by Paul Kane
And now Bohuslav had somehow got away from Tanek and had come to watch. Had ordered their deaths, in fact; obviously too tired and pissed off to want to savour it anymore.
Robert held his breath as Bohuslav told his men to execute them, then let it out, amazed, as all the guns were trained in the Tsar’s direction.
It was only now, with the luxury of not having those guns facing them, that Robert took in what was really happening. Who those forces actually belonged to. He and Mark looked on as another order was given to kill Bohuslav.
Robert couldn’t watch beyond the first salvo of bullets, keeping Bohuslav upright long after he should have dropped to the ground. The gunfire seemed to go on forever. After the last crack sounded, Mark touched his arm and Robert jumped, the noise still ringing in his ears. He looked, but couldn’t see Bohuslav – just a red smear against the whiteness of the snow: all that was left after the weapons had done their worst. Robert shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the snow all around.
The German soldiers turned back in their direction. What had happened with Bohuslav had been merely a stay of execution, it seemed. There was no bargaining with the Germans, either. If anything, it made things worse, because he and Mark had just been given a preview of what would happen to them.
As Robert steeled himself, he felt something touch his arm. He assumed it was Mark again, but when he turned his head he saw a rope dangling from above him. “What...” began Robert, looking up, but there was no time for questions. Mark grabbed him, then shoved his foot into a loop at the bottom before winding his hand around the rope already lifting them. Robert grabbed on himself so Mark didn’t have to carry him. He followed the line of the rope up towards a shape above – something dark in the sky; something huge. A helicopter.
The Germans were about to fire, and probably still would have blown them to pieces – had the Russian forces not turned up at that point. Too late to save their Tsar, they nevertheless engaged the Germans on the ground level, their own jeeps and tanks approaching through the streets, soldiers with more AK-47s opening fire. Now the Germans had more on their plate than a couple of escaping men on a rope. One vehicle exploded as Robert and Mark were pulled up and away from the scene – they had no idea whose side it had belonged to. While the rope was being wound back into the helicopter, the battle raged below, and looked like it was going to for some time.
Next thing they knew, the pair of them were at the back door of the chopper, being helped in by familiar faces. Jack was there, taking his hand off the winch lever to grab Robert’s own hand, while Sophie clapped her arms around Mark, planting a huge kiss on his lips.
And there, in front of Robert, was Mary. She smiled and ran to him. The helicopter lurched and he and Mary fell against one side. Robert grabbed onto some netting. He heard a garbled apology from the front of the craft. “Hold on, I’m tryin’ to pull ’er out of range of those bigger guns below, before they drag us into their fun and games.”
“Bill?” shouted Robert. “Where in Heaven’s name did you find this?”
He heard a chuckle, then the reply: “Like it? Thought I’d upscale a little. Amazing what those locals up North had kickin’ round at their flyin’ museum. They let me borrow their Chinook for a while. Whoops.”
They lurched again, this time to the other side, but Robert held Mary close. “And how did you know where to find me?”
“That was Mark,” she told him. “Said he thought he remembered overhearing something about Moscow and the Tsar when he was kidnapped. Wouldn’t tell us the rest. Insisted on going in alone, that he was the only one who could find you.” Robert studied Mark’s face, and knew full well that nothing had been overheard. The Native American wouldn’t have been that careless. But Robert fully intended to get the truth out of Mark later on.
For a third time the helicopter lurched, but now they heard a noise from the open back, a whooshing sound as a missile flew past. Bill had lost it. Robert thanked God it wasn’t a heat-seeker.
Next came machine-gun fire, but it was too close to be coming from the ground.
“Look!” Sophie was pointing at two aircraft, jet fighters with crosses on the side: formerly of the Luftwaffe. They were flying in as low as the chopper, on their trail while the rest of the Germans were otherwise engaged.
“Tornadoes,” Jack called across to Robert, frowning.
