by Paul Kane
If that sadistic son of a bitch was back on the scene, then this outfit needed crippling sooner rather than later. Before another Sheriff or Tsar could come along and take advantage. For all they knew, the Dragon might have the credentials himself – he was certainly psychotic enough. What he’d done to their Welsh HQ, to the survivors he’d taken back to the Millennium Stadium, was proof enough of that. And although revenge shouldn’t have been the motivation for the attack, Jack’s mind kept flashing back to those bodies, to the Ranger who’d been dumped on the road by the Dragon’s men.
And the idea that Tanek might also still be around was too tantalising to pass up. Jack had a major score to settle with that man. On two occasions, he’d been bested by him – although the rematch almost went his way. And that was before the torture he’d put him through.
Still, he’d thought long and hard about this: putting even more Rangers in the line of fire for some kind of personal vendetta wasn’t what they were all about. But when the men and women had come to him themselves, saying this was the right thing, that they wanted payback for their comrades who’d died at the Dragon’s hands, that had settled it. Each one of them knew what they were letting themselves in for once they put on the Ranger uniform. It hadn’t stopped them before, and it certainly wasn’t about to deter them now. Far from putting them off, the Dragon’s actions had simply put fire in their bellies.
Then there was the small matter of one of his Rangers being inside. A man he’d personally sent there.
“I’m not one for speeches,” Jack had told the collected troops just before they’d headed off. “Robert’s the one you want for that. But I do know one thing: whatever happens today, you’re doing the Rangers proud. Now good luck to all of you, and let’s go and kick some butt!”
His people knew exactly what they were doing, which ensured he could rely on them to crush the lookouts on the outskirts of the Dragon’s territory without fuss and without them getting off a warning. Jack had watched one squad through binoculars from a deserted house, with equal amounts of anticipation and pride. The hooded soldiers slipped through the streets, coming up on the lookouts while the Dragon’s men chatted amongst themselves. If the guards had spotted trouble they might have sprung into action, but they were oblivious – and before they could even get off a shot, the group of half a dozen soldiers dropped silently to the ground, taken out by a mixture of arrows and bolas. Jack had allowed himself a slight smile, but there was a bigger test to come.
They’d moved through the city using the buildings, just as Robert had taught them. Nobody from the stadium would have seen their approach, and when they were close enough, teams of Rangers were deployed as planned, surrounding the stadium. There were a handful of Rangers present with scuba diving skills; they were not only well trained fighters, these men and women, but sometimes had hobbies from the old days that came in useful. They used the River Taff to approach the building, after Jack had sourced the equipment from a shop which used to sell tanks and gear before the virus. It would be just like the beginning of Goldfinger, he’d told them, but without the dinner jackets underneath their wetsuits.
Any guards they spotted were felled with arrows or bolas, some even with throwing knives if the Rangers were close enough. A team had been sent out to deal with the problem of the vehicles and weapons stashed at Cardiff Arms Park. As Robert had done during his battle with the Tsar’s men, they’d be using chemically-treated arrows to deal with this – the tips carrying a concentrated explosive. They’d shoot them into the smaller stadium, with catastrophic results for the Dragon’s defences.
A couple of teams had entered via Park Street and Scott Road in a pincer movement. There were emergency doors here – Jack had done his homework – next to the old media access area, which could be used to gain entrance after any guards had been dealt with.
Meanwhile for other groups, including Jack’s, the architecture of the stadium itself was a gift: struts and poles for climbing, perfect for ropes attached to arrows shot onto the roof. Jack had to admit, he didn’t relish the prospect of the climb, but he did all right keeping up with some of the younger Rangers. There were absolutely no guards up on top, as Jack had figured – nobody would be stupid enough to camp out there – so the Rangers were able to climb down inside, again using all those metal struts and poles to their advantage. Hanging from the rooftop inside, they could pick off any obvious guards, leaving the way free for the rest of them to abseil down directly from the roof. That one was inspired by You Only Live Twice.
