The Man With the Silver Gun by John Beechem

Thomas breathed in the scent of earl grey as he waited. Through the steam, he could see the gentle current of the river Thames and the ships it carried. It had been some time since he’d been back in London, but little had changed. Including this view from inside the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross. The ghost of a reflection looked on from the window pane: his trim black hair now graying at the temples, cold blue eyes and slim build, all packaged in a tailored charcoal suit. He could even see the scar on his upper lip from shrapnel he took on Sword Beach, now so many years ago.

This corner of the building was a quiet refuge compared to the hustle and bustle of the rest of the office. Thomas could hear the machine gun fire of typewriters nearby, and see clerks and secretaries hustling down the aisles with paperwork and incoming telegrams. But here, all of that was muffled and distant, so he could enjoy his tea.

“Ms. Cross is ready to see you now, Thomas,” called a voice from behind him.

He turned and set his teacup and saucer on a little table by the window. “Thank you, Emily,” he said and began walking toward the door.

“You’re welcome,” she said, “and do be on your best behavior.”

“I make no promises,” he spoke as he entered.

Inside, it was dim. Most of the light came in slivers pulled through slanted Venetian blinds. Smoke curled lazily from a cigarette carried in a little black holder, held by fingers too proud to be stained by tobacco.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Barnes?” his Section Chief asked. Her voice was deep and raspy, bold and used to being listened to.

“Bourbon, neat,” Thomas requested.

“A good choice,” Cross said, and poured one for him and herself. “How was Burma?”

“Bloody hot.”

Cross chuckled. “No doubt. Have a seat, Thomas.”

Thomas sat down in a rolling leather chair across from her. Her desk was tidy, papers stacked into neat little piles. Its only element of chaos was a crystal ashtray, full to overflowing. Cross pulled on a small copper chain and a green-shaded desk lamp lit the room.

“How have you enjoyed your stay in London?” she asked.

“Tolerable,” he said. “I found a charming little coffee shop near the flat you gave me. I go there to read the Times every morning. Then run in Hyde Park. I’ve been a little restless, truth be told.”

“Yes, yes. Well, let me reward your impatience. There’s a situation in Swaziland that needs tending,” Cross explained.

“Ah, yes. Her independence day is coming soon, is it not?”

“Soon enough, yes. The CIA has a presence there, searching for political figures that may be compromised by the Soviets. One of their assets has gone missing.”

“What kind of asset?”

“A young lady. Her name is Lydia Greenwood. She’s a language expert versed in Pan-African political movements. Here’s her file.”

Thomas opened it and looked inside. Educated at Berkely, affiliated with SNCC. He was surprised the CIA had assigned her to work in Swaziland. She leans left more than an Irish drunk, he thought. Her photo showed a light-skinned Black woman with frizzy red hair tied into a bun. Her face was serious, despite the freckles that dotted her cheeks.

“What does her field office suspect?” Thomas asked. “I can think of any number of things.”

“Well, there are a few possibilities,” Cross said. “She could’ve been captured or kidnapped. There are some disaffected political factions that don’t share American interests. There’s also the possibility she’s gone rogue. Allied with Swazi radicals —or God forbid— Soviets. The bottom line is she needs to be found. She’s one of the CIA’s main interpreters, and knows too many secrets for her own good.”

“I can find her. I can’t guarantee in what condition, but if there’s a trail, I’ll follow it.”

“Very well. But Thomas, there’s a complication. Tell me, what do you know about lycanthropy?”

“Werewolves? I thought they were extinct. All slaughtered during the inquisitions centuries ago. A pity, really.”

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors?” Cross asked him. “That Mengele conducted experiments during the war. Researching hidden enclaves of lycanthropes in the hope of turning them into super-soldiers.”

Thomas scoffed. “The Nazis never could resist the esoteric. Was there any proof of their success? Even if they found a werewolf or two, I doubt they’d follow orders on the battlefield.”

