chapter 8
Alex was standing alone at the gate for only about thirty seconds when he heard the sound of a van approaching. In the darkness it was invisible at first, coming around the bend, and then he saw the shape of a black Polidorium van bearing down on him. It pulled between him and the gate—he had to step out of the way to give it a few feet of room, though he suspected the driver had measured his space with expert accuracy—and the van slowed to a stop.
A side door rolled open and Sangster was inside with a headset on, motioning quickly. “Come on, come on.”
The slam of a door and they were zipping into the darkness again, no lights, the road illuminated by night vision on the windshield.
“What’s all this?” Alex asked.
Armstrong swiveled around in the passenger seat up front and addressed them both. “Alex, we haven’t yet had an appropriate time to actually ask you to do something for us, but there’s an opportunity coming up that calls for your special—skills.”
“I know you’re not talking about my awesome karaoke skills,” Alex said.
“Ultravox is on a train,” Armstrong said. She was surveying a wide printout—a schematic of some kind—and folded it, setting it on her lap. “After days of chatter, Polidorium agents spotted several vampires, security types, the types that guard an important figure, getting off the English Channel ferry and disappearing into a train station in Calais, France. That’s where we lost them. But the Scholomance is expecting the crew—they’ve prepared a meal to greet him; we picked up a call for human gang leaders to turn over members they’d like to get rid of, calls to kidnap, etc. By our estimation Ultravox and his entourage crossed into Switzerland this afternoon, and the Scholomance is expecting them to reach Lake Geneva tonight by train.”
Alex felt that adrenaline rush again and instantly scanned the van for materials. He spotted a go package netted to the wall behind Sangster. “Is that where we’re headed—we’re gonna grab him in Geneva?”
“They never make it to Geneva,” Sangster said, and Alex felt the van lurch as it took a hairpin turn. “Every time we have one of these high-level visitors, they jump before they reach Geneva Station.”
“Icemaker came in with his own caravan,” said Alex, remembering the miles of trucks and other vehicles on the road when the clan lord came to the Scholomance.
“Icemaker was moving a whole army; whereas Ultravox is a high-level operative,” Sangster explained, “a sort of master consultant. A string puller. He’ll be in the luxury cars. So if we know he’ll get off before Geneva—and he will, because they’ll leap and head for some magical entrance to the Scholomance—”
“I might have something on that,” Alex interrupted, thinking of Elle diving headlong into the water. The water hadn’t opened up right there, no magic door—meaning whatever door she headed for was not on the surface.
Sangster leaned forward, and there was an edge of delight in his voice that Alex had never observed before. “Alex, with you—with you—we just might be able to catch one of the masters before he jumps.”
Alex looked from one agent to the other. So this was the measure of his value to the Polidorium now; he was a vampire detector. Good enough for me.
“Where are we going?” Alex asked. Before Sangster could answer he felt himself thrown violently sideways as the van pulled into the driveway of what appeared to be a park or soccer field.
“Let’s go,” Sangster said. Armstrong slid out of the passenger seat and pulled open the side door. Outside, the air thrummed with the loud, whipping sound of a helicopter dropping onto the field.
“We’re going to Zimeysa Station!” Sangster said as they ran. “Keep your head down.”
The three of them crossed the forty yards or so to the waiting Black Hawk, which, like the van, bore a Polidorium emblem on its flank. “Why the chopper?” Alex yelled.
“It’s forty-five miles west,” Sangster shouted back. “We need every second we can get.”
Alex had ridden in helicopters before—he and his sister had tagged along numerous times on rescue flights in the mountains of Wyoming—but the Black Hawk was a different affair. The heavy craft rumbled and ripped off the deck and suddenly they were shooting west. Alex was strapped into a seat along the wall.
“Alex! Look alive,” Armstrong shouted from where she sat across from him. Behind her in the distance, the trees were dropping down as they rose. Alex felt the nose of the chopper dip as they picked up speed. He looked down and she was handing him the large printout. He unfolded it to see a map of what Alex judged to be a medium-size train station—nothing on the level of Geneva’s or Rome’s, but much bigger than a neighborhood station.
“This is Zimeysa Station!” Armstrong pointed. “It’s the last major stop. There will be a lot to watch. Four platforms. Six tracks. There are arrivals and departures every fifteen minutes. He’s gonna stop tonight, on the way to Geneva. Every train does.”
“I don’t get it!” Alex yelled, studying the map. “You expect him to hop off and grab a Snickers bar?”
“He’s not gonna hop off,” Sangster said, next to him. “We’re gonna follow your lead. You’re going to need to check every train that goes in or out.”
“The window of opportunity is eight thirty to eleven thirty,” Armstrong said.
“I don’t know—I don’t know if I can do this,” Alex confessed. “I’ve never tried anything like this.”
“Alex, this is the closest we’ve ever been to being able to catch one of these guys before they get to Demon Central,” Sangster said, referring to the Scholomance. “And we know he’s planning something. The closest. You are the closest. So I don’t want to hear, ‘I don’t know’ or ‘what if whatever.’ I want to hear, ‘I’ll do this damn thing.’” Sangster locked eyes with Alex, and they were crinkling at the edges—that strange mixture of hardness and mirth.
Of course. This was what he was here for. “I’ll do this damn thing,” repeated Alex. Armstrong nodded.
“Here we go!” shouted the pilot from up front.
Armstrong threw back the door of the Black Hawk, and wind instantly began churning through the craft. Alex saw the cement roof of a building coming up faster and felt the chopper pitch and slow.
“Zimeysa Station,” Armstrong said, gesturing down. “Let’s go.”