by Paul Kane
"He said the jeeps and weapons they took from her raiders were German."
Sophie looked at him seriously. "You don't think there could be a connection, do you?"
"What, Tanek dealing with both the Dragon and the Widow? Working with the Germans?" Mark bit his lip. It was a thought that hadn't occurred to him, but now Sophie had put it in his head, he couldn't shake it. And it terrified him. "God, I hope not."
"Isn't that what he and De Falaise used to do before? Gun-running?"
"Amongst other things." Now the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to fire up that radio and ask Jack and Bill's opinion. Sophie had definitely struck on something. Mark jotted down a note on the pad by the side of the radio as a reminder to broach it when Bill and Jack next checked in. He picked up the sandwich Sophie had brought, considered taking a bite, but found he'd suddenly lost his appetite.
"So what are Jack and Bill going to do?" she asked.
"Jack's requested more Rangers, in addition to those who left this afternoon. They've just been sent. I think he wants to go in and sort the Dragon problem before it gets any worse. Reading between the lines, he also wants to get Dale out of there as quickly as possible."
"Understandable. And Bill?"
Mark shrugged. "Don't think anything's been decided yet. For one thing, if we send any more men up there, we'll hardly have anyone left at the castle. And the last time we did that, it didn't end well."
"So Lord knows what could be happening to Mary and Robert, and we just have to sit here?" Sophie said, folding her arms.
"That's about the size of it. Welcome to my world."
Sophie reached over and stroked his hair, brushing a strand off his forehead. "Your time will come, Mark, you'll see."
Man, he loved this girl - and as he thought it, he rose and kissed her again. She responded in kind, wrapping her arms around him. More than anything in this world, Mark wanted Sophie right then. But it was her that broke off the kiss.
"Not like this, Mark," she said, looking into his eyes, then looking around. She knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking it herself. If they didn't stop now, they never would - and on the table of a radio room was not the most romantic place for your first time. Mark was surprised they'd been able to hold off this long, but he hadn't wanted to rush Sophie. They'd talked about it, sure, and been on the verge several times, but somehow never quite got it together. Mark sensed that tonight they were both ready.
"How about I get someone to take over here?" he suggested. "Then we can find somewhere a bit more private."
Sophie smiled again, then nodded enthusiastically.
Mark kissed her a final time, excited but also petrified. Emotions were coursing through him, and doubts about whether he'd be any good, what Sophie might think of him afterwards... But he knew none of that would matter once they were shut away alone.
It was as he was heading towards the door that he heard it. Sounds of a scuffle outside. Punches being thrown and a cry.
Sophie looked at him. "What was that?"
"I don't know," Mark replied, realising that the chances of him and Sophie being alone right now had just taken a massive dip. "Let's find out."
Reverend Tate had just rounded the corner when he'd spotted the intruder.
Dressed in muted colours, in clothes that looked handmade, the figure almost blended in with his surroundings - making good use of a section of hallway that wasn't as well lit as the rest. Had he stuck to that bit completely, Tate doubted very much whether he would have spotted him at all, but the man had sacrificed this camouflage in order to spy inside a room to his left: the radio room. Tate had heard the reports about Robert and Mary going missing, the Dragon being in league with Tanek. It had made him more vigilant. Usually when things like that started happening, someone, somewhere made an attempt at the castle.
And perhaps this man in front of him was part of the first wave? Tate took in the rest of the fellow. He didn't seem to be armed with any kind of modern weapon, no machine-guns or pistols. Instead there was a bow and quiver at his back, plus what looked to be an axe and knife on his belt. Tate couldn't see the man's face, because of the angle, and also the length of his black hair. Though it was hard to tell, the man's skin tone was slightly darker than his; perhaps some kind of soldier from the Middle East? Tate hesitated, reminded of a moment in his own past...
Now wasn't the time.
But this man definitely spelt trouble. Gripping his stick tighter, he made an effort to get nearer. He wasn't the most practised at this kind of thing - not like Robert or Azhar, say - but he had his moments. Tate could still remember how to sneak up on an enemy in the quietest way possible.
The intruder didn't seem to notice him - he was transfixed by what was being said inside the room. And Tate could now hear voices: Mark and Sophie's. They were discussing the day's events, unaware that everything was being overheard.
Then Tate was behind the intruder. He realised he hadn't thought the rest of this through. Would he just hit the man over the head with his stick, or confront him, try and find out what he was doing here? Or maybe that should come later when they had him locked up?
In any event, he didn't get the chance. The man whirled, ready for him. He'd heard Tate's approach all along, just wanted him to get closer so he wouldn't have to make that much noise incapacitating him. Or maybe he just wanted to see who was stupid enough to think they could take him down. In the instant Tate had time to register what was happening, he finally saw the man's face. The arching eyebrows sheltering intense, dark eyes; the distinctive shape of the nose, cheekbones and mouth. He hadn't seen many of this man's kind, outside of books and documentaries, but he recognised the features immediately and this added to his shock. This trespasser was a Native American.
