Broken Arrow ac-8 Read online

  The Tsar had leaned back, the leather of his suit competing with the squeak of the chair. "Let him come. He will have to deal with others before he reaches me." He was referring to the warlords who had taken over places like France, Germany and Italy. Those who drove De Falaise to England in the first place.

  Tanek held up the glass, ready for another drink. "But your goal is to rule the whole of Europe eventually, is it not?" The Tsar was silent, so he took the answer as a yes. "Then sooner or later you will meet in battle. Why not now, when his forces are small and yours are great?"

  "I've heard enough," snapped Bohuslav. "He just wants revenge, sire."

  "True," Tanek agreed, before The Tsar could say anything. "But as I understand it, we could be of some use to each other."

  The talks had continued, well into the night, fuelled by liquor. Tanek could feel Bohuslav's eyes boring into him as he appealed to The Tsar's ego, assuring him that it wouldn't take much to stamp out Hood, thereby also gaining a foothold in the UK from which to mount attacks on his enemies in Europe, coming at them from both sides.

  "I have to admit," The Tsar slurred, well into his second bottle of Smirnoff, "that the thought of conquering America's biggest ally does appeal."

  Tanek nodded. "Once you have control of England and Europe, what is to stop you going after them, too?" The picture he'd painted was one of global sovereignty, with The Tsar well and truly on the throne. The man had lapped it up, as Tanek knew he would.

  Placing Bohuslav in charge, The Tsar had ordered preparations for this fleet of Zubrs to set sail, with a pit-stop at Denmark before the final leg across the North Sea. It was then that Tanek truly saw the scale of The Tsar's power, the size of his army compared with the one that had been commanded by De Falaise. He also saw that the old-fashioned weaponry he'd used to fight Glaskov was thankfully limited to the gladiatorial arena.

  Each craft carried either three T-90 MTB battle tanks or a mixture of APCs, BTR 60 or 90 Armoured Fighting Vehicles, IMZ-Ural motorbikes and UAZ-3159 jeeps, plus around 50 troops (Tanek was told that pre-virus this number would have been at least double). The men were equipped with the standard AK-47s, but also Saiga-12 semi-automatics, 9A-91 shortened assault rifles, PP-19 Bizon submachine guns, compact SR-3 Vikhrs and, for real stopping power, NSV-12.7 large calibre machine guns, RGS-50M modernized special grenade launchers and AGS-17 automatic mounted grenade launchers. The list went on and on, virtually making Tanek salivate.

  As he glanced up from his labours, Tanek saw the impressive array of military vehicles and equipment in this particular Zubr's bay. But in spite of being given full use of a selection of rifles and pistols, there was still something comforting about fashioning his own distinctive weapon. The sight of a crossbow bolt entering someone was so much more satisfying than a messy bullet hole.

  He was alone at present, the troops having gone off to eat, so Tanek had taken full advantage of the silence. Just the thrum of the engines and creaking of the hull as the hovercraft made its way across the water, taking him back again to the place he'd departed just over a year ago, where he hoped to use his new repeater crossbow on the people who'd cost him the old one.

  There was a noise off to his left, at the back of the bay — someone behind one of the T-90s. Tanek licked his lips and began to assemble his chu-ko-nu, hands flying over the wood, pieces slotting together around the stock, sliding the fully loaded magazine on top last, and pointing it in the direction of the intruder.

  "Impressive," said a voice. Somehow the man had appeared at Tanek's back, and there was a cold sensation at his throat. Tanek risked a look downwards and saw the curving blade of a hand sickle.

  Bohuslav.

  "Now that we're alone, I thought we could have a little chat. I don't know exactly what you're up to, but you're hiding something. And you should know this: If you cross me, or if your actions in any way interfere with The Tsar's designs, I will kill you. And I will enjoy it."

  Tanek snorted. As he'd thought: trouble.

  "You may have been able to talk him around, but I am altogether a different animal."

  "Look down," said Tanek.

  He couldn't see the man cast his eyes downward, but he heard the sharp intake of breath when Bohuslav saw that the knife Tanek held in his other hand was hovering inches away from his side.

  "Now let me go."

  Bohuslav reluctantly eased the pressure on Tanek's throat. The larger man stood, turning to face the serial killer. They each held their respective weapons high: Bohuslav's two sickles; Tanek's knife and crossbow.

  "This isn't finished," Bohuslav told him.

  "I know."

  Then Bohuslav lowered the blades, exiting stage right, moving soundlessly — which confirmed to Tanek that he'd made the noise up front purely as a distraction.

  Tanek sat back down and let out a long sigh. He looked up again at the machines of war, at the hull around him. He was in the belly of a much greater beast than this one when it came right down to it. So much had happened to him since the castle, and there was still so much at stake. More than Bohuslav or even The Tsar realised. Especially them.

  He cast his mind back to the last of his dreams before entering Moscow. The last thing De Falaise — or the dream version of him — had said. "Help me…" the blind ex-Sheriff had attempted to say again. Then:

  "Help me and help my child."

  CHAPTER NINE

  He'd never wanted to be in charge.

