Hooded Man

by Paul Kane

  Now Dale thought about it, Meghan had tried to stop him, even though it would have put both herself and Sian in danger.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you mustn’t.”

  She’d tried to tell him about the cameras, too: “He has eyes and ears everywhere.” Dale had just assumed that she was talking about his men.

  “It’s funny, I was warned about a danger from within, but this still came as a bit of a surprise.”

  “Warned?” Dale said before he could stop himself.

  “My family. Ever since the virus, they come out with things... the strangest things.”

  “Please! You have to do something!” Meghan said to Dale. Tears were streaming down her face. “He’s crazy. His family are –”

  Before she could get another word out, the Dragon had hefted himself a couple of inches forward, the front wheel of his sled rolling over the woman’s hand. Dale heard the cracking as the bones broke under that weight, then another scream from Meghan – much louder than the first. Dale winced. The Dragon ignored the cries.

  “Tell me what I want to know, or this is only the beginning. I’ll make them both suffer. And from what I’ve seen already, you’re not a man who’d enjoy that.” The Dragon paused, eyeing Dale up and down. “Or are you? Hmm? Perhaps you enjoy seeing women get hurt? Perhaps you’ve hurt a few in the past as well?” The Dragon rolled off Meghan’s hand and she clutched it to her chest, howling in agony.

  Fucking mind games, Dale said to himself. The Dragon didn’t know the first thing about him. Concentrate. Meghan was right, he had to do something to stop this. But what? There were at least three men behind him, and so many more outside these doors. He’d often wondered what the scenario would be if he got caught. Bourne? More like Bond, complete with the psychopathic villain. All the Dragon needed was a cat. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so real.

  Dale looked over at the screens again, seeing Sian there, helpless. Two damsels in quite a bit of distress, and he couldn’t help either. And then his eyes caught something else on one of the screens. Something everyone in the room seemed to have missed. Movement between the seats out in the stadium itself – brief flashes, tiny but unmistakable. Hoods, the tips of bows, a flash of metal. The Rangers – his friends – were here. If he could just hold on a while longer...

  But he’d have to do something to make sure nobody saw the screens just yet.

  Dale’s mind raced. Okay, you want mind games, mate. I’ll give you mind games. “I guess that’s all you can really do, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry?” said the Dragon.

  “Hurt them, get them to perform for you. It’s not like you can do anything else with them, you limp-dicked chubster.”

  The Dragon’s face reddened. “What?”

  “I bet your men don’t even know that, do they? All those women you collect and you can’t even get it up when you’re alone with them, can you?”

  He stared at Dale, fuming. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Some Dragon. Some leader of men. You’re not much of a man at all, really, are you? All you can do is watch, perv over them and wish you were more like some of these guys who fetch and carry for you. Who protect you.”

  “I said shut the fuck up!”

  “I bet it’s all recorded somewhere as well, all those times you’ve made women do things, but haven’t been able to satisfy them. Bet the proof’s right there for any of your men to see.”

  “If you don’t shut your mouth –”

  “What is it, the weight? Or something else? Don’t tell me, you have issues with strong women, don’t you? Mummy’s boy, were we? Is that it? Or maybe even your Dad? Was he the problem? Was he a real man, Dragon?”

  “I. Said. SHUT UP!” roared the Dragon, leaning forward so far in his sled it was rocking.

  “Well, come on, if you think you can take me. You don’t need these guys to fight your battles as well, do you? Come on, then!”

  The Dragon raised himself up, and it was at that moment the sled wobbled over, crashing sideways to the floor. Dale used the distraction to drop to the ground, as the men behind opened fire – hitting some of the screens, shattering the ones chronicling the Rangers’ progress. Dale rolled backwards, taking the guards’ legs out from under them. Sending them sprawling in all directions.

  He was up first, elbowing one in the face to keep him down and snatching his rifle. The second he shot in the leg; the third he took out with the butt of the rifle. Even if he wasn’t as slick as Bourne or Bond, he fought like them: hard and fast, getting rid of the Dragon’s men in here, at least.

