The blood-sucking Terminator impersonator steps around the table. “One of you fine upstanding chappies—yes, you—is going to go back there and turn out the bloody lights. Wait. Before you go, give me your gun.” The soldier he’s pointing at jerkily unslings his MP5 and extends it, butt-first, towards Basil. That’s when I realize how terribly pear-shaped this op has gone. “You’ve had your little jape, ha-ha. In case you were wondering, we get harder to kill as we get older. This confirms something I’ve suspected for a decade or two, but lacked the inclination to idly test: mind over matter and all that. It’ll be fun to go out in daylight again when all this is over. Now go and stand over there, in that corner. You’ve been very naughty boys.”

I stumble along with the other three heavies. I am ashamed to say I’m shaking. Unlike them, I’m faking obedience: his will-to-obey is amazingly powerful, but so is my will-to-resist. On the other hand, he’s pointing a submachine gun at us and I need a few seconds to think. What’s worse than an elderly vampire? Answer: an elderly vampire with a submachine gun and sunburn-induced bad attitude. He’s clearly a whole lot more powerful than the run-of-the-mill newbie PHANGs I’ve been dealing with up to now, and unless my middle names aren’t Oliver Francis I’m only going to get one chance to lay Basil the Self-Propelled Barbecue to rest. While my back is half-turned to him, I cross myself, banker-style: spectacles, testicles, wallet . . . and camera?

Ah. Camera.

I pull the battered little Fuji 3D camera out and flick the power button. Mhari’s lot didn’t break it, even though it’s a bit scratched and beaten up. I am going to assume it’s still loaded with the basilisk firmware rather than the normal happy snappy variety, because if I’m wrong I am going to die in the next few seconds. I’ll just have to trust my lack of any memory of having swapped out the memory card for the one with the regular boot image.

“You’re going to wait in that corner until I receive a phone call from the New Annex,” explains our chatty death-about-town: “There’s a bit of mopping up going on there right now, but once it’s over we can all get in your truck and go home.” Mopping up? That doesn’t sound right, I think fuzzily, stealing a surreptitious glance at the camera back. Have we just been mousetrapped? Yes, it’s showing the gunsight display, not the camera focus graticule. “And then, ah, yes. Most of you can just forget you ever saw me—”

The ultraviolet lights go out, and there is an immediate blood-curdling scream from the front office.

“What-what?” says Basil, turning and raising his gun.

• • •