“He’s trying to say something,” Jack stated.
Cole leaned in, then pulled his head away slowly, a hand subconsciously rubbing the top of his tattooed head.
“What is it?” asked Robert.
“I could only make out one word: Monstri.”
Robert looked to some of the worried-looking Italian troops, although he feared he knew what it meant already. It was Lagorio who spoke.
“It means monsters,” said the man, sounding like a child. “Signor Stokes, he is saying that monsters did this.”
CHAPTER THREE
“PULL!”
The machine noisily flung the clay pigeon into the air, and he took aim. Tracing its trajectory with one eye closed, he pulled the trigger twice, letting off both barrels. The disc continued to soar, before dipping and beginning its descent.
The man—dressed in a tweed jacket, jodhpurs and boots, with a flat cap on his head—swore under his breath.
“Do you really think that’s wise?” asked a voice from behind him. Virgil Sorin turned to see a woman in grey combats, black beret at an angle on her head, being escorted up the gentle slope by two of his armed men—themselves in dark blue jumpsuits, like something out of an old spy flick. “There is an embargo on and those things do make such an awful noise.”
Virgil grinned, breaking the gun and resting it on his crooked arm, then waved his hand around. “Who’s going to hear?”
“A passing Ranger patrol,” she answered, stopping abruptly just metres away.
Virgil laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Passing? I think not. Too remote.”
The woman inclined her head. “Besides which, it’s not as if you’re any good at it.”
Virgil’s smile became a grimace. He loaded up the barrels again and clicked the shotgun back into readiness. Then he pointed it in her direction. “Not likely to miss from this range, though, am I, my dear?”
She stood her ground, perhaps knowing he was all talk—Virgil had no intention of firing—but he thought he detected the slightest tremble of her ruby red lips. A tremor in her voice, perhaps even of pleasure (was she enjoying the thrill?) when she said: “Relax, Mr Sorin. We’re all on the same side.”
He laughed again, lowering his weapon.
“I do have to wonder, though,” she continued.
“Yes?”
“What some of your followers—the ‘Defiants’ who are willing to give their lives for the ‘cause’—might think if they saw you right now. Acting the part of the landed gentry of old?” Her turn to smirk, but it was a taut smile that held no humour.
It was a fair enough question, and as Virgil looked past her down the slope towards his country retreat—a virtual mansion that he’d spruced up and taken residence in—he couldn’t help wondering too. Not that he gave a flying shit; it was his turn to get a bit of the good life. “The A-B Virus was a great leveller,” he replied. “Rich, poor—it made us all the same. Broke down the barriers, if you like. At least to begin with. We’re just trying to retain that equilibrium.”
“Hardly an equilibrium,” she pointed out. “The virus didn’t make the strong and the weak the same, did it?”
“Well... no, that’s true. But if you were weak and had brains and charm enough, you could use the strong for your own purposes.”
“Is that what you are? Weak, but with brains?” Again that smirk was there. As much as he needed this woman—in more ways than one—it was incredibly tempting to just blow her head off right where she stood. But God, she was so sexy...
“You know exactly what I am,” he answered, continuing the dance. “And you should also know what I’m capable of.” He stared at the woman, waiting for her to blink. But it was he who cracked first. “Look, what is it that you want? I’m a busy man,” he said impatiently.
“Clearly,” she said with a snort, nodding towards the clay pigeon trap. “But to answer your question, I’m here to make sure things are progressing in a timely fashion. You have been known to drag your feet in the past.”
“Pull!” shouted Virgil again, and the man controlling the trap sent another disc high into the air. Virgil aimed once more, firing off both barrels again. This time he at least winged the fake bird, sending it spinning off in another direction. When he turned back, beaming with satisfaction, he found the woman standing, hands on her hips. Her apparent annoyance just made him want her more.
Virgil handed his smoking gun to an aide waiting nearby, then joined his visitor. “Walk with me,” he said to her, and when she didn’t move, added: “Please. I’ll try not to drag my feet.” Now came the charm.
With a sigh, she fell in step beside him, pushing a strand of blonde hair that had come loose back over her ear. “I’m waiting,” she said as they walked, trailed by more of Virgil’s jumpsuit-wearing guards.
“I still don’t see why this conversation couldn’t have been conducted over the airwaves,” Virgil moaned.
“But then you’d have been deprived of my scintillating company again, Mr Sorin,” replied the woman beside him, her boots crunching on the gravel path—which led back to the house.
Was she flirting with him now? Or was his lust for her simply making him read too much into things?
“That and the fact our mutual friend doesn’t trust such sensitive information to be broadcast, no matter what the frequency. You never know who might be listening in.”
Doesn’t trust me to get the job done, you mean, thought Virgil. Has sent someone to gee me up, keep an eye on me. A good thing she had... charms of her own. “All right. Well, things are definitely progressing in what you would call a ‘timely fashion.’”
“So the Flaming Arrow is on target?”
“Set to be fired later on this very day,” he reported.
She nodded firmly. “Good. That’s very good. And the other small matter your movement were going to take care of?”