“The SAS recovered a few files. But no hard evidence. What we fear is that the Soviets found something more tangible,” Cross explained.

Thomas finished his drink in one quick gulp and placed his glass on her desk. “And this is your fear? That a werewolf captured Lydia Greenwood?”

“Not necessarily,” Cross said. “But there have been sightings. And the Soviets have sometimes used desperate measures. Also, Ms. Greenwood disappeared on a night with a full moon.”

“Very well,” Thomas said. “And what would you have me do if I confronted one of these lycanthropes as you call them?”

“Capture them, if possible. Kill them, if not. We can’t afford to let the Soviets have any edge, even one as exotic as this.”

“I shall do my best. What are the mission parameters?”

“You’ll be flying out of Heathrow tomorrow at 0800 hours. We’ve a guise for you as a board member for British Petroleum, come to form contacts with the new Swazi government. In country, you’ll meet a military contact, Mr. Sambulo Mabuza. He’ll act as your bodyguard and fixer. Together, I want you to conduct a search for Ms. Greenwood. The agency has provided us with a few of her contacts. If any leads prove useful, follow them to fruition.”

“Seems fairly cut and dry,” Thomas said. “Aside from the werewolf, of course.”

“Yes, and in that regard,” Cross said, opening a desk drawer. “I’ve been instructed to give you this.”

She pulled out a handgun, one that appeared rather large in her small hands. Cross spun the handle toward Thomas. “A Walther PPK. One of rather unusual design, wouldn’t you think?”

“Is this...silver?”

“Of course,” Cross told him. “We’ll give you bullets to match. After all, folklore tells us silver is a werewolf’s only weakness. You wouldn’t want to confront one ill-equipped, would you?”

Thomas felt its weight in his hands, its cool metal form. It was a stunning weapon, one more suited for a display case than a shoulder holster. But it felt right to have it.

“No,” Thomas said. “That wouldn’t do at all.”

* * * * *

Thomas carried his briefcase down a few steps and onto the tarmac. The sun over Mbabane glared down at him from a cloudless sky. In front of him stood a muscular man wearing dark green fatigues and a black beret. Other passengers parted around them as they greeted each other.

“Mr. Barnes,” the man said, offering a hand to greet him, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Sambulo Mabuza.”

Sambulo had a firm handshake. He stood a few inches shorter, but his mass more than made up for his height. He had a broad face with a round nose and dark brown eyes.

His fatigues and beret kindled a certain kinship within Thomas. Ever since the war, Thomas felt a certain comfort around soldiers. But in his trade, even allies were worthy of suspicion. Complacency could mean death.

“The pleasure is mine, Sambulo,” Thomas said.

“I came to escort you from the tarmac myself. We have a car waiting for you at the airport’s entrance. A comfortable one,” he explained.

After a quick walk through Mbabane's rather small airport (at least compared to Heathrow) Sambulo led them to a sleek black sedan. A chauffeur placed Thomas’s briefcase in the trunk before opening the rear door for him. Sambulo let himself in from the other side.

The car was indeed comfortable. Inside, there were cream colored leather seats and an otherwise stark interior. So Thomas appreciated Sambulo's reserved welcome. Sometimes limousines welcomed him at foreign airports, and while he enjoyed their amenities, the added luxury made him conspicuous. And therefore vulnerable.

The chauffeur chauffeur started the car and eased it into the traffic leading from the airport into Swaziland's busy capital.

Mbabane was much greener than Thomas imagined. And more developed too. Houses dotted the lower half of a nearly mountainous hill. There were a number of squat concrete buildings close to the city's downtown, but no real skyline. It was a humble city, yet rather welcoming. And though he’d left London in the bursting flame of autumn, Swaziland was in the midst of spring. Colorful flowers decorated many of the trees.

“So,” Thomas began, “independence comes soon. And I can tell you much of my government, MI6 in particular, is rather nervous about that prospect so close to our colony in South Africa. But how do you feel about it?”