Tate didn't have any more time to consider this, because as the man turned he also brought round a fist. The punch would have knocked him clean out had the holy man not been quick enough to block it with his forearm. The intruder tried again with his other fist, but Tate blocked that as well. This was one of the things in Tate's favour it seemed; the Native American hadn't been expecting him to fend off the first blow, let alone the second. He'd done as most people had to their cost: underestimated the Reverend, written him off as just an overweight cripple with a stick. That was their first mistake.
They didn't usually get a chance to make a second.
This man did, because he blocked Tate's own swing with the stick - catching it between two hands and attempting to force it out of the Reverend's grasp. But Tate was stronger than he appeared and, with a grunt, held on to the only weapon he ever carried.
The stranger kicked out unexpectedly in a move Tate had never come across before. It caught him unawares and he only just had time to step back and avoid it. As he did so, his opponent drew the axe on his belt. He held it high and swung it, forcing Tate to bring his stick up lengthways. The edge of the axe embedded in the wood, but then the man got in a swift punch to the chin with his free hand - causing Tate to suspect it had been a distraction tactic.
Tate took the blow with practised ease, rolling with it so as not to cause too much damage. The next one came so fast, though, he couldn't help but let out a small cry as the man's fist slammed into his cheek. Tate slid back against the wall, dropping slightly. The Native American yanked his axe out of Tate's stick. Still reeling, Tate transferred the stick to one hand only, and swung it like a club at the intruder - who ducked, coming back up and batting the stick away with his elbow. He then slid it under his arm so that Tate couldn't use it, pulling backwards and at last disarming the holy man.
Tate just had time to see Mark at the doorway, before the stranger swivelled, using the holy man's stick against him; striking him on the side of the head. Everything went black as Tate felt himself slide down the wall.
He vaguely heard the exchange between Mark and the stranger, but couldn't hold on to consciousness any longer.
As he always did in situat
ions like this - when he felt helpless and he'd done everything he possibly could - the Reverend Tate prayed.
Shadow had been aware of the man behind him even before his opponent reached the corner.
Yes, he'd been focused on what the teenage boy and girl were saying, not because the information meant anything to him - Shadow cared nothing about what happened in Wales and Scotland - but because it might hold ramifications for his mission. As soon as he'd heard them mention Robert was missing in action, he'd tuned in. That could affect his plans. How do you lure someone into a trap when they've already been caught by somebody else? This Widow, it seemed, had the Hooded Man in her web, which might potentially mess things up for Shadow.
Nevertheless, he had to press on - trust that forces with more vision than him had things well in hand. That meant handling this situation. Shadow came out from the darkness, let himself be seen - and at the same time saw the overweight man out of the corner of his eye. It would have been comical if it were not for the seriousness of his predicament. This local was hardly worthy of his attention, had it not been for the fact that he needed to complete his task, hopefully without drawing undue attention to himself.
Shadow had to admit, the older man had surprised him. He'd fought admirably. There was more to this stocky individual than met the eye; he'd drawn Shadow into a fracas he had neither the time nor the inclination for. That was what had made him draw his axe, to get this over and done with. His misdirection had finally worked and Shadow had been able to floor his enemy.
It was only as the man slid down the wall and his jacket opened that Shadow saw what he was wearing beneath: the black shirt buttoned up to the top, the dog collar. He'd been fighting with a religious man. All right, not his religion, but a religion all the same. It was another surprise from an opponent who had astounded him quite a bit already. The Reverend had fought like a soldier, but stood for the doctrines of peace and goodwill. Shadow was still thinking about this when he heard the boy say from behind:
"Reverend Tate? Hey, get away from him!"
Shadow turned, holstering his axe and looking the boy up and down - not that he hadn't seen him before in the room. It was just that now he was assessing how much of a threat he would be. He'd been wrong about the priest, so didn't intend to make a snap decision this time. The figure in front of him might only be a kid, but could well be highly trained.
"Who are you?" asked the boy.
"That is not important," Shadow told him, stalling for time as he glided forward, leaving the felled clergyman. Shadow saw the boy's eyes flash sideways, about to call out, sound an alarm and cry for help. Shadow couldn't let that happen. He dove at him, pushing the boy back into the radio room.
The boy grabbed Shadow's wrists, taking him backwards in an attempt to throw him over. More a wrestling move than anything, which made Shadow wonder just who had trained him. He was good; but Shadow was better. He resisted, letting the boy hit the ground, but tearing himself away and standing upright.
The girl with the freckles made a move to attack. Turning her lunge back on her, Shadow put an arm around the girl and had his knife at her throat in seconds. It stopped her from struggling, as well as giving the boy on the floor pause for thought. He would not do anything stupid while there was a blade at his woman's throat.
"What do you want?" asked the young man as he started to rise again.
"That is not your concern. Which one of you means the most to the Hooded Man?"
"Me," said the girl quickly. "I'm his daughter."
The boy on the ground opened his mouth to contradict her, but Shadow could tell the girl was lying anyway. "Try again."
"It's me," her boyfriend said. "I'm his... son." There had been some hesitation, and it was true that in trying to save the girl he might well say anything. This wasn't Hood's flesh and blood, Shadow sensed that much, yet it was his son.
