by Jenn Lees
“Yes, Prime Minister, and we think his son Maxwell is in there too.” Henderson spun and indicated for an armed guard to accompany them, then led the way through the stately home, past the breakfast room and to the Victorian kitchen. Bethany marched with the others to the functional and much less ornate section of the house. Two fireplaces, one snugly fitted with a cast-iron stove, sat side by side along one wall of the kitchen, and a sturdy wooden table filled most of the floor space. A door further back led to a narrow and utilitarian stone stair, down which Henderson led Bethany, Xian, Donaldson and the guard.
“This must abut the outer wall at the far side o’ this mansion, aye?” Donaldson’s voice amplified off the cold stone walls.
Cool mustiness brushed Bethany’s face as the light from the doorway above receded and ahead Henderson turned on a torch. They came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of half a dozen stairs and the armed guard held his weapon ready. A solid metal door with a keypad beside shone in the light of Henderson’s torch.
“Lloyd!” Mr Donaldson shouted. “Answer us, man, if ye value yer life!”
Laughter, derisive in tone, came through the muffled layers of metal and reinforcing materials.
“Mr Lloyd, be a man and open this door.” Bethany raised her voice. “Face the consequences of your failed coup and we’ll deal appropriately with you. Otherwise, we will break in, one way or another.”
Gunfire peppered the air outside, the noise funnelling down the narrow stairwell.
“I’ll go see what’s happening.” Xian ran up the steps.
“Lloyd, who’s in there with you?” Henderson shouted at the door.
Gunfire continued to echo from above; the stairwell was quiet apart from the breaths of the three men standing with Bethany. Her upper lip cooled with a thin layer of sweat.
“Mr Lloyd. Save yourself and surrender,” Bethany yelled. “Where is your son? Don’t you care about Maxwell?”
“Och, the man’s too reticent,” Donaldson said. “Once oor Bessie’s here we’ll try again. Lad, you guard this door till we set up oor cannon,” he ordered the guard. Donaldson faced Bethany. “The man’s committed treason, has he not? Dinnae be soft on him. Any delay he kens may be to his advantage. Like the noo’.” He thrust a thumb in the direction of the upstairs and outside. “His men have regrouped. We cannae be too compassionate. It’s him or us ye ken, lass. I mean, Prime Minister.” Donaldson dipped his head in a brief bow.
Behind him, the door flew open, and Bethany’s ears rang with the clamour of repeated gunfire in the restricted space.
Chapter 48
Scottish Government Bunker, Edinburgh
Siobhan’s heart beating against her ribcage increased its rate yet another notch. They’d warned her the salbutamol drip would cause tachycardia. And the tremor in her hands. She lay back and breathed away the panic it mimicked. Murray sat beside her bed in the medical centre, his nose packed with gauze and a rich purple developing around his eyes.
“Jake’s with Cèilidh and the kids in my room, yes?” Her speech was rapid.
“Yes, Siobhan.” Murray sounded like he had a heavy cold. “That’s the seventh time you’ve asked me.”
“Have we heard from Rory since last night?” The scratching sound of toenails against crisp sheets accompanied Siobhan’s jiggling feet.
Murray shook his head, then grimaced.
Siobhan slipped out of the covers.
“What’re you doing?” Murray leaned forward in his chair.
“I can’t stand this.” She sat on the edge of the bed and put on her slippers. “I’m going to the communication room.”
“Siobhan.” Dr Liz walked into the room. “Please go back to bed...Oh!”
Siobhan looked up at the alarm in Dr Liz’s voice.
“Medic, get the monitor!” Dr Liz’s eyes focused on Siobhan’s groin. “How long have you been haemorrhaging?”
Siobhan stood and looked down, registering the extra warmth in that area. And the blood stains seeping wider.
“Prep theatre!” Dr Liz blurred.
Spots formed in Siobhan’s vision. Then, overcome by a light-headedness, she sank.
“Mummy’s gone, darling girl.” Her father’s arms surrounded her, warm and strong. He rested his chin on her forehead, his three-day growth prickling her skin.