Virgil smiled. “Small? Hardly. But that’s well in hand also. The person we selected is more than capable of the task. Hood’s core command group is already in tatters, they just don’t know it yet.”
“Because I heard that they had got wind of your—our—plans and were taking steps to counter them.” She looked across at him as they walked; he felt her eyes on him but this time didn’t meet them.
“There’s nothing they could do to counter this,” he assured her.
“Because the timing needs to be—”
“I know, I know. I’m well aware of what’s at stake here. But listen, it’s all being taken care of.” Virgil halted and faced her. “Now, I presume you will not be leaving for home just yet. Not after coming all this way?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Then I’d be delighted if you would be my guest for dinner tonight.” Virgil knew full well she wouldn’t be leaving, probably not until all this was over, in fact. So, why not get her to stick around so he could keep an eye on her? An extremely close eye. “I believe we’re having roast pheasant tonight.”
“Very well. As long as I don’t have to wait for you to shoot them,” the woman said.
Virgil studied her face, looking for any sign. Flirting, definitely. He understood women and this one so wanted him. Had a definite power and danger thing going on. He smiled again, then held out his hand for her to carry on walking. “After you. Ladies first,” he said.
He checked out her arse as she strode in front of him.
It would be an interesting day today, Virgil thought to himself.
And, perhaps, an even more interesting evening.
“I GUESS I just don’t understand women,” he admitted.
Mary laughed softly. “We’re honestly not that hard to figure out, son,” she told Mark.
“Not to each other,” he said, joining her at the kitchen table, having made them both a cup of coffee. The debriefing was over, and areas where security needed beefing up thoroughly identified. Though Mark hadn’t really been as focused as he should have been, watching Booth and Sophie for any signs
of... of what? That something more had been going on the previous night? Crazy and he knew it. His jealousy getting the better of him, as Sophie had said. But still...
No, Booth had just been standing—laying?—in for Abner when he was sick. There’d been nobody else available at such short notice, and even he had pulled a double shift before offering himself as a replacement—sense of duty, he’d explained. Nothing more, nothing less. So why was there this niggling feeling at the back of Mark’s mind? He’d asked if he could have a chat with Mary, get her advice. Sometimes all you really needed to do was talk to your mum.
Mary took a sip of the steaming coffee. “You two just need some alone time, you need to reconnect with each other is all.”
Mark looked unsure. “I think Sophie thinks we got together... got married too young,” he confessed.
“Has she actually said that?”
“Not in so many words, but—”
“Mark,” said Mary seriously, “Sophie thinks the absolute world of you. I know she does, I can see it in her eyes when she looks at you.”
Mark wished that he could. He used to be able to see it, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“It wasn’t all plain sailing with me and your father, you know,” Mary said, gazing down at the mug she was holding with both hands. “We’ve had our ups and downs, as you know. But if you’re committed, you come through the other side stronger than ever. Trust me.”
Mark rose, carrying his own drink to the window and gazing out—past the edge of the cliff-face and over the city he’d called home for such a long time now. “I just love her so much, you know?”
“And she knows that too,” Mary said. “It’s just that sometimes, especially when other stuff around us gets in the way, we can lose sight of what’s important.”
“We’ve been trying for a baby,” Mark said, suddenly turning.
Mary almost spilt her coffee. “You’ve been... Wow,” she spluttered. “You kept that pretty quiet.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want to jinx things. Not that anything seems to be happening anyway.”
“And... and this is what you both want?”
Mark’s face was stern. “Of course! We’ve talked about it and everything. Starting a family and all.” Or rather he’d talked and Sophie had listened, if he was being honest. There had been so much of it happening in the last few years, another generation being created that would take over from them someday. A repopulation of the planet, now that there was a certain amount of stability. Not that he’d put it in such dry terms; Mark just wanted to start a family, and figured Sophie would too.
“Because, well, a baby won’t solve things if there are problems,” Mary cautioned.
“You just said the only problem we have is not spending enough time together,” Mark snapped.
“Mark, calm down.”
“I am calm,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mum. I just...” He shook his head again. “I just don’t understand what’s going on.”
Mary took a deep breath and let it out again. “You’re just going through a bit of a rough patch, that’s all. Things will work out, you’ll see.”
Mark wished he could believe that. It didn’t help to see Dale and Sian all loved up, it had to be said. The guy had certainly turned things around, was a one-woman man now and proud of the fact, while Sian seemed to love him more and more each day. It was quite the transformation from when he first arrived at the castle, but then he was—as he’d put it the previous night—older now. Not that early 30s was over the hill, but maybe it made him a little wiser too. Certainly more than Mark felt at the moment. Their fearless leader... pah!
As if reading his thoughts, Mary said: “You’re also putting too much pressure on yourself right now. It won’t be long before Robert gets back, and he can take over again—”
“So not only am I a crap husband, I’m not fit for command?” Mark slammed the coffee cup down on the side.
