Restoring Time

by Jenn Lees

  Lloyd sat at the head of a table in a bay window.

  “Come, Miss Watts, have a seat.” Lloyd gestured to the chair opposite.

  Bethany stepped over and sat in the carver chair while Maxwell remained at the doorway.

  “I trust you slept well,” Lloyd asked.

  “No.”

  A tight smile crossed Lloyd’s face. “Please, enjoy our fare.” He indicated the silver-plated serving dishes on the table before her. The bacon was tempting. She served herself some and a spoon full of the scrambled eggs, which were a bright yellow, not the pale of powdered egg. The salty bacon and creamy egg warmed her mouth and slid down her throat, sending the cold into a dark corner.

  “I want you to give up the Prime Minister-ship.” Lloyd scooped egg into his mouth with the nonchalance of the psychopath he was.

  “The Scottish people elected me—”

  “What?” A short scoff escaped him. “The residents of the Government Bunker?”

  “And,” she continued, ignoring his derision and the cold rising once more. “They will decide if I’m to be removed.”

  Lloyd stared across the table at her, his head trembling to contain his smirk.

  Bethany turned away to the view provided by the bay window; she couldn’t stand to look at Lloyd’s face. Outside, a guard dropped to the ground. Rory Campbell pulled his hand from the guard’s mouth and his knife out of the man’s back. Bethany willed her expression to calmness and returned her gaze to Lloyd. He forked baked beans with gusto, the noises of his own breakfast consumption masking any coming from the yard. He poured himself coffee and Bethany returned to observe the activity. The door to the closest outhouse was open and the Chinese man who usually accompanied Rory Campbell, came out of it—carrying handguns. Both he and Campbell disappeared around the corner.

  “I won’t capitulate, Mr Lloyd,” she spoke in a loud voice. “What shall you do now?”

  Lloyd’s forkful of scrambled egg stopped mid-ascent to his lips. He returned it to his plate and gave her his full attention.

  “You have guts. I see why they voted you in. Pity you don’t have the right people on your side.”

  Antony is on my side. He must be. But Antony didn’t have any power, imprisoned as he was.

  “Don’t think McLellan will be any help to you. He and I... let me put it this way: we work together quite well.” His eyebrows raised.

  The shivers started, accompanied by a sense of danger similar to what she felt whenever she was with Antony. But it wasn’t the exciting, sexually stimulating sense of danger. Her attraction to the damaged and intriguing man had led her here. To where Antony’s deception was revealed. He’d been playing chess. Not the chess where you are careful with your queen, but the chess in which to achieve your objective—keeping the king safe—you would sacrifice her to gain it. Bethany’s heartbeat rocked her chest, coinciding with another understanding.

  Capitulation or decapitation were her only choices here.

  And it would be soon.

  The pop of distant gunfire came from behind the house. Lloyd’s head flicked up from his toast and Maxwell sped out of the room.

  “What have you done?” His accusing stare bore into her.

  Bethany blinked. The gunfire increased, then the window high above her cracked and glass rained down. Bethany gasped and ducked sideways, laying flat, face-down on the carpet. Lloyd rose and shoved past the breakfast table; cutlery clattered, and crockery rattled.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted out the door of the breakfast room.

  “I’m trying to find out, Father,” Maxwell yelled down the corridor.

  “Someone’s forced the armoury and we can’t reach it to see what they’ve taken,” another voice from the hallway said. “Someone’s taking shots and they’re knocking off anyone who gets near.”

  “What’s the noise from the back building?” Lloyd yelled.

  Bethany crept to the window, avoiding shards of glass. Bodies lay near the open door to what must have been the arms store to which Maxwell referred. A young woman, vicious looking, ran in and came out with an armful of guns and a bag over her shoulder. She must be with Campbell, for she wasn’t in the uniform of Lloyd’s people.

  A man with a dreadlock hairstyle ran into the room.

  “It’s Rory Campbell, Father.” It was the bandit-turned-community man.

  Lloyd followed him out.

  So, I won’t be the only one double-crossed today.