“What about the baby, Daddy?”
“He’s gone with Mummy, sweetheart.” He sighed.
“Didn’t they want to be with us?”
“Siobhan. Siobhan!” Dr Liz spoke close by her face. “Stay with me, Siobhan.”
Murray mumbled beside her.
“It’s not that simple.” The doctor’s voice angled in Murray’s direction. “It’s not just Siobhan bleeding, but the foetus could be too. We have to perform a caesarean section as speedily as possible.”
Murray mumbled once more; his voice strangled with apprehension.
“Aye, do that,” Dr Liz said.
WHITE FOAM STREAKED Boy’s black withers. Rory rode him hard after leaving Kirkcaldy. The Kincardine Bridge was in sight but devoid of the usual guards at the entry points. In the late morning light, the dust rose along the bridge that traversed the River Forth as the crowds hurried across without being accosted for a toll. Clearly, Lloyd had deployed those men to his stately home. Rory yelled at the travellers to move out of his way. People encumbered by the caged animals, bags of grain and other objects regarded as suitable taxes, parted before him and he trotted Boy across. Thoughts of apology or thanks passed through his mind but they ricocheted off his blinding determination to get to the Bunker, which competed with a heated swirl in his throat and a numbness at Micah’s treachery.
A betrayal of Community, friendship, and family.
And of brotherhood.
Rory searched his memory in vain for the telltale signs of Micah’s impending desertion. Of double allegiances and loyalties divided. Of secret meetings and covert messages.
Micah had always been so eager, desperate even, to please him. Did he not acknowledge the guy enough? Had he not given Micah the approval he so obviously desired?
Maybe not.
But in the end, the man’s need for his father’s admiration had won over all other ties.
Even those to his own wife and children.
Rory gripped the reins tighter. Had he been naïve to think a one-time bandit could change?
How blind I’ve been.
Now Rory’s throat ached.
Micah was a brother.
But no more.
He nudged Boy on, thrusting aside all thoughts and hurts associated with Micah.
Tummel House Army would have arrived at Kirkcaldy with reinforcements. Rory’s shoulders eased. The hasty alliance between Community, Government and bandits would need the muscle of the Donaldson’s army.
When he’d reached the other side of the Kincardine Bridge the portable CB over his shoulder jumped to life.
Rory. It was Murray.
A fist clutched Rory inside and held firm to his guts.
“Aye, Murray. Over.” His voice came hard.
He kicked Boy to a canter, holding the handset close to his mouth.
They’re operating on Siobhan. Over.
“What? Now? Why?” Forget the overs!
She’s bleeding. That means the baby might be too. Over.
“But she said she was okay. They’d stopped the contractions.”
They’re trying to save them both. Murray’s voice strained at the edges and trembled as it came through the handset.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Keep me posted. Over.”
Aye. I will. Out.
Rory dug his heels into Boy’s flanks and rode low over his neck, urging his stallion on with his whole body, pushing down the fist that gripped and twisted his insides like a drowning man grasping at a rope.
Chapter 49
Lloyd’s Mansion
The Kingdom of Fife
Bethany’s flight up the narrow steps was a blur as
her temples pounded with her pulse. Her upper arm burned where Henderson retained his tight grip after dragging her up the stone stairs. The cracking of automatic gunfire repeated behind them while they retreated and collapsed on the wooden floorboards of the kitchen.
Donaldson flew out of the stairwell, his grey hair sticking up wildly and his expression grim.
“That wee haggersnash has retreated, but not afore snuffing the life oot of that young lad. My condolences at losing one of yer men, ma’am.”
Bethany stared at the stairwell, willing her thundering ears to recover.
“I’ll get more men to guard these stairs,” Henderson said. “No one will reach the top of them. Security will use their grenades to blow them if that door opens a crack without warning or signs of surrender.”