"You will come with me," Shadow said.
The girl was about to scream until Shadow increased the pressure of the blade.
"Don't," he warned her. Then, once he was sure she would keep quiet, he shifted the knife to her side, still keeping the pressure there. He instructed the boy to rip a sleeve from his shirt, and forced the girl to bind him with it at the wrists. With another strip, taken from the bottom of the boy's trousers, she gagged him.
"You won't make it out of here," she promised him. Shadow took no notice. He turned the knife around and brought the hilt down on the back of her head. She slumped to the floor. The boy began to growl something through the gag, and Shadow realised that it wouldn't be nearly enough to shut him up as they exited the castle. So, he did the same to the boy - a glancing blow to the side of the head, rendering him unconscious.
Next he went back out into the corridor and dragged the priest into the room, leaving him and his stick lying next to the girl. Shadow spotted the notebook and pen on the table and scribbled something on the paper, below what had already been written. A note for the Hooded Man when he returned.
Finally, he hefted his unconscious prize onto his shoulder and, checking the corridor, stepped out and closed the door behind. Shadow allowed the pockets of darkness to cover both him and his captive, until they were outside the castle, where it consumed them completely.
Chapter Twelve
He'd been loath to split up again; in a place like this when you did you had to ask yourself whether you'd see the other person alive again. But, as Sian had pointed out, she was meant to be in a certain area, and so was he. If they didn't return, it could raise suspicions.
"I have to get back to the other girls," she told Dale. "You should be in the kitchens."
Reluctantly, he'd agreed. They'd already taken a risk with the radio operator - though they'd poured even more of the booze down his throat, and left him leaning back in the chair. He wouldn't be waking up anytime soon, nor remembering that much when he did. The combination of concussion and whiskey would see to that. He'd probably be reported too when he was discovered, for drinking on the job; put somewhere to dry out... or worse. Dale doubted the Dragon took very kindly to that kind of behaviour.
Splitting up would mean they'd double their chances of finding out something about Sian's Aunty Meghan.
"Can I ask you something?" Dale had said just before they went their separate ways.
"Sure. Anything."
"I have to ask about... you and The Dragon."
"You really want to know what happened? What happens when he takes a girl away?"
Dale wasn't sure that he did, but the question was out there anyway. It had been hounding him since Sian had been dragged off, and even more so now that he'd gotten to know her a little. "I couldn't stop thinking about you and that creep."
"I think I got off lightly compared to some. He... he made me dance for him a little; told me what he'd like to do to me. But, well, in the end he couldn't."
"What?"
"You know: the big couldn't. To tell the truth, I don't think he's actually been with a woman. A girl can just tell these things sometimes."
"And what happened then?"
"Then he sent for the guards to take me away."
"So he's not really got what he wanted from you?"
"With a bit of luck, he never will."
Dale had to be content with that, and hope that while they were trying to find Meghan, Jack was planning something major on the outside. He'd considered taking a quick look around before heading back to the kitchen, but apart from the time factor - it'd already taken quite a while to find the radio room and send the message - he had no idea where the meeting between the Dragon and Tanek was taking place. The only good thing was that at least Dale and Tanek had never met, so he wasn't likely to recognise him as a Ranger, even if he bumped into him accidentally. Convincing himself there wasn't that much more he could do, Dale figured his time was probably better spent helping Sian.
Thankfully, the Dragon didn't have much call for food overnight. It gave Dale some leeway, and after grabbing a c
ouple of hours of restless sleep, he was up and about and looking into the situation with Sian's aunty. And praying the Dragon didn't call on the girl in the meantime.
That morning, he asked around some of the members of staff he'd become friendly with, people who liked to gossip. It was surprising how much actually, seeing as they were supposed to be in fear of their lives. But people were people whatever the situation, and talking about folk behind their backs was still a popular pastime even in this post-apocalyptic age. A middle aged woman called Sally, who did a lot of the cooking for the Dragon and his soldiers, had been of most use. She told him that there was a maid by that name who their boss had drafted into his innermost personnel.
"I'm surprised you haven't seen her yourself," she told him. "She comes to collect food and drink most mealtimes."
"For the Dragon?" asked a puzzled Dale, who did recall seeing a woman wheeling a trolley away from the kitchens from time to time, but hadn't paid much attention to her.
"Don't know and haven't asked. Best way round here."
He'd kept an eye out, around lunchtime especially, but Dale almost missed her because he'd got roped into fixing sandwiches for some of the Dragon's men, back from patrol. As he looked over again, trying not to draw attention to himself, there she was finally - wheeling in an empty trolley to be loaded up. There was definitely a slight resemblance to Sian. The woman had a purple bruise flowering on her right eye.
Dale finished up the sandwich he was working on, then went over on the pretext of lending a hand. He made sure he caught her attention as he was placing the food on the trolley - there looked to be enough for three people there, but that was nothing new with the Dragon. Dale waited until it had all been piled on, then offered to keep the door open as she backed the trolley out.