Jack and the others watched as the Rangers disappeared under the roof on the opposite side. They waited, and waited. Then the all-clear signal was given; a faint whistle which could be mistaken for birdsong unless you were really listening for it. Jack nodded for them all to begin their run, and looked over the edge at the pitch below. Even with a head for heights, this was not something he was looking forward to. “Well, here goes nothin’.”
Holding the rope steady – his staff jammed under his arm – he lowered himself over the edge of the stadium’s canopy. Jack pushed himself off, swaying as he dropped, and let out the rope. He glanced over at other Rangers doing the same, spotting those who had already climbed up and under, now crouching between the rows of seats; quietly making their way downwards.
They’d been lucky so far, but that wouldn’t last. Sooner or later someone, somewhere, would spot the ropes dangling into the stadium. They had to move quickly.
Jack heard shouting. Raised voices that didn’t belong to his troops.
That was it. But the timing couldn’t have been better.
Loud bangs sounded from the smaller stadium next door, then explosions as the Rangers’ arrows found their marks – blowing up stationary jeeps and motorbikes, tanks and trucks... and ammo. A chain reaction ensued, the ground and the stadium shaking with the ferocity of it. The distraction bought them some time, but not much. Machine-gun fire came from Jack’s left, and he dropped a few yards. The other dangling Rangers, rather than waiting to fall to the pitch, swung into the rows of seats, detaching themselves as soon as they could. Their bows were out seconds later, trained on the source of the machine-gun fire.
Jack did the same, using his momentum to swing across. Bullets missed him by inches and he spotted the gunman. Holding on to the rope with one hand, he let his staff fall into his free hand and flung it at the Dragon’s guard, hitting the man squarely in the chest. The guard fell backwards, then flopped forwards over one of the blue plastic seats. Jack swung himself across, letting go when he was over the steps between seats. He landed well enough, but had to duck more rapid gunfire from another shooter.
A Ranger Jack recognised as Beth Garrett popped up between the seats and put an arrow in the guy; Jack nodded his thanks and went to retrieve his staff. He knew that inside, his other troopers were fighting their own battles – bow and arrow against hot lead. But Jack’s money was on the Rangers.
Heavy weapons fire suddenly drew his attention and he looked across the stadium to see a fixed mounted gun the size of a bloody cannon, spitting out... yes, dammit, those were grenades. A couple exploded near to one of his Rangers and Jack watched, horrified, as the hooded figure flew up into the air along with wrecked seats.
“Hawkings!” he shouted, pointing to the weapon, and was gratified to see the Ranger had already lit one of his chemical arrows. He shot it in the direction of the cannon, and the resultant blast spread across the Dragon’s men and set off the grenades they’d been feeding into the weapon.
Jack nodded with satisfaction. “How’d ya like them apples?”
Another skirmish had broken out on the pitch below, Rangers taking on guards with their swords. Rolling to duck bullets, they hacked at legs – cutting into shins and thighs. No guard would be getting up after that.
In doorways and from behind the seats, his Rangers continued to hold their own, loosing arrow after arrow, some explosive, most not needing to be. About twenty of the Dragon’s men, all armed to t
he teeth, were taken down in seconds by arrows; clustered together, they’d made it easy for his Rangers to wound and incapacitate. Some of the guards were fleeing, retreating back inside the stadium. It wouldn’t do them any good, because already the Rangers were spreading throughout this place: down corridors and on stairwells, checking every room and crushing any resistance.
He made his way up towards a door, but as he did so a guard came through it, brandishing a pistol. Jack flicked his staff up and knocked the gun out of the man’s hand, then whacked him on the temple. There was the sound of boots to the left and right, and Jack dropped immediately, just as the machine-gun fire from two groups of guards on either side opened up. “Chumps,” muttered Jack as he rose again and saw the bodies. The Dragon’s men had shot each other.
Leaving his forces to carry on their clean-up, Jack slipped inside through the entrance ahead of him.
It was a big place, and it was time to begin his search.
