Blood Debt

impasse once again."
    From her seat in the rafters, Vicki watched Eng's men take up positions just outside the open area.
    Grinning ferally, she enjoyed the view. If the vermin wanted to slaughter each other, that was fine by her.
    The unexpectedly close whisper of metal against metal drew her gaze to the top of the nearest rack. A prone gunman, his sights sweeping the perimeter of the light, lay half hidden behind a crate of
    "parquet style" vinyl tiles. Carefully searching the shadows, she spotted another three.
    This could get interesting…
    David Eng had the advantage in numbers, but Dyshino's men held the high ground.

    Brought up short by Vicki's scent, Henry wondered what the hell was going on. Growling low in his throat, he pushed open the warehouse door. The air inside smelled of sweat and fear and anticipation.
    "We haven't reached anything, you immigrant punk!" Dyshino surged to his feet. "This isn't Hong Kong, this is Canada, and I say…"
    A 9-mm round from a burst of machine gun fire caught him in the right shoulder and spun him around. The rest of the burst killed the man behind him. He hit the floor and rolled under the table as all hell broke loose.
    Crouched beside the man who'd been shot in the back, Henry flinched away from the sudden roar of gunfire. By the time answering shots had been fired, he was on his feet and racing toward the sound.
    Vicki…
    Vicki watched in amazement as Henry exploded out into the light, face and hair a pale blur above the moving shadow of his body. The gunman on the nearest rack muttered something that sounded like

    "Police!" as she realized he had Henry in his sights.
    He got the shot off just as she knocked him into the air. Henry's howl of pain drowned out the ripe melon sound of the gunman's head making contact with the concrete floor, nine meters down.
    The scent of Henry's blood rose to obliterate the singed sulfur smell of the gunpowder, the hot metal smell of the spent casings, and the warm, meaty smell of the men below. Henry's blood. The blood that had made her.
    The Hunger ripped aside all controls.
    Time slowed as Henry stared from the red stain across the fingers of his right glove to the hole in his left arm. It didn't seem to hurt. I'm in shock, he thought. When he lifted his head, he saw a cold-eyed young man swing a submachine gun around until it pointed in his direction—each movement deliberate and distinct. Feeling as though he were moving underwater, Henry reached out, grabbed the muzzle, and smashed the weapon into the gunman's face.
    As the body fell, the wound throbbed once, sending a ripple of pain racing through Henry's body, and time took up its normal pace again.
    He felt, rather than heard, Vicki's scream of rage, and he didn't have strength enough to stop himself from responding.
    Clutching his shoulder, Dyshino stared out from under the table in horror as another of his men hit the floor. This one was dead before impact.
    Shots ricocheted off the metal rafters.
    Head buzzing from the adrenaline, one of Eng's people leaned around a forklift and, grinning widely, sprayed bullets in the general direction of Dyshino's bodyguard. Some of the guys thought he was crazy, but he loved this kind of stuff—the noise, the chaos, the way death was so completely impersonal. It was like being inside a video game. What fun in quiet stalking and a single shot?
    All at once his grin twisted into a grimace of pain as an unbreakable grip locked onto his shoulder and yanked him up into the cab of the machine.
    He screamed.
    His finger tightened on the trigger.
    He sent Death on an impersonal visit to two of his companions.
    Both sides realized they had a common enemy at about the same time. Unfortunately, by then it was too late.
    The last sniper scrambled down off the racks, desperately trying to outrun his own death. He slipped, managed to stop his fall, and hit the floor running. One step, two…
    Vicki reached out a hand and grabbed the back of his head, slamming him to his knees and exposing his throat in one motion.

    This was not the slaughter David Eng had planned. Crouched behind a roll of no-wax vinyl flooring, he grabbed his second's shoulder and waved his Ingram toward the distant doors. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
    The other man nodded, and they began to make their way down the corridor, back to back, each guarding the other's retreat. They were almost at the door when a pale face appeared out of the darkness.
    "I don't think so,"