“Excited,” Sambulo told him in his rather thick Swazi accent. “No country deserves to be ruled by another. On the day our king replaces your queen as our rightful ruler, I’ll be drunk and happy.”

“I understand more than most the ugly side of empire. I've seen much of it first hand. My main concern is stability. You've been briefed on my mission?”

“Of course. The missing American woman. I doubt you'll find her. Mbabane is a sea of people. If she was captured, her captors’ll keep her out of sight. And if she went rogue, she can stay hidden. Unfortunately. Her defection would be a strong card up Soviet sleeves. On arms I'd rather see cut off.”

“Again, a sentiment I share.” Thomas had had his own run-ins with the Soviets. And though they were allies against the Nazis, the chill of the Cold War now blazed, at least for him and the other operatives in his agency.

“Well, I'm going to do my best to find her,” Thomas continued. The sedan stood at a red light for an eternity. “Have you heard about the werewolf said to be stalking your city?”

Sambulo chuckled. “I have.”

“And what do you think?”

“Inkolelo engenamqondo. What you call superstition. And I call bullshit.” Sambulo told him. “But there are strange things on this earth. Even a minute possibility must be considered for soldiers and intelligence agents both.”

The sedan soon pulled up in front of a small but attractive hotel. It was red brick with green awnings and looked to have been built at least a few decades ago. Ivy crept up the walls. And tall windows gave a good view of the interior. Some well to do tourists could be seen inside the lobby. The chauffeur took the briefcase from the trunk and handed it to Thomas as he and Sambulo lingered inside the car for a moment longer.

“I’ll return to pick you up at 7:00 P.M. I suggest we visit the Jade Lounge. It’s Ms. Greenwood’s favorite place to drink, a past-time she enjoys very much. Someone may have seen her there or knows where she is,” Sambulo explained.

“As good a place to look as any. I look forward to your return.”

Thomas followed a bell boy upstairs. After he unpacked, he decided to visit the hotel bar.

“Bourbon, neat.”

* * * * *

The Jade Lounge was a smoke-filled club that glowed neon. Thomas stepped inside wearing a blue silk shirt, gray sports coat and jeans with a slight flair at the bottom. The sport coat did a good job concealing his silver pistol. He hoped his clothes would help him blend in with the younger, hipper crowd. But he still felt out of place. He remembered dancing to old fashioned rock and roll music well into the night. Now go-go girls gyrated in cages and men wore shirts unbuttoned to their navels. It was ghastly.

Sambulo stood next to him. His clothes were a bit more under-stated. He wore black slacks with a white collared shirt and a black vest. Without his beret, Thomas could see his head shaved bald. He cut a striking figure, and as a Black man, blended into the crowd much better than Thomas ever could.

Thomas kept feeling eyes on him, but pretended not to notice. If asked, he would explain that he was here on business and wanted a chance to experience the night life. But other than a few curious stares, people left him alone.

Sambulo offered Thomas a cigarette and the pair smoked in silence, casing the room. Thomas sipped on soda with lime, and looked for any sign of Lydia Greenwood. He doubted she would be here if she wanted to stay hidden. And if she’d been captured, the point was moot. So Thomas kept looking. He glanced at the revelers one by one, never long enough to create suspicion. None seemed particularly vigilant themselves, as if they feared they might be being watched. Nor did anyone seem particularly troubled, like they were hiding something. Or someone.

Then Thomas noticed another foreigner. She held his gaze for a moment too long. He nudged Sambulo’s elbow.

“I see her too,” Sambulo said. “She’s from the American embassy. Come with me.”

Thomas followed and found the only other white person, a young woman with sandy blonde hair and thin lips painted red. She wore a tank top striped green and white with tight white jeans. Truth be told, she was rather fetching, but Thomas reminded himself that he was here on the queen’s business.

