Vincent and Angelo Spaghetti had quickly and efficiently removed the injured, including the young Carver boy, and left the scene, but Ophelia had one last task to complete before leaving the Halt. She and Mick had agreed that her last duty would be to put the project’s other victims out of their misery. The risk that they might be recaptured and used in other experiments was just too great, not to mention the terrible danger to the public.

On her way back to the others, Ophelia had found the Halt’s arms room and stocked up on silver bullets. Now, swiftly and silently, so as not to alert the snarling werewolves, she backed toward the open door.

“Shoot first, ask questions later!” barked the Prime Minister.

Quentin Crone, the head of MI5, stared at him. “With respect …,” he began.

“Do it!” The Prime Minister stared resolutely ahead. “Damage control, Crone, that’s all we can do here tonight.”

Crone glanced at the two other SA.330 Puma helicopters flanking them, waiting for orders. An eerie orange glow emanated from Helleborine Halt and stinking, pale green smoke billowed from the windows on the lower floor as the phosphorus continued to combust.

Crone had not had long enough to assess the situation; he was entering unknown territory. Fully briefed on the Proteus project during the brief helicopter journey from London, he had been sickened when he learned the full extent of the atrocities carried out by Gruber in the name of science. He’d had no idea there were werewolves involved.

An eerie sound carried on the wind made him shiver: a low, mournful howling, faint at first, then louder, as whatever was making the noise crept closer. Then Crone was aware of another sound as gunshots pierced the night air.

Using the laboratory door as a shield, Ophelia Tate had time to fire five rounds of the finest filigree silver bullets, scoring direct hits each time before the surviving werewolves came for her. Slamming the heavy door behind her, she sped through the smoke-filled corridors, expecting to feel the hot breath of the werewolves on her heels as she ran wildly for the elevator, which would take her to the safety of the upper levels.

The fires in the labyrinth were creeping higher. A buildup of gases caused an explosion, combusting toward the elevator shaft where Ophelia had been headed. She knew her chances of surviving the next few minutes were almost nil. If she stayed below, she risked being the second course for the remaining werewolves, but if the elevator caught fire while she was in it, she would be baked like an aluminum foil–wrapped potato.

“AAAAAAAHOOOOOOoooooooowahhhhhhhhhh!” A triumphant set of howls made up her mind for her; the pack had managed to break down the lab door. She stabbed wildly for the button on the elevator.

“Ow!” she yelped. It was red-hot! Had the fire reached the elevator shaft?