Scott Mariani - Uprising

Greg was close behind, followed by Mundhra. They retreated up the deck as the attackers kept coming, using the stacks of drums and other ship debris as cover while they returned fire. Greg dropped into a crouch, took careful aim and let off a string of rapid shots that took down the sharp-faced female with the grenade launcher before she could fire another round and blow them all to pieces. Before she’d even hit the deck, she was bursting open like a sausage on a hot grill and her blood was spattering in a wide circle. A voice screamed out ‘Petra!’

With Becker’s Walther in one hand and her own Desert Eagle in the other, Alex chased the Oriental vampire in her sights as he leapt behind a stack of crates and old rope. She squeezed off four rounds from each so fast it sounded like one continuous explosion. The strangled shriek and the blood burst from behind the crates told her that now it was three against four. Maybe the odds were evening up. Maybe.

Mundhra gave her the thumbs-up as he aimed his pistol over an oil drum. In the split second that he took his eyes off the enemy, the black-haired female rattled off a string of rounds at him. Mundhra ducked, but not before one of her bullets had sent his gun spinning out of his hand. He yelled in pain and rage as the weapon clattered across the deck. He took a chance and went rolling out to retrieve it.

Too big a chance. The woman chased him with another sustained burst of automatic fire and his body went into spasm as bullets punched a ragged line of holes through his chest. His tortured eyes met Alex’s as he went down — then he was spattering across the deck in a shiny slick of blood and meat.

Now it was just Alex and Greg against four, and they were being steadily beaten back towards the ship’s great square prow. Alex fired Becker’s gun until it was empty, tossed it, then blasted off shots from her Desert Eagle until that was empty too. She did a lightning reload and realised with a shock that she was down to her last magazine.

Greg called across to her. ‘I’m out.’

Bullets were whipping and pinging all over the place. They both fell back, pinned with nowhere to go, rolling and scrambling over heaps of debris and coils of rope and chain. Risking a glance over the edge of the hull, Alex could see the mooring cables like silvery spider thread in the moonlight, stretching between the hull and the quay, gently flexing with the movement of the ship. She tossed her Desert Eagle to Greg.

‘Make them count.’

As Greg kept their enemies’ heads down with steady, well-aimed covering fire, Alex whipped off her belt and looped it over the cable. She thumped his shoulder.

‘Hold on to me,’ she yelled. He rattled off the last three shots, stuck the gun in his belt and grabbed hold of her waist as she launched herself over the edge, one end of the belt in each hand. The wind tore at their clothes and bullets whipped by them as they abseiled wildly down the cable. The concrete quayside came up fast and they hit the ground running. Alex pointed at the dark clusters of storage units, twenty yards away across the dock.

‘That way.’

Glancing back at the ship, she saw what she’d known she would see — their attackers were already swarming over the side and coming after them. The female leader used her gun to ride the mooring cable. Ten feet from the quayside she launched herself into the air, twisted like a cat and landed square on her feet, her eyes shining in the dim moonlight, weapon ready.

Unarmed, Alex and Greg could do nothing but run. They ducked into the shadows, but the woman had spotted them. Furious gunfire raked the walls of the buildings, dust and stone fragments flying, windows exploding into shards.

A door on the left was heavily padlocked and bore a sign that read ‘THAMES RIB

TOURS’. Alex booted it open with a splintering of wood and they burst inside. It was a storage depot with a flight of concrete steps that led down to a gated boathouse. Five large speedboats were tethered up, drifting gently on the water.

‘RIBs,’ Greg said. ‘Rigid inflatables. Navy SEALs use them.’

Alex leapt into the nearest of the boats. It had been heavily adapted for taking sightseers up and down the Thames tourist trail, but it was the massive Yamaha inboard engines that mattered. She grabbed the steel cable that secured the boat to the wall and yanked it out with a big chunk of brickwork.

‘Make it go.’

Greg jumped in. His jaw was set as he urgently examined the control panel at the helm. He found the ignition switch, hammered the starter. The twin diesels churned into life with an eager roar and white foam boiled up around the props.

And the door of the storage unit came crashing off its hinges. Their pursuers burst inside the building, shooting wildly. Rounds thunked into the fibreglass of the boat and shattered the windscreen. Alex was thrown back into the boat as Greg nailed the throttle wide open and aimed the RIB at the chained wooden gates of the boathouse.

They went smashing through, planks and splinters flying, the nose of the speedboat rising high out of the water under hard acceleration. Then they were roaring down the Thames, bouncing on the water, ducking down behind the shattered windscreen. Greg’s temple had been gashed from a flying splinter and there was blood on his face.

‘Who are those people?’ he yelled over the noise.

‘Vampires,’ she yelled back.

‘Why? What’s happening?’

She glanced back at the docks, now far away beyond the tail of their foaming white wake. The Anica was a hulking shadow against the gloomy quayside. No sign of anyone coming after them. But she knew they would. Vampires didn’t give up as easily as humans.

‘Make it go faster,’ she shouted.

He pointed at a gauge on the control panel. ‘I’m going as fast as I can, but something’s taken a hit and we’re losing oil pressure.’

Within three minutes, Alex could see the lights of a second speedboat coming up behind them. It was a long way back, but gaining rapidly.

‘Let’s lose some weight.’ She grabbed hold of one of the RIB’s dozen passenger seats and ripped it from its mounting, tossed it tumbling into their wake. Then another.

‘Pressure still dropping,’ Greg yelled over his shoulder.

Two more minutes, and now their pursuers were just a couple of hundred yards back. Alex tensed, waiting for the first shot. Across the dark water, the London nightscape was alive with light and movement. The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben were lit gold in the distance. Their ears filled with the booming echo of the engine roar as they passed under the arches of Westminster Bridge; then they flashed out the other side and Alex could see the illuminated glass pods of the London Eye suspended high in the sky, and the tiny figures milling about inside them.

‘She’s going to die on us,’ Greg shouted.

Alex felt the whip of a bullet pass close to her, and looked back to see the second RIB drawing dangerously close. There were spits of fire as muzzles flashed.

Another Nosferol-tipped round shattered the glass of the instrument panel six inches from Greg’s body.

Almost instantly, the engines began to chatter and then stall. A final cough, and then nothing. The boat began to drift.

‘Here we go,’ Greg said. ‘Trip’s over.’

Bullets churned up the water as they floated towards the Millennium Pier. Ten feet, five, and Alex sprang up onto the prow of the dead speedboat.

‘Come on!’

Without hesitation she leapt through the air and clambered up the side of the pier. She reached out an arm to haul Greg up behind her, and then they were running towards the lights and the crowds of people milling about the foot of the gigantic wheel of the London Eye. A party was going on; it looked to Alex like some kind of corporate event — women in expensive dresses, men in dark suits and ties. Inside the slow-moving pods people were sipping champagne, nibbling canapés, laughing, chattering animatedly. She and Greg attracted a few stares as they pressed through the throng. A fat woman stumbled and dropped her glass with an outraged ‘Excuse me!’ as Alex shoved her out of the way.