  Chapter 46

  Lloyd’s Mansion

  The Kingdom of Fife

  Rory rested his rifle on the barrel beside an outhouse, a small shed that provided the best view. Through his sight, guards in a dark uniform darted toward the shed where they held the now-armed Government Defence Force Personnel. Rory took down two more of Lloyd’s men as a clamour erupted, echoing in the iron-sheeting shed. Bullets pinged and maximum noise concentrated at the locked doors.

  A group of bandits stood behind Lloyd’s soldiers who’d made their way close to the now-broken door. Rory focused through his rifle’s sight. Deet came into view, a shotgun chocked into her meaty shoulder. Rory lifted his eye away and examined the scene. Jock’s bandit group spread in a loose formation behind and around her; Jock the closest.

  So, were they part of it too? Rory ground his teeth.

  Returning to his sight, he aimed for Deet now clearly in his crosshairs. Her shoulder kicked then one of Lloyd’s men dropped.

  Rory took his eye from the sight and his finger off the trigger.

  “What!” Xian voiced next to him.

  Jock and his group fired at the guards who’d aimed their weapons at the open door of the makeshift prison. Bodies dropped to the ground.

  In the silence that followed, the bandits lowered their weapons and government personnel exited the shed. The mixed group now huddled in discussion.

  Rory flicked a glance at Xian who followed, leaving Kendra to cover them.

  Rory lowered his rifle as he walked to the crowd. “You’re going tae have to tell me what’s happening here—”

  “Mr Campbell, sir.” Henderson wore a black eye and an ugly bump to his forehead. “They have the PM in the house.”

  “And we’re on yoor side, Campbell.” Jock turned to him, his shotgun held in a relaxed grip. “That turncoat brother-in-law of yours is in tha’ big hoose with his faither.”

  Rory’s legs lost their ability to operate mid-stride.

  Betrayed? Numbness held him.

  “No, surely he’s helpin’ out,” Rory said.

  “We’re going in.” Henderson strode off, heading for the main house. Rory kicked himself into action and fell in behind with Xian and the other Government personnel.

  “They’re heavily armed inside,” Jock explained to Henderson as he walked beside Rory.

  They reached the back doorway as gunfire cracked from the far side of the stately home. Bullets whizzed past, and the newly formed team spread out, took cover and returned fire. Rory ducked behind a nearby shed close to the backdoor. Xian leaned on the wall next to him.

  “I’ll go in while they’re distracting ‘em.” Rory indicated with his chin to the unguarded back door. “Cover me, Xian.” He gave the CB to Xian, then slung his rifle over his shoulder and took out his Glock. Xian nodded, a grim expression on his face.

  Rory waited for a lull in the gunfire, then sprinted to the door, shouldering it open. Muffled gunfire rattled through the walls of the mansion. The aroma of coffee and fried bacon brushed past Rory’s nose. Footsteps trod ahead of him; angry voices travelled down the hallway. Figures stepped from the end of the hall and aimed. Rory ducked left into the nearest room. Bullets whizzed past and thunked into the walls in the direction from which he’d come. The room was bookshelf-lined, a large desk sat centre stage, and overstuffed high-backed chairs dotted the space.

  The hiss of whispered voices came along the corridor. Rory took a pace out, fired rapidly down the hall, then ducked back into the library. Two dull
thuds on the carpet told him he’d neutralised that threat.

  Rory stepped out of the library with care, thick-piled carpet masking his footfall. Floorboards creaked in the room to his left. Rory kicked the door open. Micah’s dreads swirled as he spun, handgun raised, gripped in both hands, aimed and ready. Rory jumped back as Micah’s bullet cracked into a crystal vase displayed on an antique sideboard to his right and opposite to the doorway where Micah stood. Glass shattered and sprayed.

  “Micah. It’s me. Your brother.” Rory wiped the sweat from his brow. His heart rate kicked up another level and his mouth dried. Adrenaline surged while he leaned on the wall beside the door to the room where Micah stood.

  Along the hall a clock chimed. Rory strained for any noise of movement in the room.

  “Micah, think of your family.” Rory wiped his hands on his buckskins for a better grip on his Glock. “What about Cèilidh and your children?”

