Woody shook his head. “But the original Wolven didn’t kill anyone. They were supposed to make things better, not worse.”

“Animals have always been used in war,” Gabriel Gruber declared with a grin. “Dolphins, horses, dogs, even pigeons. They’re expendable.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” shouted Woody. “But if you want killers, just use those horrible snake people.”

“To get back to the point, dear dog breath,” sneered Gruber, “we might not have any live Wolven hybrids, but we have learned plenty from your little dead friends downstairs. Enough to know that cells taken from your brain stem are going to — Wha … what was that?”

A muffled noise came from below and the room vibrated and shifted just a tiny bit. Woody grinned wolfishly. “Looks like you might have something else to worry about,” he said.

Gabriel snapped his fingers at Lucas Scale. “Get this Wolven trash out of my sight. Then check the cameras and find out where those blasted Spaghetti brothers are.”

Another trembling bang, this time a good deal louder.

CHAPTER 27
SILVER RAIN

The Prime Minister was extremely chuffed. Earlier, he had thrashed the Chancellor of the Exchequer at golf for the second time in two weeks, and he was owed two thousand British pound notes for his wins.

Although he wasn’t usually allowed a rich snack before bedtime (but his wife would never know, she was fast asleep), he had cause to celebrate. Gleefully he spread peanut butter and stacked marshmallows onto two slices of brown bread, added a layer of salami, and covered it all in maple syrup. He pressed the slices together and carefully placed the sandwich on his special panini machine. He could barely wait as the delicious aromas wafted up, making his mouth flood in anticipation.

When the sandwich press beeped, he lifted the lid, and was baffled when it continued beeping.

He frowned. He double-checked that he’d switched off the machine, but still the beeping didn’t stop. Confused, the Prime Minister lifted up the toaster to look for an explanation. Ah, wait a minute! The beeping was coming from another part of the room. He cocked his head to locate the source, then groaned deeply.

This pager was different from his other four pagers. This pager went off for one reason and one reason only. He took a last, longing look at his sandwich, then dialed a secret code into his phone. Almost immediately it was picked up by a man named Quentin Crone, his new head of MI5, the British secret service.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” said Crone’s rich baritone voice, “but I’m afraid we have a crisis at the research laboratory in Helleborine Halt. I’ve had a phone call from a local farmer; apparently some people have got in and are letting the animals loose. Probably animal rights activists, but my controller in Whitehall is very worried, very worried indeed.”