosion rang out, but he instantly knew it was not the world-ending roar he had been expecting; it sounded like little more than the blast of a rocket-propelled grenade.

He opened his eyes. On the low slope beneath the wide drawbridge, a shallow crater had been blown in the hill; it was surrounded by twisted hunks of metal, and ringed with small, flickering fires.

“Holy shit,” whispered Bob Allen, his eyes wide.

“It didn’t fire,” said Tán.

“I don’t understand,” said Turner.

“Neither do I,” said Ovechkin, and hefted his Daybreaker. “But we can worry about it later. There is still work to do.”

Turner nodded, his heart racing, then raised his T-Bone as the four Directors hurled themselves back into the fight.

“Stand by,” said General Ducroix.

Central Director Vallens stood motionless, hunched in front of the screen in his empty office. The seconds seemed to stretch out for hours, days, even years; his chest felt as though someone had fastened a belt round it, and his hands were trembling on the surface of his desk.

“No detonation,” said Ducroix. “I repeat, we have no detonation.”

For a long moment, Vallens just stared; he was so overwhelmed with relief that for a brief second he was sure he was going to faint.

“What happened?” he managed. “Did the missile fail?”

“I don’t know,” said Ducroix. “I’m trying to get hold of—”

“Order a second launch,” interrupted the President. “Immediately.”

“No, sir,” said Ducroix. “I will not.”

“Then you are relieved of duty,” said the President. “I’ll do it myself.”

“No, you won’t, sir,” said Ducroix, his voice steady. “I’ve cut the line to Mont Verdun. I don’t think you are thinking clearly. Central Director Vallens, Minister Desjardins, do you agree with my assessment?”

“Yes,” said Vallens, instantly.

“Yes,” said Desjardins. “I’m sorry, sir. We need to give the Multinational Force more time. While they are still fighting, there is a chance.”

“There is no chance!” shouted the President. “Do as I say before it is too late for us all!”

“No,” said Ducroix. “Sir.”

Silence.

“Think carefully about what you are doing, gentlemen,” said the President, his voice low and as cold as ice. “This is treason.”

“Yes,” said General Ducroix. “It is.”

Ellison raced above the battlefield, Jack Williams beside her.

There were far fewer Operators fighting than there had been when the battle began, and there still seemed to be so, so many vampires, but in that precise moment, she didn’t care; she would kill every single one of them herself if she had to.

Four vampires appeared in their path, retreating from the onslaught of bullets fired by a group of Operators as they advanced across the blood-soaked landscape. Ellison leapt forward, a silent shadow in the darkness, and drove her stake through the back of one of the unsuspecting vampires. The man exploded in a crimson cloud as Jack descended on one of the others, spinning her round and staking her in a single smooth motion.

The remaining two vampires spun round, their mouths open with shock, their eyes boiling red, but Ellison was already moving, far too fast for them to react. She kicked one of them in the stomach, doubling her over and sending her staggering towards Jack, who obliterated her with a quick jab of his stake. The other leapt into the air, presumably intending to flee, but Ellison rose with him and slammed her stake into his chest. His remains pattered to the ground in a thick, steaming rain as Ellison landed, and smiled broadly at Jack.

“Nice work,” he said, returning her smile with a grin of his own. “Four more down.”

Ellison nodded. Her mind was suddenly full of Jamie Carpenter; she now understood the reckless abandon he had displayed once he had been turned, and wondered what her squad leader was doing at that exact moment.

“Do you think the strike team have a chance?” asked Jack, as though he could read her mind.

“Yes,” she replied, instantly. “I absolutely do.”

Six miles away, inside the command centre of the displaced persons camp, Captain Guérin lowered his head, his eyes brimming with tears of relief. He had no idea what had happened to the missile, and he genuinely didn’t care; all that mattered was that it had not fired, and they were still there.

Over the noise surrounding the sealed room, a deafening screech echoed round the metal walls. Guérin leapt to his feet and spun towards it, raising his MP5 to his shoulder. A section of the reinforced wall had been peeled back like the lid of a tin can, and through the jagged hole he saw movement, and glowing red light.