  “My family’s here, man. Always has been.” Micah’s voice was right behind the door. He spoke deep and flat.

  Rory blinked. Nausea rose from his stomach but he bit it back.

  “Micah, why?” His words forced out through a thick throat. “We took you in. We love you. You’re part of us. How—”

  “You’re not my brother. You’re not my dad.” Emotion broke around the periphery of Micah’s voice. “You never really got me, man. And every time I did something for you, you always questioned my motives.”

  “What?” Rory strained to get the word out. He stared at Micah’s crazed reflection in the fragments of broken glass lying opposite him on the carpet before the damaged sideboard. Micah moved toward the doorway.

  “Those Government spies—”

  “You beat them half to death—”

  “When I led you to your wife who ran off on you.”

  “You helped her in the first place...Look, this has nothin’ to do with taking the PM. What are you planning to do with Bethany Watts? Let her go.”

  “You knew. Rory. But you never let me in.” Micah’s tone seeped accusation. “You knew my dad would be important to our future, but you’ve hated him all along.” Micah’s voice came closer. A floorboard creaked. Loud bangs of gunfire came from the front door. Wood splintered, and glass shattered. Men yelled.

  Rory stepped through the doorway beside him, his Glock held low. He spun into Micah’s face and whacked Micah’s hands where they held his gun, shoving them up and against the doorjamb. A crack rang out, stinging Rory’s hearing. Behind him, the painting above the shattered sideboard crashed onto the antique below. At the same time, Rory pressed his Glock into Micah’s knee and squeezed the trigger. Micah screamed his shock, his piece thudding on the carpet. Wide, winter-blue eyes pleaded into Rory’s face before Micah lowered to the floor, grabbing his destroyed knee.

  Rory snatched Micah’s handgun off the carpet as Bethany sprang up from her crouch behind a heavy sofa.

  “Lloyd has a safe room. Micah was taking me there.”

  “Prime Minister, this way.” Henderson spoke behind Rory. Those entering through the destroyed Victorian front doorway followed closely behind him. “We’ll guard you in a vehicle while we find Lloyd.”

  Bethany took a step along the hall to make her way out, then paused and turned back to Rory.

  “Mr Campbell. Thank you for what you’ve done here.” She bowed her head a touch. “You’ve saved my life. I’ve been so wrong about you. I was misinformed and have made wrong judgements.” She looked him in the eye. “For that, I apologise.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.” It was all Rory could think to say. Too many emotions fought for supremacy. Urgency and desperation won.

  “Henderson, can I leave you with this traitor?” Rory pointed to Micah whose groans grew louder. “He needs medical attention.”

  Henderson crunched through broken glass and shattered timber to step closer to Rory. His forehead crinkled where it wasn’t covered in a deepening bruise. “What are you planning, Mr Campbell? We haven’t secured this situation yet.”

  “The Tummel House Community’s army will be here soon. They’ll assist you.” Rory turned and hurried to the back door.

  “But sir—” Henderson shouted behind him. “We could use your team’s help.”

  “My team will be here. But I have to get to the Bunker now.”

  Chapter 47

  Lloyd’s Mansion

  The Kingdom of Fife

  Rory Campbell ran out the door.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” Henderson’s voice registered in Bethany’s ear. She shook her gaze off Mr Campbell—a remarkable young man.

  “Yes, Henderson. I think I’ve fared better than you.”

  Henderson’s green left eye peered out from a swollen, purple lid. “Let’s get you to the vehicle, Prime Minister, and we’ll search for the safe room.”

  “He’d know where it is.” The man who always accompanied Mr Campbell pointed to Micah McNair, who lay groaning and dripping blood onto the carpet.

  “Aye, a good idea, Xian.” Henderson stepped to McNair. “Show us where the safe room is,” he commanded.

  Micah stared up at him from his supine position on the floor with a look of incredulity.

  “You’re jokin’, right?” He let out a gasp. “Fix ma leg first. Then I might tell ya.”

  Henderson’s foot flicked out and jolted the calf below the knee in question.

  McNair screamed.