  But not the Dragon himself. As Dale rose, the man was charging towards him – faster than Dale ever would have thought. He’d probably been even quicker in the days before piling on all that meat, but was still quick enough to slam Dale backwards into the wall.

  “Not a man, eh? We’ll see about that,” he grunted as he swatted Dale’s gun aside with a flabby arm.

  Dale had no room; when he threw his punch – hard, in the kidneys, which should have crippled his opponent – it simply sank in, having no effect whatsoever. The Dragon might have been overweight, but he knew how to use that to his advantage, crushing Dale against the solid wall, gripping him by the throat.

  Dale kicked out, but that had no more effect than the punch. The Dragon squeezed his opponent’s windpipe harder. “Who. Sent. You?” he shouted. “Tell me!”

  The sound of an explosion came – it was distant, possibly even in the next building. But a second and third followed, and this time they rocked the room they were in. The Dragon looked up at the ceiling as dust fell.

  “Y-you really want to know?” gasped Dale. “You’ll get to meet them soon. They’re here, Dragon... and they’re not... very happy about what you did to their HQ. Or their men.”

  “A Ranger,” breathed the biggest of the two men. “I should have known.”

  Dale grinned again, but soon stopped when the Dragon lifted him up and shoved him hard against the wall, banging his head. Everything went fuzzy for a moment.

  The last thing Dale remembered after that was an angry red face, a face that almost did resemble a Dragon in his muddled mind.

  Dale fell; fighting for breath and losing his grip on consciousness.

  He could still see only red as he lost both battles.

  Then the redness turned to black.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HOW EXACTLY HAD he got into this mess?

  He was dangling, suspended, above a fire in what had once been the castle’s reservoirs.

  He thought he’d been so clever, but like always, he was really only making all this up as he went along, trying to turn something hopeless into a fighting chance.

  Maybe this was his punishment for hurting the woman he loved more than life itself. And, in his defence, the Widow’s mumbo jumbo did have an effect on him initially. Some kind of weird hypnosis or mind control. The best way he could describe it was like having a waking dream, where you were doing and saying things you wouldn’t normally, but had no control over. He cast his mind back to when they’d first been alone together, back in the Vaults where he’d been chained to the wall. She’d had him stripped naked and he’d assumed there would be some kind of torture involved, especially surrounded as he was by the implements. Maybe it was just his turn, he thought. Both Mark and Jack had suffered at the hands of Tanek – Mark coming away missing a finger, while Jack’s mental scars ran deeper. If they could brave it, then so could he. He’d had to face worse: up against tanks, jeeps, helicopters, armed with only a bow and arrow.

  But torture had been the last thing on her mind.

  “I do admire a man who’s not afraid of being in the raw,” the Widow told him as she’d scrutinised his body, approving eyes passing over his taut muscles. “I’ve been waitin’ fer you to come. Expecting yer.”

  “So you said. Some kind of tip off.”

  The Widow might have suspected they’d strike sometime, but couldn’t hav
e known exactly when without some kinds of heads-up.

  “Could say that.” The Widow laughed. “But no the kind that you’d believe. Not yet, anyway.” She’d approached him, and placed a hand on his chest. “Good, strong heartbeat,” said the Widow, then ran her hands over his torso. Then her hand moved downwards and she gave an approving, suggestive smile.

  “Would you like me to cough?” Robert spat.

  “Sense of humour. I like that. A perfect man in a lot of ways: fit, strong. Yer know, a lot of men have disappointed me over the years, Robert.”

  “You do surprise me.”

  “Something tells me you won’t disappoint.”

  He strained against the chains that held his wrists and ankles. “Don’t fight it. You and I both know something more powerful than either of us has brought us together. There’s something special between us, something we share.”

  “And what’s that?”