After all, he had more than one person to find.
"WHAT NOW?” ASKED Meghan.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Dale replied. It wasn’t easy when you were pinned down and bullets were sparking off the corner next to your head. He looked around frantically for an answer.
Then he saw it. Their way out of there. Dale smiled.
“What?” asked Meghan.
“Here, hold this.” He put the gun in her good hand, then ran across the hallway.
“Dale...?” came Meghan’s worried voice. It was obvious they hadn’t returned fire in a while and she was thinking that perhaps they should. She was right, but not with bullets. Or not only with bullets.
Dale wrenched the red metal cylinder from the wall and joined her again. “Okay, you might want to duck,” he told her as he relieved her of the machine-gun. She did as she was told and Dale pressed himself up against the wall, closing his eyes. “Fingers crossed.”
He set off the fire extinguisher, jamming the mechanism so it continued spraying clouds of white as he flung it around the corner. When Dale heard the men coughing, he broke cover and fired wildly into the gas. He’d been intending just to hit the men, but one of his bullets hit the canister itself and it went up in the middle of the guards, achieving exactly the opposite of what it was meant to – starting a fire instead of putting one out. It sent them sprawling in all directions. The blast also knocked him back against the far wall, reminding him of the injuries the Dragon had only recently inflicted.
But it had been worth it. All the men down at one stroke.
No, not all of them. One guard, blackened from the smoke, emerged. His face was blistered, one eye looked as though it was either gone or had skin stretched over it. There was a lump of metal sticking out of his shoulder.
None of this seemed to be bothering him too much. He grunted and brought his machine-gun to bear. Dale, still holding his, pulled the trigger.
It clicked empty.
In spite of the pain he was obviously in, the man laughed, guttural, deep and throaty, in keeping with his nightmarish appearance. He raised his gun and Dale closed his eyes, waiting for the end.
He heard a dull thump rather than the rat-ta-tat he’d been expecting. “You’ve just been Jack-Hammered, buddy,” said a voice that made him open his eyes immediately.
The guard was on the floor, but there was still no sign of Jack. Then, through the smoke, came the end of the staff that had struck the guard on the head. Jack’s face followed, and he adjusted the cap he always wore as he looked down at his handiwork. When he noticed Dale, he looked just as surprised to see him.
“Dale?” said Jack, unable to disguise the delight in his voice. “All that worrying and you’re here sitting on your ass.”
“You know me. Always slacking.”
Jack laughed. “And getting yourself into trouble. I just had to follow the sound of gunfire.”
Dale was having trouble getting up; Jack came over to help, as did Meghan, appearing from around the corner. Jack raised his staff, but Dale held up his hand.
“She’s with me. Civilian. There are more dotted about this place.”
“I see.” The large man lowered his weapon, smiling tentatively at her. She smiled back. He’d had a problem with women ever since what had happened with Adele, although Dale couldn’t really talk – he’d thought badly of Meghan too, when it looked like she’d set him up. Then Jack spotted her hand.
“Why, you’re hurt as well, little lady.” That wasn’t Jack being patronising, it was just what he called most women – and there was a certain respectful charm to it, which Meghan appeared unused to.
“The Dragon,” said Dale, by way of explanation about her hand.
“We need to get that examined,” Jack said, moving closer and placing his hand underneath hers. “We have some Rangers trained in first aid.”
“I-I’ll be all right,” she said shyly.
Jack smiled, then turned and addressed Dale. “I’m guessing he did that number on you, as well.”
Dale nodded. “We’re on our way to him right now... well, we think. He’s got Meghan’s niece.”
“Okay.” Jack handed him the guard’s machine-gun in exchange for his exhausted one, then got him to his feet. “So, what are we waiting for?”
As they got moving, Dale asked how their side were doing. “Creamin’ em, kid,” said Jack. “Tanek still around?”
“Sorry,” Dale told him. “He headed off after the meet, by the sound of things.”