“Blast,” Robert said. “Just when I thought we might be out of the woods.” That phrase, that sentence, connected with him and he suddenly had an idea. He took out the ash the Native American had given him, and then he shouted for Mark to hand him the pouch on his own belt. The pouch, like Robert’s, which contained foliage and twigs from Sherwood. Well, if he couldn’t get to the forest... Mark handed it to him and Robert quickly mixed the contents.
“What are you doing?” asked Mary, but he didn’t reply. He was too busy willing this to work, praying that, although they weren’t in Sherwood, it might be enough.
“What kind of weapons have you got back there?” asked Robert.
Jack looked at him sideways. “Nothing that can stop those, chief.” But he went to fetch Robert’s usual selection: bolas, arrows – some chemically tipped, Robert was pleased to see – a bow and his sword.
“Robert,” Mary began, starting to look worried. “What are you going to do?”
“What I have to,” he said, strangely starting to feel better as he hooked Mark’s pouch onto his belt.
“Whatever it is, you might need this.” Jack tossed across his hooded top. “Your uniform.”
Robert put it on, then found Mary clutching at his sleeve. “Robert, listen to me. There’s something you need to know before you do anything stupid. The Widow was right, Robert.” She touched her stomach as she whispered the words. “Do you hear me? The Widow was right.”
Robert paused, smiled, then kissed her on the top of the head. That was all the more reason to do this, to keep them safe. “I’ll be back,” he assured her, strapping on his weapons. He was feeling more invigorated by the second, the aches and wounds of the past few days fading – might have been the adrenalin of what he was about to do; might have been something else. Robert wasn’t about to analyse it.
“Let me come with you,” Mark said, but Robert held up his hand.
“You’ve already risked enough today. I’ve got this,” he told his son, glad that Sophie was pulling him back, and that Mary was not trying to do the same to him. Robert took hold of the line from the winch, opening up the loop and slipping it around his waist. Then he pulled up his hood.
And he was gone, racing towards the open end of the Chinook. He heard the cries as he jumped, the line slackening as he dropped.
Robert swung out, falling towards the first of the nearing fighters. When he was just yards away, he reached for his bow. Then there was another smattering of machine-gun fire, and suddenly he was dropping much faster than before.
He looked over his shoulder: the line had been shot through. Gritting his teeth, Robert threw back his shoulders and angled himself towards the first jet.
He slammed into the plane, just behind the cockpit, rolling over onto the right wing. He’d had just moments to register the shocked look of the pilot as he tumbled past. Robert hadn’t been prepared for just how fast the wind would be coming at him, though; he gripped the edge of the wing as the pilot attempted to shake him.
When the plane righted itself, Robert slid across and onto the main body of the craft again, so that the pilot couldn’t see him. The man could only turn his head so far, and he didn’t try to bank again, presumably assuming he’d shaken the hooded lunatic. The pilot began firing at the Chinook once more. Robert began crawling along the spine of the plane inch by inch until he reached the cockpit, then drew his broadsword and, pulling it back as far as he could – the wind almost taking it from his hand – he rammed it through the glass and into the pilot. The plane took an immediate dive, and Robert found himself sliding over the edge – hanging on only by th
e sword’s handle, embedded in both the cockpit and slumping pilot.
He looked down to see the other Tornado below, rising swiftly. Robert waited until he could judge the angle, then dropped. As he fell, the first plane dipped suddenly, then banked. Robert barely looked; he was too busy pulling the bow from his shoulder, nocking one of the incendiary arrows and preparing to fire at the second Tornado. He had a split second to do this, so his aim had to be dead on. Ignoring everything around him, he targeted one of the missiles the plane was carrying.
The wind suddenly took him sideways, and his aim was spoiled, the arrow going wide. Robert continued to fall, passing the Tornado now on his way down. He could see the pilot smirking, then opening fire himself, but Robert pitched himself forward, torpedoing down and underneath the jet.