  “Iain!” Bethany glared at Henderson. “Where’s our medic?” She looked around at the other personnel; one acknowledged and ran out the door. “Help me get him on the couch.” She leaned down and grasped hold of McNair’s arm.

  Xian and Henderson took over the manoeuvring of McNair and placed the injured man on the length of the couch. A few minutes later a woman with a medical kit entered the parlour and opened her kit beside McNair.

  “Ma’am, we need to secure you in a vehicle. We’ll see to this.” Henderson turned to Xian. “Please take the PM to our lead vehicle, it’s just outside.”

  Xian nodded and led her through the smashed Victorian doorway and down the stone steps. Black-clad figures gathered farther along the road that led to Kirkcaldy, and more on the road which the Government convoy had taken coming from the Kincardine Bridge.

  No gunfire disturbed the grounds of the stately home, only the hum of conversations interspersed with shouted orders. Her government security detail moved among and communicated with some ragged-looking individuals.

  “Bandits,” Xian said beside her. “On our side.” He halted in his walk to the vehicle, listening.

  “What can you hear—?”

  Xian placed a finger to his lips, then jogged to the rear of the mansion. A thundering vibrated through the ground, and shouts came from that direction. Bethany ran to stand next to Xian where, in between the two large sheds at the back of the mansion, they had a long view of the fields.

  Horses bearing riders rode over the nearest field, four abreast. Row upon row. A sea of riders, all bearing arms, that looked to be anything from a rifle to an old flintlock musket—from what she could tell. And every rider wore a kilt; each one a plaid in the softer colours of the hunting tartans.

  “It’s the Tummel House Army.” Xian sounded composed. He looked it too, apart from the tense way he held his shoulders.

  Bethany walked with Xian, joining the others awaiting the approaching force. Her security team and the bandits by the sheds gave a cheer as the mounted soldiers arrived and an older man, who she recalled was Mr Donaldson, rode forward. A younger man, his spitting image, rode beside him. Mr Donaldson scanned the crowd and smiled when his gaze rested on Xian and Bethany.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr Donaldson,” Bethany said. “We have Lloyd somewhere in the house in a safe room. His men have scattered to the far fields at the front with more gathering further along the road.”

  “I think they’ve come from their posts guarding the Kincardine Bridge,” Xian offered. “They’re regrouping,
so we’d better move and position ourselves.”

  “Aye.” Mr Donaldson dismounted, his kilt swishing in Bethany’s face as he did so. “But we have Bessie on her way doon and ye’ll want to make good use of her.”

  “Bessie?” Bethany raised her brows.

  “An 1814 six-pound cannon in perfect working order, with plenty o’ balls and oor home-made black powder. She’s travelling on a dray so she’s a wee bitty delayed in getting’ here. Have tae move a bit slower, aye?” He pressed his hands into his back and stretched tall. “Where’s this safe room, then? Have ye got into that yet?” He unshouldered an ancient-looking shotgun.

  “We’re still finding its location.” Bethany led the way to the front entrance while the army behind her dismounted. Horses whinnied, tack jangled and the murmurings of men in serious tones fell behind. When they reached the smashed front door of the Victorian mansion, Henderson stepped out.

  “Beth—Prime Minister, why are you not in the vehicle—?” Henderson’s one clear eye looked in Mr Donaldson’s direction.

  “Have ye found oot where this safe room is, laddie?” Mr Donaldson bustled up the stairs and brushed past Iain. He was still slightly stiff from a long ride on a horse, but agile all the same.

  “Yes sir, it’s where the old cellar used to be, but we can’t get in—”

  “I was always under the impression that is the general idea, is it no’?”

  “It’s a solid door with a keypad—”

  “It was the cellar, ye say?”

  Henderson blinked, one-eyed and silent. Bethany suppressed a grin as the competence and experience of Donaldson came to the fore.

  “If we hold our position, and keep those dark devils who are crowdin’ doon that road frae coming any closer, once Bessie arrives, we can blast a way in frae the ootside, ken?” Donaldson turned his stare to Bethany, awaiting her answer and permission.

  “Let’s try negotiation first,” she replied, then to Henderson. “Can we hear him through the door? Are we sure he’s in there?”