Jack’s face fell. Then he turned to Dale and asked, “Listen, this niece we’re on our way to save. Are you and her... Y’know?”
Dale didn’t say a word, but his expression must have told Jack everything he needed.
“Figures,” said the big man, rolling his eyes. “You really have got to get another act, kid.”
Dale thought about telling him he had; that this girl was different. But Jack probably wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t blame him for that.
The point was they were on their way to try and save her. Sian.
Dale just hoped they were in time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH.
He couldn’t take any more of this, it was insane! He’d only been up there a short time, but Ceallach could smell Hood’s flesh beginning to cook. It made his stomach churn.
Not long ago, he would have gladly cheered at the death of this man. The one responsible for his band of raiders losing that haul with the truck. The one who shot arrows at Ceallach himself as he rode alongside on his motorbike, watching as Hood dispatched most of his companions. Hadn’t he himself even ordered Torradan to shoot through the roof of the van and kill Hood? But, when all was said and done, the woodsman had defeated them, pretty much single-handedly.
Ceallach had been thrown off his bike during the course of the scrap; or, more accurately, when Hood jammed his sword in the wheel. That had hurt. But afterwards, when Ceallach had dragged himself back to the vehicle to make his escape, Hood had also been the one who’d allowed him to escape. Ceallach had seen him in the smashed mirrors, preventing the guy with the shotgun from shooting.
The trip back to the castle hadn’t been easy. Knowing he was leaving so many of his friends behind stuck in his craw. But if those captured Rangers were telling the truth, then they were at least being treated humanely. Ceallach had heard in the past about Hood’s hotel prisons – sounded quite nice actually, better than some of the accommodation here.
And, after he’d returned to tell the Widow what had happened – still hurt and angry that her reputed vision hadn’t shown her what would happen – what had she offered in reply?
“Aye, I knew Hood would be waitin’.”
Just like that. Which told him one of two things. Either she couldn’t see shit, and all the voodoo bollocks they believed about her was just a crock, or she’d let them walk into a trap. Neither option made him warm to her. Why exactly would the Widow knowingly send them into an ambush? She hadn’t shared her reasons wi
th him – simply sent Ceallach to the Vaults to be punished for answering back. Re-education, she’d called it. That had hurt more than fucking falling off the bike. Some of the stuff they did to people. He’d thought it was only reserved for their enemies, but apparently not.
Well, he’d been re-educated all right. It had definitely made him think twice, but not about questioning the Widow’s motives. More like what the fuck he was still doing here? He’d pretended the experience had done him a favour; the Widow didn’t generally try that conversion thing on people like him if they turned against her. She just had you killed; less trouble. He played along, all nice like. He knew how to do that from before, when he’d been one of Freddie Banks’ guys, pulling bank-jobs and other robberies. You did the work, you took your cut; you smiled, said thanks. That’s what he’d done after he’d finished his stint in the Vaults. The Widow usually asked to see you afterwards, to look you in the eye, check out whether you really were sorry. And he’d been scared of that, he had to admit, if not as scared as before. See, he was starting to lean more towards the opinion that she was a fake. This Widow could no more see into the future than his testicles were going to sprout wings and fly away, waving a cheery goodbye to his dick.
As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to pass the test, because that was when Hood was captured. He’d had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, he’d wanted to find him and punch him in the face. On the other, it showed that not even this man, the living legend, was immune to the Widow’s power. If only those people who’d believed Hood’s press over the past couple of years could see him now; naked and helpless as a baby while the heat roasted him.
Ceallach knew what she had in mind next. He’d known ever since they’d called him to help escort these prisoners to the Reservoirs – re-enforcements, after something had happened in the Great Hall. What the Widow had planned was something the men always talked about, but no-one could confirm. Something she’d done to men she’d been fond of, but was bored with, or who’d betrayed her. Seems she’d had designs on Hood, from what he could make out, even used that mojo of hers on him; the symbols were still painted on his glistening skin. But he’d spurned her, so now she was going to cook him.
