by Tyler Danann
He jumped inside to slam the door and lock it from the central console. With the driver’s window still down though one big Negro began climbing in through it to reach out, tear and gouge. Neville leaned far to the right, pulling his P-38 to pump two bullets into the big man’s skull. Those behind the dead Negro pulled his body out of the way before a tanned face appeared and tried to overpower the driver. A first struck his face, glancing off his cheek but Neville shot another four times. This silenced the shrieking face as he engaged reverse-gear and floored the accelerator, sending the Vectra racing backwards.
The horde began to race after him but Neville felt confident now. He stopped once hundred yards was made between he and the illuminated danger, then got out again.
“For Natalie!” the angry white man cried with a point of his finger. “That was vengeance for Natalie, my sister!”
He shot the remainder of his sidearm into the bloodied horde before driving away at full speed. Neville’s heart raced with intensity, sweat soaked his shirt and leather jacket but drove on without being reckless. He suspected the Vauxhall Vectra might be a suspect vehicle now. A few miles away though his main escape car was waiting where he’d left it hours before. It was still there outside the derelict library as he pulled up next to it.
The entire city seemed to be screaming with sirens as he transferred his arsenal and equipment to the BMW. He was a wanted man and it was a strange feeling for Neville to be hunted by the law enforcement he once praised so highly.
The Yeomanry garrison was unofficially the edge of a border town between the outside world and their fledgling state. The ancient flag of green and blue proudly displayed the Albionic dragon with its companion the White Horse. Originally the members of the garrison were made up of Warwickshire Yeomanry, but since the border had shifted north-east they were now Albion Border Yeomanry. It was at the night hour when they’d almost begin to close the crossing-point.
Inside the guardroom, the TV showed an old Benny Hill broadcast from decades past. Suddenly it was interrupted by a news-alert. There had been an incident at one of the British refugee camps further south. A man had clandestinely entered with a high velocity rifle slaughtered many dozens.
A blue BMW car without Albion tags on the plate drove up to the checkpoint before halting at the metal gate-barrier. Two camouflage-clad men left their sandbagged bastion with rifles cautiously held at the low-ready.
The driver was in his early forties, dark haired and with bright hazel eyes. Yeoman Frost knew something was wrong with him and tightened his grip on his SLR. There was a bright intelligence that radiated from his roundish face, like one who would be able to figure his way out of a labyrinth with raw deduction alone.
“My name is Alfred Hale Neville,” the driver said, his voice loaded with emotion. “I’ve just waged war against foreign invaders who raped my sister and her friend.”
Yeoman Frost’s eyes went wide and the nearby Corporal made a signal to the guard room. Neville kept talking.
“I would like to claim asylum in Yeomanry territory. Although I’ve often spoken against you Yeomen, that time is over. If you’ll have me I’d like to join you, if not, let me turn around and go down fighting.”
The growing wail of a police siren became noticeable and in the distance blue flashing lights appeared.
The young soldier looked hesitant but the older Yeoman got on the radio.
As the flashing lights drew closer the barrier was raised and Neville, under close-guard, drove into the border sanctuary.
In the guardroom the duty field officer Captain Dan Buckley appraised the situation mentally as Sergeant Joe Quinn advised him. Both he and the old Sergeant had briefly interrogated the man and now, back inside the fortified guardroom, they decided his fate.
Captain Buckley knew what he had to do by his heart, but his head told him the smart thing to do was not at all on the same alignment. Quinn was more for safeguarding their position and placating the police outside their border.
Buckley watched the BMW through the camera monitor intently. Neville was without weapons now, all had been removed from both him and his vehicle. From where he sat in his BMW he was almost resignedly at peace. They had no spectrum equipment handy for vetting outsiders like this, it was down to gut instincts and good old fashioned intuition instead. By the time they'd have called in Eagle Intelligence there would be a media circus on the border. The officer was silent as his stream of consciousness went on within him.