“Hello,” Thomas said. “My name’s Thomas. This is my friend, Sambulo. May we buy you a drink?”

“You may,” she replied. “My name’s Virginia.”

“You’re from the embassy, correct?” Sambulo asked.

Virginia looked taken aback, her eyes widening as she developed a slight blush. Then she shook her head, regaining her composure. “Yes, you know me?”

“It’s my business to know things,” Sambulo explained. He snapped his fingers and a server appeared. She took Virginia’s order and soon returned with a vodka tonic garnished with orange peel.

Virginia sipped. “And what do you want to know now?” she asked.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Thomas explained. He pulled a wallet sized black and white photo of Lydia Greenwood from a pocket inside his sports coat. “Do you recognize her?”

“She came here a lot,” Virginia told him. “To be honest, I always thought she was a bit of a whore. She drank too much and went home with a different man every night.”

Thomas and Sambulo exchanged glances. “Who was the last man she went home with?” Thomas asked.

“I’m not sure. My roommate Patty knows her better. They used to drink together some nights. Her name’s Lydia right?”

“Yes,” Sambulo said. “We’re afraid she’s in terrible danger. May we speak to Patty?”

“I guess you could,” Virginia said. “She’s at her boyfriend’s. I’ll give them a call and see if we can swing by. Look, her boyfriend’s kind of a tough guy. So if you act up, he might get mad. Even hurt you. Understand?”

Thomas chuckled. “We’ll be on our best behavior.”

They shared a taxi to a different neighborhood, one with crowded apartment buildings and tree lined streets. Through the window, he could see the moon was almost full. “Are we close?” Thomas asked.

“We’re here,” Virginia told him. They stepped out of the car and she led them up some concrete steps. The lights were on behind the right-hand door and she knocked.

A gentleman answered, one Thomas presumed to be Patty’s boyfriend. “Come inside, boys.”

Thomas prickled at the sound of his voice. There was something malevolent about it. “No,” he said and grabbed Sambulo’s arm.

But it was too late. He felt a gun against his back. “Go on inside,” Virginia told him. “We know why you’re here.”

* * * * *

Thomas struggled against his bonds. He didn’t know where he was as he still had a cloth bag tied around his head. He’d been driven somewhere, somewhere far judging from how much time had passed on the way here. He’d been led down some steps and tied to a wooden chair. Sambulo had been with him, but was taken to a different room.

Virginia drove them, and “Patty’s boyfriend” rode in the front seat. His name was Philip. He too had an American accent. New York, probably. Patty sounded more Mid-Western. Thomas had met many Americans during the war and learned how to tell where they were from by how they spoke. He wasn’t sure how these details could help him now. But they occupied his mind and kept him from panicking.

The SIS had trained him how to escape capture. But someone else had taught Philip how to tie knots. It wouldn’t be easy for him to get out of this.

He heard a metal door open and creak shut with a booming thud. “Greetings, Mr. Barnes. My name is Nikita Smirnov. I want you to know that before you die.”

In one swift movement, he tore the bag from Thomas’s head. “Where’s Lydia Greenwood?” Thomas demanded. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to know if Lydia had already been murdered.

“Yes, that’s a question we all want answered. But alas…” Nikita pulled a pistol from inside his white lab coat. He was a young man with prematurely silver hair. His eyes were an icy blue.

Thomas looked down the gun’s barrel and wondered what he would see on the other side of it. But before he could find out, the sound of gunshots rang out from the corridor outside. Machine gun fire. An AK-47 from the sound of it. Soviets? Thomas wondered. Or their stooges.

Thomas rocked back and forward in his chair. Then he fell to the ground, holding his neck rigid to keep from knocking his head into the concrete.

“What are you doing?” Nikita hissed.

“Distracting you,” Thomas told him.

The door kicked open and a women charged inside. She was holding an AK-47 and wore a black turtleneck with a dark toboggan. Frizzy red hair peeked out from underneath it. Lydia!