  She leaned in and breathed: “A kind of magic. ’Course, yours has been weakened, but I can help get it back. Helps me with what’s about to follow.” The Widow told him it was all in the cards: he’d come, and they would one day rule this country – the world – together.

  “With the help of German ingenuity, I suppose,” said Robert.

  She waved away his comment. “Means to an end. Right now, our countries need each other. But who knows what’s around the corner?”

  “You do, apparently.”

  “That’s right.” The Widow produced a tarot card: a man sitting on a throne, wearing and crown and holding a sword. “This is you, Robert: The Emperor. My Emperor. The one I’ve been looking for my whole life. This is who you will become when we’ve... joined.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Aye. An’ I knew it was not going to be easy to persuade yer, but I must try.”

  Then she drew strange markings on the floor and walls around him. Burning odd-smelling incense and candles, leaving them under him so he had no option but to inhale. Robert fought their effects, but it was no use. They made his muscles relax and he hung on the wall like a puppet. She chanted in a language he didn’t understand: the words overlapping, tumbling into each other at one point. Robert recalled the Widow lifting his chin, pressing her lips against his, saying something about needing to be sure.

  And he remembered the painting she’d done on his body, markings and symbols to complement the words she spoke. He felt drunk, more drunk than he had even on his stag do, just before marrying...

  Joanne.

  He saw her face, those beautiful eyes, those lips. But it was morphing into someone else. He saw Mary, remembered what had happened, how lost he’d become in the forest when Joanne and his son, Stevie, had died from the A-B virus. How Mary had made him feel human again, her love, her –

  Then both faces were replaced with the Widow’s, the only person he could see, the only voice he could hear. Over and over, telling him he was hers – that they were destined to be together.

  He hadn’t even realised he was nodding, until he was doing so. Suddenly it had all made perfect sense, what she was offering him. Though they’d only spent a short time together, those minutes had become hours, days, and somehow he knew this woman better than he ever had Joanne or Mary. So much so that he’d agreed to talk with the latter. The Widow freed him, once she was certain he was under her control, dressing Robert so that he could come with her to meet Mary, to convince her.

  Even as he’d come forward, walking through that dream haze, speaking words that were his and yet weren’t, he’d semi-believed it. Robert told Mary the Widow was going to share her magic, replacing what he’d lost, what had been stolen from him. He believed it all so much he’d taken the ring from Mary’s finger.

  And then it happened.

  Robert recognised that look. He’d been responsible for it once before, when they’d been arguing, drifting apart, when Adele had been on the scene. When there had been doubt in Mary’s mind, although Robert had been faithful throughout. That look, that hurt. He’d sworn there and then he’d never do anything to cause it again.

  Memories came back to him of all the time he’d spent with Mary, his wedding day, last Christmas. It hit him like a slap in the face, smashing its way through the fog and clearing his mind.

  But now was not the time to strike. Robert was still heavily outnumbered, and the Widow had armed guards trained on Mary. The only way was to make that harlot think he was still under her control. The fact that she wanted him so badly, that she thought he was some long-promised love, might just work in his favour. So he’d gone along with the kiss, this time responding as the Widow covered his lips with her own – trying hard to ignore Mary’s wails and hoping she might understand if – no, when – they finally got out of this.

  Mary had been taken back to her cell, and at least out of harm’s way. The Widow had held up the hand on which she now wore Mary’s wedding ring. “I’ll have tae think about changin’ ma name.”

  Robert had smiled, playing along. The spell was definitely broken, but he couldn’t allow the woman to see that. Now, it was simply a question of biding his time until he could incapacitate the Widow. That wasn’t going to be easy. Even alone, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  The question was, how far would he take his performance? Because the Widow was keen to consummate their sham of a marriage. “Come on, lover, I’ll show you ma chambers,” she’d said, batting her dark eyelashes and pulling on his arm as she dragged him through the halls. There were armed soldiers on every corner, no opportunity for Robert to act. Perhaps he’d stand a better chance when they were alone together in her bedroom.