Henderson marched her to the front door. Outside, bullets had riddled the vehicle in which he’d previously insisted Bethany seek shelter. They withdrew to the main lounge room and Bethany scurried behind a substantial antique couch while the gun battle continued to rage outside. After Henderson had organised the guard at the entrance to the cellar, he returned and posted an armed defence force member who squatted beside Bethany, her weapon at the ready. They hunkered down behind the couch for the rest of the morning, with Henderson returning on occasions to check on her and report on his and Donaldson’s joint handling of the situation.
The room grew stuffy as the hours dragged, and Bethany’s foot cramped as she remained in a squat behind the solid couch. Her mouth dried but going to the kitchen for a glass of water wasn’t a safe option. Heavy footsteps stomped down the corridor leading to her room of safety. Donaldson entered; the reek of cordite hovered around him and Bethany pinched her nose against the sharpness. Henderson followed close behind.
“Bessie’s arrived!” Mr Donaldson said. “My men are occupying those black devils of Lloyds while we drag her round the side and set her up to pound the cellar wall.” He looked pointedly at Bethany. “Do I have your permission, ma’am?”
Bethany clutched the collar of her blouse at her throat. She’d never been involved in allowing—ordering—the demise of another human. But Lloyd had revealed his greed and his ambitions. He’d intended to take her life, displaying a total disregard for the leadership position she held.
Her neck dampened with sweat, soaking her collar.
“Yes,” she replied.
Donaldson left the room. She gazed at the carpet looming lush-red before her.
“Prime Minister...Bethany.” Henderson knelt beside her and placed his hand on her arm. “You have no choice. He would have killed you.”
She swallowed.
“He would have taken the prime-ministership for himself. Who knows what he would have done next? You’re not only saving yourself; you’re saving Scotland.” He rose and followed Donaldson.
Twenty minutes later, one of Donaldson’s kilted men entered.
“Ma’am. Mr Donaldson wishes ye to remove yoursel’ from the hoose. We are completing Bessie’s set-up. It’ll no’ be safe when we start pounding the wall o’ the hoose with the cannon, ma’am.” He dipped a bow and waited expectantly for her to move.
Bethany stirred from the shelter of the solid furniture and, glancing sideways at her defence force minder, accompanied the young man. Gunfire battered the front of the mansion, answered instantly with retorts from the Tummel House Army’s firearms, plus those of Government personnel and bandit allies. Bethany followed the soldier’s lead and clambered out the bay window of the breakfast room.
A group of Tummel House Army personnel gathered around a cannon on wheels, directing its muzzle at the rear wall outside the cellar. Heavy horse pulled an empty cart away, and a neat pile of cannon balls sat nearby. As they headed over, a soldier was carrying a wide, cylindrical leather case to the cannon and the artillery crew.
Henderson approached Bethany. “It’s best we get you away from this, Prime Minister.” He gently grasped her elbow and steered her to the outer sheds.
Bethany strode into the larger shed and turned to the nearest window where she could see the Tummel House soldiers in charge of Bessie. Mr Donaldson had called this cannon light artillery. The soldier who had been carrying the leather case now opened it to remove a small package wrapped in material and he loaded this into the cannon’s mouth. A cannon ball and a coil of rope followed. The soldier standing at the other end lit a large taper and the soldiers all stood back.
A whoosh and a bang echoed up and around, followed instantly by a thunderous clap reverberating off the house and through the shed. It rocked Bethany. She stood staring out the bare window, rubbing her ears, unable to take her eyes off the scene before her. The crew manning the cannon set about immediately preparing for the next firing.
Rubble crunched and clattered to the ground. After less than a minute of flurried activity surrounding the cannon, another boom ensued. Bethany covered her ears, aching tinnitus predominant in her head.
Two more booms, then shouts, all dulled by her hands over her ears. Someone tapped her shoulder.
“Prime Minister.” Henderson turned her to face him and she lowered her hands. “The end wall has collapsed. They’re checking for survivors.”
More shouting came from the yards outside. Men milled around the pile of rubble and debris at the base of the rear wall; jagged sections of brick framed an internal view of the chimneys of the Victorian kitchen.