“Drop it!” she roared. She held the gun expertly, pointing at Nikita from down its sights.

Nikita fired at her, but she ducked just in time for the bullet to ricochet off the door behind her. Lydia fired her own salvo, a burst of semi-automatic fire that whistled past Thomas’s head. At least laying on the concrete floor made him a smaller target.

Nikita hid behind a concrete post, but came out from it to fire another salvo. His shots were wild and he missed Lydia, but he was also able to dodge her return fire and slipped out through another door. Thomas heard the patter of footsteps going up.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

“You’re a piece of work,” Lydia told him. She let her machine gun hang from a strap tied around her chest and pulled out a switch-blade. She cut through the ropes that bound Thomas’s wrists and ankles.

He pulled himself up from the floor and began rubbing the pins and needles from his limbs. “How did you know I was here?” Thomas asked.

“I didn’t,” she told him. “I was looking for Smirnov. He has something I need.”

“And what’s that?”

“An antidote.”

“What for?”

“I think you know.”

Thomas paused. If what his gut was telling him was true, then Cross was right. “For lycanthropy?”

“If you mean werewolves, then yes. Freddy?” Lydia called out behind her. “You can come out now.”

A skinny young man with dark brown hair snuck in from the doorway. He looked hesitant, and wore a white tee-shirt and blue jeans. Thomas guessed he was about sixteen, but it was hard to tell. He look malnourished. His brown eyes were sunken and his cheekbones poked out.

“It wasn’t a complete loss. At least I could provide an extraction for Freddy. And whoever you are.”

The boy spoke a few words in German. Lydia spoke to him in kind. “He wants me to call him Friedrich. But I’m not going too.”

“Schizer,” Friedrich cursed.

Thomas chuckled. It was one of the few German words he knew. “Schizer is right, lad. I’m Thomas Barnes. Tell me, Lydia. Have you seen the bald Black fellow I came here with?”

“Yes. He was wounded, but I think he’ll be alright. I have friends waiting for us outside. We need to hurry.”

“Good idea,” Thomas said.

“One moment,” Lydia grabbed her arm to stop him. “I found this. Is it yours?” She held the silver PPK and offered it to Thomas.

“Yes, thank you.”

Friedrich’s eyes widened.

“You better keep it away from Freddy. And hurry up. We only have about sixteen hours until the next moonrise.”

* * * * *

Lydia had hidden in plain sight— a safe-house nestled inside a small apartment building, downtown. In Thomas went, squeezing past the boxes littering the entrance. He stopped at another cramped place. A living room, by shoddy suite standards. Then, he caught a familiar face. Sambulo on the floor, only a mattress separating his body from the hardwood. Shoulder heavily bandaged. A red wound seeping through the gauze. Like an eye staring straight into Thomas.

“How are you, Sambulo?” he asked.

“Been better,” Sambulo answered him. He looked toward Lydia. “Any more morphine?”

“I do, but none for you. We’ve got work to do. Here, take these,” Lydia said.

She handed him a cup of water and two white pills. Sambulo scoffed, but took them anyway.

“You mentioned the next moonrise,” Thomas said. “I take it Freddy has the affliction.”

Friedrich scowled at him, but said nothing. Instead, he looked anxiously outside the window. The sun was just beginning to rise. Thomas could guess what would happen when it began to set.

“Obviously,” Lydia said. She was cleaning her AK-47, bits of it laid out on a coffee table before her. The smell of oil was strong. Thomas loved using an AK, but rarely got the chance. The queen were not supposed to use Soviet weapons. But sometimes it was necessary.

Do you have another one of those?” he asked.

Lydia eyed him suspiciously. “You know how to use it?”

Thomas smiled. “Expertly.”

“In there,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of a metal cabinet.

