The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  “No sign of our friends?”

  I think about the Land Rover in the field, the men watching the coach as we drove past.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “Something you’d like to discuss, Lead Recruit?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  We thank the driver, leave the coach at the gate, and walk to the commander’s office. The sound of the recruits sitting down to dinner follows us across the field.

  *****

  “So you told him about the terrorists?”

  “We don’t know that they were terrorists, Jackson. We only know that they were watching us. Maybe they were watching everyone.”

  I push my empty plate away, and unwrap the chocolate bar the kitchen has given us for dessert. We’re alone in the senior dorm – the other Senior Recruits had eaten before we came home.

  “What – they just like watching traffic? Come on, Ketty. That was the bad guys. That was Ellman’s friends, sizing us up for an ambush.”

  “And they decided not to attack.”

  “They decided not to attack today.”

  He’s right.

  “One day at a time, right? If that’s who they were, then they’re thinking about stealing the armour. They’re giving it some serious thought. They’re researching our movements.”

  “And if they knew where we’d be, who told them? Do we have a spy? Or did the HQ grapevine do the trick?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

  “But Brown …”

  “Brown said she wanted out. That doesn’t make her the spy. We didn’t see any terrorist scouts when we only leaked the patrol information to the kids.”

  “Maybe they were hiding.”

  “And maybe they didn’t get the message, because Brown isn’t a spy. She’s barely keeping herself sane, without Ellman and Sleepy – who, by the way, she seems rather keen on.” Jackson raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that she’s running a secret messaging service as well as making herself invisible and plotting to leave as soon as she can.”

  “And are we letting her walk back in here, with no consequences?”

  “We have to. HQ says we have to. The commander wants to keep her away from the gun sessions now, too, but that’s it. She’s going to train with Woods while we’re running the gun training. Paperwork. Preparation. Being a good assistant.”

  “Clipboard skills?”

  I laugh. “Clipboard skills. Very important, Jackson. Especially when you need to wake up sleepy recruits.”

  We both laugh at the memory of Sleepy, jolted awake by the crash of Woods’ expertly handled clipboard. It seems a lifetime ago.

  “And what was going on between you and the brigadier? He seemed rather keen on you.”

  Jackson pretends to leer at me, then leans on the table in a passable impression of Brigadier Lee’s actions this afternoon.

  “It’s so good to see you, Ketty. You’ve got my number, Ketty.” He mocks our conversation in a sing-song voice.

  “It’s nothing like that. I think he wants to offer me a job.”

  “Have a job, Ketty. Come and work for me, Ketty.”

  I throw the chocolate wrapper at him. “Enough, Jackson. It’s not like that. And anyway, why would I want to leave the glamorous Camp Bishop?”

  He grins. “I knew it. It’s me! You can’t leave me.” His chestnut brown eyes grow wide. “You can’t live without me.”

  “Yes, Jackson. That’s why I stay. Your dubious charm is all that keeps me here. Don’t ever leave me.” I keep the delivery deadpan and sarcastic, but he keeps grinning anyway.

  Which makes me laugh, in the end, because he’s right. What would I do without him, and Miller, and Bracken, and the recruits? I’ve built a reputation here. I’m the go-to recruit scarer. I know how to handle the kids, and how to work with Bracken. Jackson and I make a slick team. When it comes to getting results from the tiny fighters, we work together so smoothly. I can usually tell what he’s thinking, and he can usually work out what I want him to do. It’s easy.

  But is easy what I want? And is Bracken, with his schemes and his weakness, my only way out?

  Can Brigadier Lee get me the promotion I need? And what’s the price I’d have to pay for leaving Camp Bishop? Can I build myself a reputation somewhere else – somewhere I don’t have Jackson to back me up?

  Get it together, Ketty. You sound like Amy Brown.

  I’m not my team. I may be a valuable asset to this camp, but I could be just as valuable somewhere else. Somewhere better. I’ll give the brigadier a call, when this is over.