  And what a room it was. Located inside the Royal Palace, it was certainly fitting for a king and queen. The Widow removed her skin-tight trousers, leaving just her corset and a thong on, then lay back on the four poster bed, beckoning him.

  Okay, now what? thought Robert. There was no way he was going to go through with this – even if Mary hadn’t been in the equation, the Widow was just too damned... scary. No wonder the men in her past had disappointed her. Now here she was, expecting him to step up to the bat, her perfect man.

  The Widow patted the bed beside her. “What yer waiting for? Come here.” There was a powerful edge to those words, and if he hadn’t been such a strong-willed person, Robert might not have been able to resist. More tricks of the mind, and drug fumes from the candles and incense sticks. As it was, he moved forward, almost involuntarily, but still in command of his own body. He was walking stiffly, though, finding it hard to conceal his true feelings. By the time he reached the bed, he could see the Widow suspected something was wrong.

  To throw her off the scent, he took off his top and sat down on the mattress.

  The Widow propped herself up on one elbow, placing a hand on his chest. “That strong heart’s racin’.”

  “With excitement.”

  She smiled. “Aye. Let me calm yer down a bit.” Her hand snaked lower, but before it could reach its destination, Robert grabbed her wrist. Rather than fighting him, the Widow seemed to enjoy it. “I just knew yer liked it rough,” she growled. He grabbed her other wrist, pushing her back down against the bed. But she wrapped her legs around Robert, forcing him down on her her. Obviously her idea of foreplay, but it was more like some of the wrestling moves Jack used.

  “Aye, that’s it, that’s...”

  Robert pulled away from her. She gripped him by the shoulders, attempting to draw him down on top of her, but he couldn’t help resisting. Almost without warning, the Widow let go of him.

  Dammit, she knows, thought Robert.

  “There’s one link left. She still has a hold on yer, doesn’t she?” said the Widow. “Aye. I can see it. I can feel it.”

  Robert said nothing.

  “I saw this, as well,” the Widow confessed, and now he really knew he was in trouble.

  “I-I’m sorry,” he offered. And part of him actually was. Because behind those hard eyes of hers, under the exterior
– the bravado she put on – was a woman who just wanted to be loved. Who wanted on some level what he and Mary had, who’d been filled up with nonsense about a perfect man when one didn’t exist. And certainly wasn’t Robert, could never be Robert.

  “Aye, well, there’s only one thing for it.” The Widow looked at Robert expectantly, then replied for him. “For me to become yer new Empress, you have to kill the former one. Don’t worry, there’s nothing tae it. I’ve murdered more exes than yer’ve fired arrows.”

  Of course, that woman who just wanted to be loved was also an utter lunatic. Before he could do anything, she was already calling for the men guarding her chambers – ordering some to fetch Mary, while the rest escorted Robert and the Widow to the Great Hall.

  So he had to play along again, part of him relieved that the ordeal of the Widow’s bedchambers was over, part of him concerned about what was to come next. It had been necessary for the Widow to believe, he knew that – her blind faith that he was the man from the card, her chosen one, was the only thing seemingly stopping her from focusing. It was a weakness he could exploit, he just wasn’t sure how yet.

  As they waited in the Hall, though, the Widow impatient to get this over with so he could be totally hers, Robert kept an eye on everything around him: from the positioning of the guards – six on either side of the room, dotted between suits of armour with machine-guns, an eclectic touch – to the space around him and what he could use to initiate an escape; plenty of archways, which would be either a help or hindrance. When Mary was brought in, he attempted to act cool, but what he saw made his heart ache.

  She’d obviously been crying, but Mary seemed resigned to what had happened, that Robert belonged to the Widow. Her head was bowed; her body spoke of a woman who’d given up.

  “All right, let’s get this over and done wi’, shall we?” said the Widow, and produced a knife, which she handed to Robert. A sacrificial dagger, thought Robert. Meant to represent the sacrifice not only of Mary, but of their whole relationship.