Thomas opened it and pulled the weapon out. It looked a bit more worn than Lydia’s, but still in fighting shape. It had a full clip, and he loaded a bullet into the chamber. If their cover had been blown, they could face an attack at any moment. He wanted to be ready.

“So Freddy as you call him. East German?” Thomas asked.

“You guessed it,” Lydia said.

“A defector?” Sambulo asked.

“You boys are smarter than you look.” Lydia began reassembling her rifle. She was quick. Thomas wondered where she had learned how to do that. The CIA wasn’t in the habit of training their interpreters in ballistics. She really is a radical, he considered. Who else would teach her?

“This isn’t just about him though,” Lydia explained. “Smirnov has developed a serum and an antidote. The serum was developed with Freddy’s blood. And it does more than transform someone into a werewolf on the night of a full moon. It does so permanently. But that isn’t the worst part. They keep their human mind.”

“Bloody hell,” Thomas said. “So we could be facing a full battalion of Soviet werewolves?”

“Now wouldn’t that be something,” Lydia said laughing. “No, not yet. Smirnov hasn’t begun human tests. But he’s getting there.”

“Still,” Thomas said. “A silver machine gun would really do right now.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to do with your pea shooter.”

* * * * *

The perimeter around Smirnov’s lab was easy to infiltrate. Thomas had killed two guards with shots from his silenced PPK, the standard issue. He held the silver one in his left hand, but hadn’t yet fired it. They’d dragged the poor soldiers into a darkened corridor, but there was nothing they could do about the blood trail.

Freddy and Sambulo followed behind him. Lydia protected them from the rear.

“Do you remember which way to go, Freddy?” Thomas asked.

Freddy pointed. Although the lad didn’t speak a word of English, with Lydia’s help, he understood them. At least well enough. The boy was sharp, Thomas gave him that.

“There it is!” Lydia pointed to steel double doors.

“They’ll be locked,” Thomas realized. He took a small lock-breaking tool from one of his pockets, part of a kit he’d assembled from odds and ends at the safe-house. Not quite standard issue, but he hoped it would get the job done.

“Hurry,” Sambulo hissed.

“Almost...done,” Thomas spoke through his concentration.

Just as he heard the door click, a klaxon sounded. The lights in the hallway began to flash red. And Soviet voices could be heard yelling above the din.

“Quick! Inside!” Thomas shouted.

They all rushed into the lab, the metal doors slamming shut behind them.

“Now what do we do?” Lydia asked.

“We can’t stay in here for very long,” Sambulo said. “We need to find Smirnov, then get the hell out of here.”

“Freddy, do you have any idea where he’d be?” Thomas asked.

“Nein.”

“Damn.” Thomas considered his options.

Then the doors on the other end of the room opened and Smirnov walked inside. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes full of fury.

“Hands up!” Lydia yelled.

Smirnov looked around, but did nothing. He stood frozen in place, a cold sweat peppering his brow. He was hiding something in his hand, but Thomas couldn’t tell what it was.

“Hands up or I shoot,” Lydia said.

Smirnov made one quick motion and jabbed something into his arm through the sleeve of his lab coat. At once, his eyes turned blood-shot and his veins became taut. He grew a full beard in seconds, and the rest of his face was soon covered in silver hair. His knee joints popped and pointed backwards, his fingernails sharpened into claws, and his clothes tore to shreds through bulging muscles. For a moment, he was on all fours, but then he stood back up on his hind legs and made an ear-shattering howl.

Thomas couldn’t help but put both hands over his ears. Then he came back to his senses. He pointed his silver gun at the werewolf Smirnov had become, but before he could fire a round, the werewolf batted the gun away. It clattered onto the floor. The werewolf picked him up by the scruff of his shirt. Claws dug deep into his chest. He kicked and flailed but to no avail.