  Not even when he'd helped to set up the floating markets in Nottinghamshire. He'd been content to be the person who guided everyone along, without actually being the focal point. People assumed he was organising things even then, though; had always come to him for advice about trading, to settle arguments and disputes. Mainly because he liked things to run smoothly. Even when he'd worked on the proper markets back before the big bloody hiccup that was the A-B virus, folk had done the same. He'd only have to point out the best use of space, where the fruit and veg stalls would work better, or make a few observations on buying and selling, and everyone would think he was running the whole damned thing, instead of just being another trader.

  The fact that he'd wandered around the post-Cull markets with a shotgun tucked under his arm hadn't exactly helped in this respect, he had to admit. Good behaviour was a lot more likely when someone was standing a few feet away with a twelve bore. He hadn't really thought anything of it. He'd always gone out shooting with it, even when he was a lad. And when things went wrong with the world it was a no-brainer for him to keep it close by. It was one of the reasons he'd been so reluctant to relinquish it to Robert at the castle.

  Stupid idiot had been glad of the thing when they'd gone into fights together, and he would put it up against that man's bow and arrow any day of the week. He didn't have the time or the inclination to start training with those, or take up the staff like Jack, or swing a sword around. It wasn't the Middle Ages. There were people still out there, dangerous people. People like that mad bastard De Falaise, who had no such qualms about carrying a gun. And he, Bill Locke, was damned if he was going to get caught with his pants down trying to string a bow when someone was shooting bullets at him. He much preferred to be shooting them back, thank you very much.

  Which was why the gun had stayed with him, and was with him today — by his side as he flew over the countryside in his Sud Aviation SA 341 Gazelle helicopter — 'borrowed' from the same place as his last one: Newark Air Museum. The Sioux had been smashed to pieces by Robert when he chased down the sheriff and rescued Mary, but flying that had given Bill a taste for it again. So he'd requisitioned the more heavy-duty Gazelle for his trip North-East, away from Nottingham and all the memories it held, good and bad.

  Bill had really thought things would turn out differently after the fight for the castle had been won. He and Jack began taking care of things while Robert recovered — again, Bill hadn't been the one in charge, merely gave that impression to old and new recruits alike. For a while everything was oka
y, until The Hooded Man was back on his feet, dishing out the orders. And for some reason — Bill couldn't for the life of him work out why — Robert had decided to just lock up all the weapons that they'd confiscated from De Falaise's troops. Now they sat in the caves, rusting away, when Robert's men could be using them to really make a difference: to keep the peace, just as Bill had done with his shotgun at those markets. It stood to reason, didn't it? At least it did to Bill. But could he get Robert to see it? Could he bollocks.

  There was no way he was staying after their last bust up — too many things had been said in the heat of the moment, including Robert still laying the blame for Mark's capture at Bill's feet. How long was he supposed to go on punishing himself for that? Okay, he'd cocked up — but he'd thought the boy would be safe enough with a whole group of armed men looking after him. How was Bill supposed to know that the Frenchman would begin rounding up people to execute unless Robert turned himself in? Mark had forgiven him, hadn't seen anything to forgive, really. So why couldn't Robert?

  "One of these days ye goin' to come a right old cropper," Bill had shouted at Robert. "An' I hope I'm there to see it." He'd stormed out of the castle and — bar saying his brief goodbyes — hadn't hung around much longer.

  He'd determined to start afresh, maybe see if he could encourage more market networks to start up, if they hadn't already. It had been hard at first, relocating to another area, but he'd soon found out who was who, and what was what. So fast, in fact, it had amazed him. Yes, there were some markets operating, but they were nowhere near as organised or well run as the ones he'd known. Bill recalled visiting one, drawing strange looks from some of the stall-holders (in fact the stalls were little more than things scattered randomly on the floor). They thought he might be there to cause trouble, especially when they spotted his weapon, but he'd soon assured them he meant no harm. "There's quite a bit o' potential here, if everyone pulls together," he'd told them.

  Word spread, and soon Bill had found himself in exactly the position he hadn't wanted to be: running things. He had a team of personal helpers — no, more than that, they were his friends. Ken Mayberry, for example — a former social worker who now handled timeslots for the markets; chipper Sally Lane, who along with her boyfriend Tim Pearson (he hadn't been her boyfriend before the plague, in fact Bill remembered her telling him she'd been married, but that was happening more and more, people pairing off), they were in charge of location scouting. It was still sensible to steer clear of big towns and cities, just as they'd done back in Nottingham, so venues now included village community centres, playing fields and even some car parks if they were in relatively isolated places.

  Bill and his team had set up shop not far from Pickering and had a radio network of marketeers — as Sally called them, though that always made Bill think of pencil moustaches and swashbuckling — that took in a good chunk of the upper east coast. He was managing to keep the chopper fuelled and thus kept an eye on what was happening. They'd branched out recently into ferrying goods up and down the coast, using rowing boats or whatever else they could get their hands on. Bill had even seen one ingenious soul using a RNLI boat; well, it might as well be put to good use.