  I stand up, and flash Jackson a grin as I walk away. He grins back, still laughing.

  Bait

  Another day, another patrol. Nearly a week after the last excursion, and we’re loading the coach again. This time we’re heading for Cardiff, to help at a football match. We’ll be inside the stadium, and some of the kids are very excited about being able to watch the game. I’m going to enjoy explaining to them that their job is to watch the crowd, not the pitch.

  Bad luck, tiny fighters. You’re here to work.

  Jackson, gun safely in his pocket, sits next to me in the front seat. Taylor, Brown, and the other recruits are behind us, settling in for the drive. Brown is grudgingly coming as my assistant, but she’s sitting as far away from me as she can, on the back seat of the coach with her friends. On the other hand, I think Taylor is looking forward to helping Jackson again. They seem to enjoy working together, and Jackson is certainly bringing out the best in him. No more sulking, and no more broken noses.

  What happened to iron fists and steel toe caps, Jackson?

  The coach pulls off, and Bracken waits at the gate again until we’re out of sight on the road. The sky is cloudy, and before long it starts to rain. It’s a cold, damp day, and there are shadows everywhere. I can’t help thinking about the men in the field last week, watching us.

  If they knew about that patrol, they must know about this one. HQ has leaked the information to the same people.

  We know what to do. We’re ready for an ambush. But I hate feeling this exposed. I check the road ahead. We’re surrounded by fields and farms. Good visibility.

  I lean across to the driver.

  “Pull over. Pull the bus over.”

  Jackson looks at me, his hand moving to his pocket.

  “Trust me,” I whisper. He nods.

  “There’s a layby up ahead. Pull in there.”

  The driver slows down, indicates, pulls the bus off the road.

  I stand up and hold my hand out. “Keys, please.”

  The driver looks at me for a moment, then pulls the luggage keys from his pocket.

  “Back me up, Jackson.”

  The driver opens the door, and Jackson and I hurry down the steps.

  “Keep an eye on the fields.” He’s pulled the gun from his pocket, and he’s holding it against his leg, out of sight of anyone on the coach.

  I reach down and unlock the first luggage compartment door. I open it, and pull out the first crate. The lid opens with a popping sound, and I grab the rifle from the top. I reach inside, find a box of bullets, and pull those out as well. Training issue, so they won’t cut through armour, but they’ll hurt.

  “Anything happening, Jackson?”

  “No sign,” he confirms, staring out at the fields.

  I push the lid on and load the crate back onto the coach. Carefully, I close the compartment door and kneel down to lock it. I make sure the rifle is loaded, then put the spare bullets in a pocket and pick up the gun, concealing it behind me as I climb back onto the coach. I hand the keys back to the driver and sit down again, the gun resting out of sight against my knee. Jackson’s gun is back in his pocket as the driver pulls us away, and back onto the road.

  I sit back in my seat. I feel much safer now that we’re both armed. I feel ready.

  Bring it on, Ellman.

  *****

  An hour into the journey, and our route take
s us through a stretch of woodland. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still cloudy, and there are puddles of water on the empty road. I’m watching the trees through the side window, looking for any signs of people or vehicles, when the road swings round a gentle corner, and the driver throws on the brakes.

  Jackson swears, and reaches for his gun. Ahead of us, standing in the road, are two soldiers in patrol-style armour. Helmets on, visors down, rifles active and pointed at us. The driver pushes harder on the brakes, but we’re speeding towards the soldiers. As he straightens the wheels, the coach begins to slide.

  I’m gripping the bar in front of my seat as hard as I can to avoid being thrown towards the windscreen. Jackson steadies himself with one hand, holding tightly to the gun with the other. The coach skids along the road towards the soldiers, and the back wheels start to slide sideways. The driver struggles for control, but we sway from side to side, sliding on the wet surface. Through the windscreen we’re seeing trees ahead of us, but the coach is sliding sideways, turning us round until we’re almost blocking the road. The noise of the tyres screaming against the asphalt is deafening, and it drowns out the sounds of panic from the kids behind us.

