Probably no more than thirty seconds or so.

“Did you get them?” he asked. “Where are they?”

Qiang shook his head. “Gone.”

Jamie frowned. “What do you mean, gone? Gone where?”

“They were out of the van by the time we got here,” said Ellison. “They scattered when they saw us.”

“Why didn’t you go after them?” asked Jamie, his voice rising.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Ellison, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe because our squad leader was lying unconscious with a badly broken arm and a belt full of deadly weapons for the taking?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “You knew I’d be fine. You should have gone after them.” He got carefully to his feet, stretched his repaired arm, and faced his squad mates. “Get back in the van. I’ll search from above. They can’t have gone far.”

Ellison took a step towards him. “Is this going to be a regular thing?” she asked, her eyes flashing with anger. “You doing stupid, reckless shit that means we have to put you back together afterwards? Because I’m already bored of it. Sir.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re a vampire, Jamie,” said Ellison. “You’re not indestructible. It’s time you understood the difference.”

“Noted,” said Jamie. His squad mate’s sudden disapproval had made him recoil, but his embarrassment at his telling-off and the knowledge that she was right were threatening to turn into anger. “Now are you going to help me find these scumbags or not?”

Ellison stared at him for a long moment, then rolled her eyes. “Of course we are,” she said, and glanced at Qiang. “Come on.”

Jamie’s squad mates headed for their van, which was idling next to the vehicle that he had destroyed. He was about to rise back into the air and begin the search for whoever had been inside it when a loud chorus of beeps rang out.

He grabbed at his belt. “That’s me,” he said.

“It’s all of us,” said Ellison, pulling out her console as Qiang did the same behind her.

Jamie frowned. He thumbed his screen into life and read the message that appeared.

ACTIVE_ROSTER/L1/FULL_RECALL/RETURN_TO_BASE/ASAP

ALL_CURRENT_OPERATIONAL_OBJECTIVES_OVERRULED

“What the hell?” asked Ellison. “I’ve never heard of the active roster being recalled.”

He shook his head. “Me neither.”

“It must be serious,” said Qiang.

Jamie grimaced. Whoever had been in the Night Stalker van could not have got far, especially if – as was likely considering the state of their vehicle – any or all of them were injured. He was sure they could find them, and was full of a burning desire to do so; he had come to hate the Night Stalkers with an anger that bordered on irrational, and now, when they were within his reach, he was being told to let them go and return to the Loop.

It was infuriating.

“Damn it!” he shouted. “What’s going on that’s so serious they can’t handle it without us?”

The American watched as the waiter refilled his glass, disappointed to realise the emotion that had filled him for the last four years was still there.

Despite the quality of the wine in the bottle and the steak frites on his plate, the magical surroundings of the ancient walled city, and the bright, shining happiness the long-planned European trip was bringing Cynthia, it burned as strongly within him as it had on the first day after his retirement; a single emotion of profound clarity.

He missed the army.

And he was now certain that he always would.

Alan Foster had retired as Colonel after four decades of long and decorated service. In the chaos that followed what was now known as V-Day, when the vampire Gideon had appeared on British television and announced the existence of his kind, he had called his former CO at the Pentagon and offered to re-enlist. He could still be useful, he had insisted, could help them handle what was happening. His old boss had thanked him, and told him they had it under control. And as Alan looked at the liver spots on the back of the hand holding his refilled wine glass, he understood why.

Old, he told himself. You’re too damn old.

“Honey?” asked Cynthia. “Are you all right?”

He smiled. “Sorry. I was miles away.”

“Was I boring you?”

Alan searched his wife’s beautiful, immaculately made-up face for the tiny downward curve of her mouth that would let him know she was genuinely annoyed; instead, he saw the deep laughter lines at the corners of her eyes that always betrayed her when she teased him.

“No more than usual,” he said, his smile widening.

Cynthia let out a gasp of fake outrage, and threw an olive at him. He swatted it aside – he was still fast, despite his years – and raised his glass. She clinked hers against it, and smiled as the sound rang out across the brasserie’s terrace. Alan left his glass raised for a second or two, then sat back in his chair, took a deep sip of wine, and let his gaze drift.

The walls of the fortified city curved above and below where they sat, thick fortifications that had been built and rebuilt in the centuries since the Romans had first realised the strategic importance of Carcassonne. Above the roofs of the shops and restaurants rose the high angular tower of the Basilica of St Nazaire and St Celse, the ancient church that had been the region’s cathedral until 1801, when a new building had been erected beyond the walls of the original city.

Couples strolled through the cobbled square beyond the brasserie’s terrace as families strode back and forth, the children clad in sweatshirts and baseball caps bearing images of Carcassonne, the parents laden down with bags of shopping. The air was cool, but alive with sound, conversation and laughter and the shouted entreaties of waiters as they tried to persuade the undecided that their establishment was unquestionably the very finest in the city. Alan watched them all, the army-shaped hole inside him temporarily filled by steak and wine and contentment.

Then something caught his eye, on the far side of the square: a momentary flash of glowing red.

His hand went instantly to his belt, where the butt of a pistol would usually have been. Back home in Houston, he carried the .45 Beretta that had been his retirement present from his staff every day, but here, far from home, he was unarmed. He cursed silently, and scanned the square. His eyes were still sharp, mercifully undimmed by age, and he had no reason to doubt what he had seen. But now he saw nothing.

“Al?” asked Cynthia, the levity gone from her voice. “Everything all right?”

He glanced at her, and smiled. “Fine,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.” But as he looked back out across the square, he wasn’t sure that was true.

Standing in a doorway on the far side of the wide space was a young man, his face almost entirely hidden by the hood of his top. Tourists were flowing past, paying the man no attention whatsoever, but Alan stared at him for a long moment; he couldn’t know for sure, but he was suddenly convinced that the eyes hidden by the shadow of the hood were fixed on his own.

“Alan?” asked Cynthia again.

“It’s all right,” he replied, without shifting his gaze. “If I tell you to move, don’t ask any questions, OK? Just do what I say.”

“Alan, you’re scaring me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Just do what I tell you. Please, Cynthia.”

At the north-eastern corner of the square, where an ornate stone arch marked the start of a road that led down the hill, a woman had appeared. Her face was also hidden by a hood, and she stood as perfectly still as the man in the doorway. Moving his head as little as possible, Alan scanned the wide, bustling space, and felt his blood run cold.

Eight men and women were standing motionless in the square; the man in the doorway, one by each of the four corner exits, and three stood like statues in the midst of the crowd. Their faces were hidden, but the angles of their heads converged on a single point: the table where he and Cynthia were sitting.