Flipping himself around and onto his back, coasting on the breeze, he drew another arrow and shot upwards. This time it struck its target, the chemicals igniting the missile, and the plane carrying it, seconds later.
As Robert continued to fall, down and down, his only compensation was that he was leaving the Tornado as a burning wreck to fall from the sky. He continued to fall, letting his bow go as he closed his eyes. There was no way back to the helicopter, the rope well out of reach.
He resigned himself to the fact that this really was his final act, but that he’d kept all those he loved safe from the missiles and guns. He’d done the task that he set out to when he first left the forest. The Rangers would be in good hands with Mark.
The one regret he did have was that he could never tell Mary again how much he loved her, how much finding her had meant. Would never feel her in his arms again. Would not see his child born, or grow.
Robert felt himself still falling – there couldn’t be more sky left, surely, he was going so fast.
Then he hit something. Not the ground, which he was rapidly hurtling towards. But something soft. Someone.
He opened his eyes again to see Jack swinging on the rope, his cap long gone. The length was still dropping; the wrestler had hitched a ride and gone down with it. Now the larger man was matching Robert’s descent, and had closed in on him thanks to Bill’s skilful flying. As he swung again, Jack reached out and grabbed Robert by the hood of his top. He heard the big man yell as he took the strain; Robert doubted there was another person alive who was strong enough to do that.
Robert turned and again took hold of the rope, gripping it tightly as the winch lever was thrown up in the chopper. They stopped in mid-descent, and started being winched back up.
He’d been given yet another chance. His life extended, watched over by the spirits the Native American had been talking about.
But he also knew that his luck really would run out one day.
And as Robert was pulled back up to the Chinook, looking forward to holding Mary again – something he hoped to do many more times – he couldn’t help dwelling on that thought.
Wondering if when that day came, he might not be wishing that Jack had simply let him fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LOEWE WAS FUMING.
It hadn’t been a good week. Usually, he couldn’t care less about what happened out there in the real world; he was safe and sound in the Army of the New Order’s headquarters. But the setbacks his organisation had suffered this week had a knock-on effect, threatened what he had established in Germany. As a leader of these men – even if he was only a fake leader – it was his responsibility to take action, to punish those responsible for losing all those vehicles and equipment in Scotland and Wales to Hood’s men. His lifestyle was in jeopardy; he was frightened. And when Loewe was frightened, he got mad.
“On top of all that,” he bellowed at young Schaefer, “you okayed a mission to Russia, which has practically sparked a war.”
“I thought it necessary to retrieve the man responsible.”
“Tanek. A man you hired, let us not forget. Did you succeed?”
Schaefer was silent.
“We lost tanks, jeeps, countless men – and two aircraft in the process!”
“Hood was –”
Loewe skirted the edge of his desk, fists clenching and unclenching. The Alsatians rose as well, snarling. “Hood! Fucking Hood! I’m sick to death of him! This whole thing has been a catalogue of disasters from start to finish.” He wagged a finger at Schaefer. “And I’m holding you responsible.” This time he had to; Loewe had no choice. It had been Schaefer’s idea to supply the Widow and the Dragon with arms, his idea to have it overseen by that olive-skinned idiot.
“The Russians are in disarray themselves, sir, now that the Tsar is dead.”
That was something, at least, but it also meant they might be after revenge; might want to carry on this war until both their sides had nothing left. And besides, it didn’t make up for the humiliation. Someone still had to pay. Loewe’s reputation as a ball breaker was at stake. As much as he relied on the bespectacled man in front of him, it was going to have to be his head that Loewe took.
“I’m sorry it has come to this,” he told Schaefer. “Guards!” Two members of the New Order were inside the room immediately, and Schaefer looked worriedly over his shoulder at them. He knew what was coming next, knew that the men were here not only to stop him from getting away but to witness what came next. He’d seen it happen with Mayer not long ago. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, dripping onto the left lens of his glasses. Any moment now Schaefer would be on his knees, begging Loewe not to set the dogs on him. Any moment he would –
Schaefer began to laugh.