  We come to rest, the coach sitting diagonally across both lanes of the narrow road. The two soldiers calmly take a step backwards as we stop, guns still raised.

  The engine stops, and the silence is shocking. No one speaks. No one moves.

  The two soldiers make their way to the driver’s side of the coach, and the sudden sound of gunfire brings shouts from the recruits. I duck down and watch the soldiers through the wing mirrors. As we expected, they’re targeting the luggage compartments. If we sit still and stay calm, we should get through this.

  Slowly, I push myself up and turn round so that I’m kneeling on my seat. I keep my voice calm, and I’m trying not to shout.

  “Recruits!”

  A few of them manage to respond.

  “Sir!”

  “Eyes on me. Listen very carefully. The soldiers outside want one thing, and that’s our armour and guns. They’re not interested in you. Stay quiet, stay still, and do exactly what we tell you to do.”

  Fifty faces watch me. Fifty shocked, terrified faces.

  “Extremely quietly, I want you all to crouch on the floor. Crouch down, keep your heads down, keep out of sight. Now!”

  Fifty recruits duck down and jostle each other to find space on the floor. Some of them end up crouching in the aisle, and some between the seats. The metal sides of the coach won’t protect them from bullets, but at least they’re not visible targets. Jackson swings his legs out into the aisle next to me, both hands on his gun. He looks back down the coach, and forward, through the windscreen. His heel is drumming against the seat.

  I turn back and sit down. The luggage doors are open, and in the driver’s wing mirror I see four men in plain clothes emerge from the trees. Two of them start unloading the crates, and two more start moving them away along the road.

  All we have to do is let them get on with it. Every instinct I have is pushing me to raise my gun, shout warnings, and take out the attackers. The men without armour are defenceless. We could drop them in seconds – but that’s not what we’re here to do.

  The soldiers step back to the front of the coach. One takes up position directly in front, gun pointed at the windscreen. The other moves round to the door, just in front of where I’m sitting. Through the wing mirror on the left of the coach I can see two more plain-clothed men already in place, aiming old-fashioned rifles at the door.

  I was right. The woods are full of terrorists.

  If Bracken is right, we’ll be safe if we sit still, keep out of the way, and let our attackers take what they came for. So far, they’ve shown no sign of aggression towards the recruits, but the feeling of exposure is back, and my training is screaming at me to do something. To defend the coach. To defend myself.

  I watch the soldier in front of me, and I realise he’s wearing black armour. This isn’t recruit armour. This is isn’t the stuff Ellman stole when she took her friends out of camp. This is professional armour, like mine and Jackson’s.

  I’m trying to figure out how the terrorists have stolen professional armour, when I’m distracted by two vehicles approaching, ahead of us on the road. For a moment I think we’re going to be interrupted, that we might have to factor civilian defence into the situation, but the two pickup trucks swing round in the road and park with their empty flatbeds facing the coach.

  The two men with rifles move away from the door of the coach, slinging their guns across their backs as they go. Someone has dropped the tailgates on the trucks, and all the plain-clothed guards are helping to carry and stack the crates in the vehicles. The soldiers in armour are still pointing guns at the coach. I drop my hand to my rifle, tucked against my seat.

  The soldier in front of us shifts his aim, moving his gun from the centre of the windscreen to the driver. The driver makes a small, frightened sound and lifts his hands from the steering wheel. Jackson’s heel drums faster against his seat, and I realise that he’s not going to stay still. He’s at breaking point, trapped here on the coach.

  I reach out to take his arm and stop him from making a move, but I’m too late. He stands up, raises the handgun, and fires a shot through the windscreen, cracking the glass and hitting the soldier in the chest. The soldier staggers backwards, but his armour holds. He’ll be winded, but unhurt.