Mary scowled at him. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Mark,” she said in a tone only mothers can muster; one she only rarely had to use with April, let alone her grown son. Mark went very quiet. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Your dad can take some of the workload, help get to the bottom of this threat we’ve learned about.”
He hung his head, knowing she was right. Mark had admitted himself he could use his dad round about now. Jack too, and Azhar. But they were all off on their tour, enjoying the good life if Robert’s calls home were anything to go by. And though he knew it shouldn’t, that made him mad as well.
“Just don’t let your imagination run away with you, Mark. That’s all I’m saying. When it comes to the threat or Sophie.” Mary got up, leaving most of her drink behind on the table. “It’s not far off lunchtime; April will be finishing her class soon.” There weren’t many children at the castle—it wasn’t the right kind of environment for kids, really—but Mary and Robert had initiated schooling for those who did live there, April included. Not that his little sister thought much to this idea.
“Mum... Mum, wait,” said Mark, covering the distance between them and placing a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Mary turned to face him, smiling. “You’re a lovely young man, Mark. I’m lucky to have you as a son. And Sophie’s lucky to have you as a husband. I think she knows that.” Mary hugged him to her. “Just give it some time, okay?” Mark nodded into her shoulder, and she broke off the embrace.
He watched his mother leave. Give it some time... He’d never been the most patient of people. In a hurry to fight with the Rangers, not to be left out. In a hurry to love. In a hurry to marry? Perhaps they had rushed things a little, but they’d been together all these years. That had to count for something.
It would sort, he told himself. Mary was right; he just needed to calm down. Think about all this rationally. Clear his head.
And Mark knew just the way—just the place—to do that.
Nodding decisively, he left the kitchen and headed off in search of Dale.
CHAPTER FOUR
CLASSES SUCKED.
They were a complete waste of time. And the teachers were so patronising. All “What shall we learn about today, children?” and “Who can tell me what this is, class?” For fuck’s sake! He’d learned all he needed to know by now, had taught himself most of it beyond basic reading and writing. Now it was all just holding him back. Getting on his nerves.
In the latest incident, he’d stood and swung a chair at Alistair Brooks, a hangover from another argument they’d had in the yard that dinner-hour. Alistair, a stocky lad who wrongly assumed he ruled the roost there, had called his father—his real father—a coward, who’d been put out of his misery like the yellow dog he was. Then Alistair and his friends, because there were always more than one bully in a pack, had started in on his mother for the first time.
“I heard she was some kind of a whore, back before you were even born,” the boy had said to him, sniggering. “That your dad might not even be your dad.”
Clive Jr had walked away from the fight then, like he’d tried to do so many times, and often failed—like he’d always been taught to do by Reverend Tate, his uncle in all but name. The be the bigger man thing, turning the other cheek. But when Alistair had continued in class that afternoon, whispering jibes from behind him all throughout French—one of the few lessons Clive Jr could actually tolerate—enough had been enough. Clive had risen, snatched his chair up and whacked the twat with it. Blood had exploded from the side of Alistair’s head, splattering the desk and a couple of the other kids sitting nearby, who’d started screaming.
Clive, grinning all over his face, had been pulled from the class and his parents—well, the people who’d brought him up anyway, Karen and Darryl—had been sent for.
They’d all sat in the headmistress’ office in silence, waiting for Mrs Berkley to arrive and pronounce judgement. When the po-faced woman—if you could even call her that, Clive had his doubts; and there defin
itely wasn’t a Mr Berkley—arrived, she’d taken her seat opposite and shaken her head. “Here we are again, except it’s a little more serious this time. Alistair needed stitches,” Mrs Berkley informed them in her monotone voice. She wasn’t even a real teacher, had been some kind of librarian or something back before the Virus, so the rumour went, and was making up for it now by throwing her weight around in the tiny school at New Hope.
“I’m sure Clive Jr feels really bad about that,” Darryl offered. “Don’t you?”
Clive shrugged.
“Whether he feels bad or not is irrelevant, I’m afraid I’m going to have to exclude him for a little while until all this blows over,” said the headmistress. “And count yourself lucky that it wasn’t reported to the Rangers.”
He’d almost laughed out loud at that. Not only were they telling him he didn’t have to come here for the foreseeable future, but they were threatening him with the ‘police’ over what amounted to a minor event at a school in the arse end of nowhere. Besides, the Reverend held more than a little sway with the Rangers.
“It’s what Alistair’s parents wanted to do, but I talked them out of it.”
“Thank you,” said Karen, casting her eyes in Clive’s direction.
“And I assume the student will be suitably disciplined when you get him home?” Mrs Berkley tapped her finger on the table in front of her as she waited for an answer.
“The student”? I havea name, thought Clive.
“Oh... Oh, yes, he will,” Darryl promised.
That punishment turned out to be a grounding for two weeks, and having his books taken off him. He didn’t mind the former, but the latter was another thing altogether. He relied on them for information, to teach himself the important things. To give him a sense of what the world out there was like—or what it used to be like at any rate. History books, mostly, which spoke of emperors, kings and conquerors. He imagined himself like that one day, to have the unquestionable loyalty of those around him.
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