Xian ran to Bethany. “They’re retreating, Prime Minister. Lloyd’s men know it’s over.”
Donaldson strode toward her, his brow creased, but his shoulders sat wide and proud.
“Pursue them,” Bethany ordered Mr Donaldson. “They must be brought to justice.”
“Aye, ma’am.” He saluted, then called over one of his men and gave orders.
Moments later, mounted men tore past her, led by Mr Donaldson’s son. Kilts flew, exposing bare legs as the men waved their guns, their voices roaring a Highland battle cry. Bethany shrank back into the shed, curbing the bolt of fear at the deep male voices saturated with battle-lust. A sense of pity for Lloyd’s men flashed through her.
A government security member ran to where she stood with Henderson.
“Ma’am, sir.” he gulped for air. “We’ve confirmed there’s only one body. It’s that of an old man.”
Chapter 50
Edinburgh
Boy stumbled again crossing the Royal Mile of Edinburgh Old Town, the stallion’s hooves clattering on the street. Buildings, centuries old, passed by Rory in a blur. He had avoided this part of Edinburgh on previous visits, but it was the quickest way to Arthur’s Seat.
Rory pushed Boy on through mountains of rubbish that lined the streets. The reek of human excrement and soured milk wafted from in between rusted car carcasses, litter and rubble strewn before buildings covered in graffiti. Rory snorted at the city that once boasted its place as Scotland’s capital. He turned Boy down Holyrood Road, the main street after the Royal Mile, as Xian had said he should.
A group of people, mostly men, milled around on a street corner, leaning in close conversation. Their heads turned at the ring of Boy’s shod hooves on the cobbled road. Firearms hung at the belts of their ragged trousers, and the stocks of rifles, bows, and the handles of long knives sat above the dull clad shoulders of the group concentrating on Rory’s approach.
They stirred from their positions to bar Rory’s path. He pulled Boy up at the same time taking his Glock from its home at his back and aiming at the man in front of him.
“Please move out of my way.” Rory tightened his grip on his handgun.
A man on the left of the human barrier notched an arrow to the bow he’d slipped off his shoulder. There was a click-clack as a woman to Rory’s right loaded and aimed her semi-automatic rifle. The man in the centre raised his hand, and all activity around him stilled.
“I’m trying to be polite here.” Rory’s brow dripped with sweat where moments before it had only been moist.
“Now, lads, l
et’s just hear the man oot.” The spokesman’s stare stuck on Rory. “Well, why should we no’ take whatever we want from ye?”
“No reason at all in this world, but I’d like to think even you have some compassion on a man who’s aiming to get to his wife who’s having his baby but,” Rory spoke through a shuddered breath, “with difficulty.”
The man squinted at Rory and lowered his hand.
“I’ll not let her die on me too.” Rory’s voice was as firm as his grip and aim.
“I’ll have that.” The man lifted his chin, indicating the long-range rifle slung over Rory’s shoulder.
His father’s long-range rifle.
The last piece of him.
Rory’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He slowly shook his head. “No,” he said with as much force as he could temper with manners.
The man tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Och, weel. Ye dinnae get tae be with yoor wifey then.” He strode forward and his companions raised their weapons.
“Look, this was my father’s...He died, and this is all I have left of him.”
“We all hae somebody who died on us.” The gazes of those standing before Rory bore into him.
Rory mentally ran through his inventory of the valuable possessions on him, focusing on the most expendable.
“I have food.”
The man paused and tucked his thumb in the rope he used for a belt. “Och, lad, we’ll have that too.” He and his companions remained where they stood.
Rory gritted his teeth at his next suggestion. But it might just be enough.
“You can have anything else except this rifle and ma horse.”
The man stepped forward, laughing. Rory altered his grip on his Glock, his finger tight to the trigger. The man stopped mid-stride and squinted up at him.
“You’ll be dead in seconds if ye shoot me,” he said.
“Aye, but so will you,” Rory growled. “Decide what ye want other than ma faither’s rifle.”
“What’s in the wee baggy slung over your other shoulder?”