  I reach out to grab Jackson, but he shrugs me away, turns, and starts stepping over the crouching recruits, heading for the back of the bus.

  The soldier at the door looks distracted. I have no idea what Jackson is planning to do. I keep my eyes on the soldier, and wait.

  All we have to do is let them get on with it.

  There’s a shout from Jackson. “Everybody stay down!”

  The back door of the coach hisses open, and I watch in the wing mirror as he glances out, aims the gun at the soldier outside the front door, and ducks back inside.

  Jackson! There’s no threat here. Just let them take what they need.

  But I can’t stop him. I can’t control this situation. All I can do is stop them getting onto the coach.

  I reach for my gun.

  The soldier outside the door swings round and points his rifle at the back door. He steps out of sight, closer to the front of the coach, and all I can see in the wing mirror is Jackson’s hand holding his gun.

  Come on, Jackson. Drop the momma bear act. The kids are fine.

  There’s movement near the pickups in front of us, and for a moment I think that they’re getting ready to drive away. Instead, six of the men are running towards the coach, rifles pointing at the windscreen.

  That’s too many guns. I’m standing, stepping into the aisle before I can stop myself. I raise my rifle, activating it, and pointing it at the soldier in front of the coach. Slowly, he lifts his hands into the air, holding his gun above his head, eyes fixed on the windscreen. He doesn’t step back, or drop his weapon. Six men behind him train their guns on me.

  I look out at the vehicles, and there’s a man standing in the road watching the coach. He looks at me, calm in the middle of all the guns, and I realise he’s the man from the field. The man who was watching the coach as we drove past. The man who looked right at me while he planned this.

  There’s a moment when everything is still. The driver’s hands are shaking gently as he holds them above the steering wheel. I can see the six men, watching me through the sights on their rifles. I can see the trucks behind them, loaded with armour. I can see the trees, branches swaying in the breeze. Light reflecting from a puddle in the road. I can hear my breathing.

  And then a burst of gunfire shatters the silence. I crouch down, searching for the source of the bullets, waiting for the windscreen to collapse, but nothing happens.

  The noise is coming from behind me.

  Jackson.

  I crane my neck to see the rear door in the wing mirror. The soldie
r is walking towards Jackson, firing again and again. Jackson fires back – two shots that miss their target and land in the woods. The soldier keeps firing, round after round, walking towards the rear door. Jackson pulls his hand back, and I lose sight of him as the soldier begins firing into the door.

  We’re not wearing armour. All Jackson has is his gun.

  “Get back! Get inside, Jackson!” I’m shouting, and he’s shouting, and the recruits are cowering on the floor.

  I grab the driver by the shoulder. “Close the back door! Close it!”

  He reaches down and presses a button, then lifts his hands again, shaking even more. There’s a hissing sound as the door closes and the shooting stops.

  “Jackson!” I’m watching the soldier in the mirror, walking back to the front door. I’m trying to keep my gun pointed at the soldier in front of me. And I’m trying not to let Jackson’s silence distract me. I shout again, louder this time, and he answers.

  “We’re good, Ketty. We’re good.”

  I wish I could believe him.

  I’m standing in the aisle, at the top of the steps, watching the gunmen in front of the coach. Watching the driver, eyes closed, muttering something under his breath. Weighing up the odds. Trying to decide what happens next.

  The driver and I both jump at the sound of something hitting the door. He raises his arms above his head, ducking down, eyes still closed. I look down, and see the soldier at the door pounding his fist against the glass, gesturing to the driver. I keep my gun trained on the soldier in front of the coach, and watch as the frightened driver presses the button and opens the front door.

  Keep them off the bus. That’s all we had to do.

  We’ve lost control of the situation. Whatever happens next will not be my decision. I stand up straight, brace my elbows against the seats, and wait.

  The soldier steps up to the door, and turns to brace himself against the doorframe, gun pointed into the coach. I keep my gun trained on the soldier outside.