“It’s trouble and you know it Dan,” the old ranker said, interrupting his thoughts. “He could be a spy, one that’s made to do things in order to look plausible.”
“You saw the news report Joe, she was someone’s daughter. If a man can’t be sheltered for taking retaliation against such a thing within Albion, then it’s not an Albion I want a part of.”
“I know, but even assuming he’s above board, it could be war with Britain if we allow him in.”
“I know it, but if we turn him away now we’ll look like we’re abandoning our own code. Invaders don’t have rights, especially when they attack our folk. If it was us in their realm, we’d be shot on sight for abusing one of their own. Killing innocents is terrible, but those refugees, most of them aren’t innocents, our intelligence proves that.”
“The masses in Britain don’t believe us though! No matter how many broadcasts we make.”
“Sir,” a Yeoman corporal spoke through the bullet-resistant glass. “The civvy police are demanding we hand him over.”
“Are they specialist firearm units?”
“Just patrol ones I think. Not threatening us though,” the Yeoman replied.
“Fire if fired upon, pass the word,” the officer ordered before turning to the Sergeant. “Sergeant Quinn pass the following order. Mr Neville is to be given passage under guard to The Estates. The Colonels can decide his application.”
“Roger that sir,” the sergeant nodded with the feeling of a slight let-down.
He moved quickly out the guardroom door and made their way to the sandbagged search area.
“It’s your lucky day Alfred, welcome to Albion,” Sergeant Quinn said bluntly without shaking his hand.
The man’s eyes brightened and he bowed his head in prayer.
“Thank you, thank you,” he implored.
“Don’t thank me yet mate, the Colonels have to decide your fate, not us. We’ll secure your weapons for you here, if you’re granted asylum they’ll be restored to you, if not you can have them and leave to where you wish.”
This was done without a fuss and the Sergeant got in and switched places with Neville. They drove the BMW a short distance to the duty driver location without incident. There Neville was transferred to the back of a green Land Rover that was part of the main garrison.
“To the Estates with this one Carter,” the Sergeant ordered the duty-driver.
“What’s the duty Sarge?” he responded, wondering what entry to make in the driver’s log.
“Asylum-seeker.”
“Are we getting the invaders now as well?” Carter complained.
“Does he look like a fucking invader?” the Sergeant said sardonically pulling a face.
“Well no but—”
“Just drive him there son and less of your gob. I’ll follow in his BMW, I always wanted to drive one of these,” the Sergeant grinned. As the senior rank moved away the driver of the Defender turned to his new passenger getting in next to him.
“So what’s your story then mate? the Yeoman asked casually to the nervous-looking man.
Neville said nothing, his tiredness and adrenaline now seemed to give way to a sleepiness.
“Did you piss off the Prime Speaker’s government?” he quizzed, trying to coax an answer.
“I retaliated and killed invaders,” the bookish man answered wearily to the astonishment of Carter. He asked more questions but the fugitive was exhausted. His words about fair ones manning a wall against a brown tide went mostly over Carte
r’s head. The drone of the engine and fading adrenaline soon had Neville asleep for duration of the drive north.
Chapter 7
The Alliance
The Ministry conference room was a place rarely opened to outsiders. Even those within the Ministry umbrella tended to be considered undesirables unless fully vetted. The High Commissioner used to consider the SOTF a mere puppy compared to the might of his police and enforcers. The growing threat from Albion and their elusive Yeomanry intelligence operatives meant even he had to listen to his advisers now though. Only one, Richard Granby was seated with him in the room, the other three were his Ministry Elite agents and unknown to most in the ministry. Cordell Mastock, Rachel Shears and a wolfishly alert operative named Synel Shildz sat to the side of the table.
A fifth person, Dominick Nichols sat with them as well. Unlike the predatory agents Nichols was quite ordinary to their hardened ways. He was a re-enlisted Ministry Guard who’d been brought in to make up the numbers. All wore suits but the bodyguard wore dark gray, where the others wore the others wore dark blue.