Loewe’s brow furrowed; that was not the reaction he’d expected. He’d seen men cry, whine, shit themselves in this position; never laugh.
His mind must be gone, thought Loewe. All the more reason to put this sorry excuse for a human being out of his misery.
“You’re sorry. You’re sorry?” Schaefer was shaking his head, the laughter still pouring out. The Alsatians’ growls were getting louder; Loewe would let them off the leash in a moment. The young man wouldn’t be laughing then. “You complete and utter moron,” said Schaefer. “You haven’t got a clue what’s going on, have you?”
“How dare you talk to me that way!” Loewe said. Now he was livid. “You’ve asked for this.” Loewe clicked his fingers for the dogs to attack.
Nothing happened.
Loewe clicked his fingers again. The dogs continued to growl, but remained where they were, flanking the desk. “Get him! What are you waiting for?”
Schaefer laughed harder now, so hard he had to take off his glasses and wipe his eyes. “You can’t see further than your office, than all this.” Loewe was clicking his fingers frantically, but the dogs were still ignoring him. Schaefer whistled sharply, and at last they sprang into action; not leaping to attack, but coming to heel. The young man replaced his glasses. “Who do you think oversaw their training, Loewe? Who has overseen everything around here?” He touched a hand to his chest. “Because you’re good at the talking, but not so great at the strategies, are you?”
Loewe licked his lips, realising he was on thin ice but knowing there were still two guards in the room who could shoot the dogs if necessary. Schaefer’s little back-up plan hadn’t succeeded quite yet. “Like the strategies you fucked up this week?”
“I’ll give you that one. Things haven’t gone exactly to plan. But there’s always the future, hopefully. One, sadly, that you will never witness.”
“Men!” Loewe roared. “Shoot him, right now!” The guards, like the dogs, did nothing. Now Loewe began to worry, to grow even more frightened.
“You see, I know who you really are, General. I have done for a while. And now the men know as well; I’ve told them. Your loyalty is not to the cause. It is to yourself, pretender.”
Loewe opened his mouth, the mouth he could rely on nine times out of ten to talk him out of a scrape. This must be the tenth time.
“The New Order was never meant to be yours.” Schaefer took a step forward and the dogs follo
wed. “My choice of liaison wasn’t an accident, either. Poor Tanek once knew my cousin, Henrik. He was part of De Falaise’s army. Hood killed him.”
Loewe found his voice again, sensing an opportunity to turn this against the young upstart. “So, this was about revenge?”
Schaefer shook his head again. “No. Family is important to me, but so is my country. Hood presented... still presents a threat. But enough of this chit chat. Let’s get on with things, shall we?”
Loewe backed up against the desk, holding a hand in front of him. “Listen, please... Guards! Men!” he called beyond his office, to the control room, into the HQ itself, but nobody came. Schaefer was in charge here. The real conman. “Please, we can talk about this. Work it out and –”
Schaefer gave two sharp whistles and the dogs leaped forward, one springing for Loewe’s throat and the other his privates. He felt pain like he’d never experienced before. As he lay back on the desk, the Alsatians’ teeth were everywhere, ripping chunks out of his arms, legs, hands and feet in a feeding frenzy. He tried to reach up, but the dogs were weighing him down. All those times he’d given the order for them to attack, he’d never once considered what it might be like on the receiving end... until now.
“What is it they say?” he vaguely heard Schaefer comment, through ears that were being ripped to shreds, but realised now quite how insane he was. “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, General!” There was laughter again, before his young second concluded: “Well, I would love to stay and watch these final moments, but I have places to be. I would like to say it has been a pleasure, but that wouldn’t be true at all. So instead I will simply say auf wiedersehen.”
Loewe didn’t hear any more, only felt a few more seconds of torture before passing out. His last thoughts were of his very first lie, about the dog he’d blamed for trailing mud into the house.