The werewolf opened his mouth and roared. Thomas could see deep into his maw and even smell his acrid breath. Just as he was certain the werewolf was going to literally bite his head off, he heard a burst of machine gun fire from behind the wolf’s back. The werewolf turned and threw Thomas with all his force into Lydia as she fired her AK. She raised her gun at the last moment and the bullets fired into the ceiling. They both went tumbling together onto the floor.

Smirnov stood over them and slashed his claws at Lydia. She blocked his attack with her gun, struggling to push him off of her as he gripped the gun in both hands. He tore it away from her, but before he could finish her off, a brown mass of fur and muscle collided with him.

Thomas stood up and realized Freddy had transformed into a werewolf too. The full moon. Perfect timing. Thomas ran to where his silver gun had landed and picked it up. He found Sambulo crouched behind a lab bench, gripping his gun, helpless for what to do.

“Come,” Thomas said. “Lydia needs us.”

“Inkolelo engenamqondo,” Sambulo said. “Just my luck.” Then he nodded and followed Thomas out from his hiding spot.

The two werewolves tore into each other with an animalistic fury. Smirnov was the larger of the two. But Friedrich was more accustomed to his form. He swiped at his adversary with massive black claws, but Smirnov ducked to avoid his attack. Then he tackled Friedrich and the two beasts when down together.

“I’ll kill you all!” Smirnov growled. He tried to tear at Friedrich’s throat with slavering fangs. But Friedrich managed to turn them over and the pair tumbled on the floor, clawing and biting each other in a mass of fur and blood.

“Shoot him!” Lydia called out to Thomas.

“I can’t get a clear shot,” Thomas said.

“Then get ready.” Lydia ran beside him and crouched, firing her machine gun harmlessly at the two combatants.

Smirnov let out a maddening howl and threw Friedrich off of him. He charged at Lydia, his fury and blood-lust dominating his actions.

Before he could reach her, Thomas fired his silver gun and his bullets struck Smirnov one after the other. Smirnov collapsed onto his knees and then fell to the floor. Thomas walked over to him with a grim determination and fired two bullets into his skull.

But then Friedrich turned and focused his attention on his remaining prey. He charged at them with the speed and power of a juggernaut.

Thomas coolly pointed his gun at Friedrich, but at the moment he was about to fire, Lydia yanked his arm away and the bullet struck the ground with a harmless ricochet. They both managed to roll out of the way, and Friedrich soared over them. He crouched, ready to spring at them once more.

“No!” she yelled. “I won’t have you kill him too. I’ve gone through too much to save him.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Thomas asked.

“The antidote!” Sambulo remembered. “If Smirnov had the serum, he must have the antidote on him too. Maybe it’ll work on Friedrich.”

Lydia ran toward Smirnov’s corpse. She jammed her hand into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a syringe full of green fluid.

Then Friedrich threw himself onto her, and he raised his claws ready to strike. Before he could, Lydia stabbed the syringe into him and pushed down the plunger. Thomas looked into his eyes and saw within them a human intelligence.

In the next moment, they all witnessed Friedrich’s transformation in reverse. He was soon the scrawny boy that they knew, now exhausted in his tattered clothes. He swayed and was about to collapse, but Lydia caught him.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.

* * * * *

“And how did you manage to leave Smirnov’s base of operations?” Cross asked. She tapped her cigarette holder and a light dusting of ash fell.

“Friedrich knew a secret way out. His cell had been hidden inside some tunnels that led to the surface.” He took a sip of bourbon and placed his glass back on Cross’s desk. “I guess Smirnov kept his own secrets.”

“Well, it was a job well done,” Cross remarked. “The CIA is happy to have their asset back in Ms. Greenwood. And now we have proof positive that lycanthropy is yet another weapon in the Soviet arsenal.”

“Speaking of which. What will happen to the boy?”

“That’s classified.”

Thomas sighed. “Isn’t that always the case.”

“The Queen has her own secrets, Thomas. Still, you won’t be coming away from this empty-handed. Keep the side-arm. You never know when it might come in handy.”

“Gladly.”