“Warrant Officer Atkinson and his team are waiting outside now Commissioner,” came a pleasant voice from the secretary outside.
“Send them in please Laura,” he responded.
As the four-person group that made up the SOTF entered the room Roberts scanned them in hawkish fashion with his gaze. The outsiders, unlike his agents, had been disarmed on exiting the lift and, without the remote threat of assassination, he breathed easy.
“Welcome to the conference,” Roberts said drily before rambling on for a few minutes about SOTF history and their accomplishments. It was more to butter them up to the three special agents than for any friendly reason of endearment.
“I’m told you can get me the Yeomanry spooks who spy and collude in my cities officer?” the Commissioner asked Atkinson.
“We can Commissioner, but our manning levels are awful, on paper we should have at least a dozen more operators.”
“Ministry resources are tight right now, what I can do for you is lend you the support of my top agents.”
Atkinson looked at the two men and one woman who regarded them. The two men looked like killers, the sort that would be perfect for handling extraordinary rendition overseas and rough interrogations. The younger one seemed a shade more even-handed, yet the murderous intent seemed to burn in them all.
“Agents Cordell Mastock, Rachel Shears and Synel Shildz,” High Commissioner Roberts spoke as he introduced his elite spies.
Atkinson raised an eyebrow at the exotic name of Shildz. The Commissioner picked up on it and nodded.
“They are from overseas, brought them in from the cold you might say,” Roberts joked.
His own agents ignored the humor. The youngest and oldest ones Mastock wrote off immediately as unsuitable. One was too innocent, the other too old. The woman and seasoned-looking fellow named Johnson seemed to show promise though.
“I’d tell you more but your vetting clearance isn’t quite high enough. Suffice it to say they’ve been trained in top secret conditions and locales elsewhere, they have some equipment that will help in our task too.”
Deep inside him the old warrant officer was wary, the agents had no look of the discipline and bedrock of army life or training. Yet lurking in Atkinson’s periphery was the coward in him. It saw a pension and overseas life not far away if he stomached just a few more months of the Ministry madness.
“SOTF welcome the aid Commissioner,” Atkinson said readily.
Even Templeton, the most open-minded to change felt instinctively wary. She saw the red-headed woman as a rival. Shears was younger and taller than she was. Even the way she dismissively registered her was an affront. All of the Elite group seemed to be cold and stand-offish, like they were factions within a faction. Yet Mastock looked at her with a disdain, an anti-Kaslar disdain she wondered?
“We have a mission for the SOTF,” Roberts said. “There’s a city in the Midlands I want a field unit sent to. I’ll go into details later, for now I want one of my agents to provide Land Ministry oversight.”
“This is most irregular Commissioner,” Atkinson said softly. “Special Occurrences is a military unit, civilians must be vetted and processed for side-by-side activities.”
“Danny, with respect you are not within your barracks or jurisdiction now though.”
“I expect the agents are suitable?” Atkinson said changing tack.
“The Land Ministry have absolute clearance for its agents,” Richard Granby said with a dull drone. “They are to an elite caliber, likely teach your operatives a thing or two,” the advisor chirped sardonically. Johnson glared at him with a glint in his eye, he kept his voice from responding yet mouthed a few silent curses at the civilian.
“I see,” Atkinson said merrily, “well we SOTF have a few tricks up our sleeve as well you know,” the old officer responded.
“To put things bluntly, I expect the apprehension and capture of our enemies Officer Atkinson, hand them over to Land Ministry forces. Shoot to kill only if necessary. Live captives are preferred.”
“Understood Commissioner. Are we getting a boost in numbers? With us at platoon strength we—”
“That will depend on your performance would it not?” the leader countered sharply.
“I expect it would, but a small boost of numbers for SOTF, authorized by you from our home base would benefit—”
“After I see how your branch performs, not before,” Roberts smirked wirily.
The meeting went on for a time longer before it concluded, then SOTF left the office to return to their inner sanctum several floors below. Once there they all converged on their own leader’s office for heavy talk. The officer had few answers though.
“Are they out to replace us? Apart from Dominick I don’t trust any of them,” Rebecca said.
“Even he’s a bit suspect,” Johnson grumbled.
“Why’s that?” Athered asked.
“He’s ex-security provost, MPGS. Not the proper army if you ask me. Better than those other three though.”
“I don’t like any of this either,” Atkinson said to his three operatives, “but it’s the only way we can stay on top of the situation.”
“Them being lumped in with us is a bit much,” Rebecca said frankly, “but like Danny says, we need a boost in numbers, as do they I suspect.”
“A boost in our own numbers though,” Johnson retorted, “not these civvy agents we know little about. If you ask me those three ain’t ex-military either, more like black ops spooks, death-squad-types, executioners who’d be happy to kill entire villages on a false flag. I say we refuse Danny.”
“No way! We’re stuck with the hand Roberts dealt us. We aren’t a bunch of Yeomanry who do our own thing Scott! Not even in SOTF. Here’s the script, Becks, the duty bodyguard Nichols is assigned to you. I want you with him in London districts as your guard when chasing.”
Templeton nodded with a slight grin. Vehicular pursuit was a role she excelled at.
He turned to the two men.
“Scott, Brian I need you as eyes-on-the-ground, working as follow-on for Becks.”
“What about for the mission up north?” Brian Athered asked.
“I’ll probably go on that one lad. I have to show Roberts we’re flexible. We need most us down here. Let the Land Ministry run with things for a bit in my absence.”
His three operatives protested but the old officer wouldn’t have it any other way. Templeton’s earnest ways had triggered some of the old fire in him and he wanted one last hands-on mission.
“It’ll be alright, that Synel character can do all the hard work I’ll probably end up on overwatch from the chase car,” he joked.
Atkinson was light-hearted about it on the outside, but on the inside he was dreading the next few days.
Chapter 8
Clash of Tribes
The journey from Yeoman territory to their destination took Weyland and his co-agent,
Andrew Knight nearly three hours. Birmingham had been a traffic nightmare since the nineteen-sixties and decades on, despite a toll-road curving north-west around the city, it was still just as bad. Their vehicle was an old beige-colored Mercedes E Class Saloon. It was less restricted and wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Unlike Eric Weyland, Knight was much younger and less experienced in plain-clothes operations. He’d been a rifleman with the Westmooreland Yeomanry and thus was largely unused to urban environments. He suspected that the brown-haired youth had got to be an undercover soldier more by his upper-class Yeoman connections than by experience or training. Still, he was keen to learn and didn’t have an attitude, which allowed Weyland to at least tolerate the guy.
“So what’s our safe house like then?” asked Knight.
“It’s a small basic flat, has a main room and spare bedroom or storage. We’ll have to park the Merc on the street though.”
“I hope it’s not too close to the city center of Warwick.”
“It isn’t, but to be honest with you I’m more concerned with making contact with the VIP.”
Knight drew out his HK USP and checked the magazine before replacing it in his jacket holster. The weather in the British Isles was a lot more suitable for the easy-concealing of a firearm than other warmer places. Both wore shoulder rigs for their pistol weaponry. They were probably the most comfortable way of carrying spare magazines and a sidearm while remaining undetected. It meant a jacket or overcoat was essential while armed in such a fashion though.
Knight re-zipped his jacket. “Warwick is a place with plenty of foreigners nowadays, it could be tricky doing this in a public place.”
“I know, we’ll not be in the open when it goes down, hopefully she’ll be at home, we knock on the door, she answers and then we make our move.”
“Will you just be telling her and then bundling her in the Merc?” Knight asked, referencing the Mercedes.