  Bill had heard rumours of the things going on in Europe, men who made De Falaise look like a novice. There were actually a number in France, apparently. Just as long as none of them came over to these shores again…

  But that was always a possible threat. And when Bill got a call like the one he was answering this morning, he had to wonder. A lookout at Whitby lighthouse had spotted something coming in across the ocean. Several large somethings to be precise which looked to be separating out. "Can ye give me any more to go on?" Bill had asked over the crackling static. What came back was unintelligible — had he heard the word ships? — and they'd lost the signal not long after. It was still not a great way of communicating, but at the moment it was all they had, short of smoke signals or semaphore.

  Bill had been en route within the hour, though it would take him a lot longer to reach his destination from where he'd been on the other side of the North York Moors. It wasn't necessarily bad news. Perhaps someone was trying to make contact to trade with them? That would open things up even more, make life easier for a lot of people. If supplies in the UK were dwindling, apart from those people were growing or farming themselves, then there was sure to be more abroad, wasn't there?

  He had to hold on to that hope, because the alternative was too terrible to think about.

  Several large somethings…

  Tankers, freighters, ferries?

  Or warships?

  Inside the cockpit, Bill shook his head. He'd been conditioned to think like that, was letting his past experiences influence him.

  (But didn't he still wake up in a cold sweat some nights after looking down the cannon of a tank? Standing there pointing his shotgun at the metal monstrosity which, in his nightmares, had features — pointed teeth and glaring eyes?)

  You couldn't go through something like that without it affecting you. Nor could you look on the aftermath of a battle, see the bodies on either side, and not have it haunt you.

  (The pain bit into his pelvis now. It felt like that olive-skinned bastard's crossbow bolt was still lodged in there sometimes.)

  Wait and see… wait and see.

  He did, but as he flew closer to the coast, coming in low as he had done through the city on the day of the castle run, he saw the smoke rising from one particular location. It was a community he knew, had traded with, and the irony of its name wasn't lost on him either.

  In terms of line of sight, Bill had the advantage over them at the moment — as the angle down to the bay meant those at the bottom couldn't really see him. Landing quite a way from the upper entrance, the buildings at the top giving him some cover, he powered down the chopper and grabbed his shotgun, tucking it under his long winter coat as he got out to investigate.

  He worked his way down the sloping, winding King Street. The picturesque quaintness of the buildings should have been a thing of beauty, especially with the light dusting of snow they had on them at the moment. But Bill was just filled with dread. It was a steep trek downwards — though not nearly as hard as it would be to get back up again — and when he was close enough, Bill saw where the smoke was coming from. Down by the dock of the bay itself. The buildings there — including the white Bay Hotel — had taken heavy weapons fire, scarred black where shells had hit them.

  And then he saw the bodies.

  Judas Priest, not again!

  Who had done this to such a small, inoffensive place? More importantly, why? What had they ever done to anyone, either before or after The Cull?

  Bill saw a handful of figures. People still alive. His heart sank when he spotted they were wearing uniforms, grey in colour with fur hats that covered their ears. And they were carrying machine guns. A patrol left behind to guard this spot after… after what? It was obvious from the track marks in the snow leading from the dock, up towards the wider New Road, that military vehicles had barged their way through this village. An army. Another fucking army! Before he could wonder how they'd offloaded the vehicles and men from the sea, then simply disappeared, there was a voice shouting from behind him.

  Bill didn't need to turn to know it was another one of the soldiers. And he was drawing attention to the rest with his bellowing.

  Both the tone of voice and language was distinctive. Russkies, Bill said to himself. What in the name of fuck's sake are they doing here?

  "Turn around!" demanded the voice again, this time in broken English.

  Slowly, Bill did as he was told, but at the same time he brought his gun up from under his coat, finger squeezing the trigger even before he was fully around. The loud bang coincided with his first glimpse of the soldier, barely out of his twenties, but hefting a deadly AK-47 that would have cut Bill in half given the chance. The shotgun blast hit the man in the chest, knocking him clean off his feet. Bullets from the machine gun pin
ged off a wall to Bill's left, the soldier's finger automatically pulling back, but his aim completely thrown.

  As the first soldier fell, Bill risked a look over his shoulder at the others below, rushing up the incline to take him out. He fired another cartridge at them, causing the group to scatter.

  Then he ran towards the felled soldier as fast as he could. Ignoring the blood being coughed up by the wounded trooper, he reached down and grabbed the Kalashnikov, swinging it around at the others.

  "Welcome to England, Comrades!" he shouted before crouching and spraying them with bullets. They hadn't been expecting that, apparently, because they all went down fast, barely getting a shot off. "Like t'see a bow an' arrow do that," he muttered under his breath.

  Bill reloaded his shotgun, then rose, holding both weapons out in front as he traversed the slippery road down to where the soldiers lay. He was well aware there could be more in hiding — it was what he and Robert would have done once upon a time — but felt the risk was worth it for information. He'd killed some of the men, he could see, on approach, he'd only injured others. When he reached one of the soldiers who had multiple leg wounds, he picked up his booted foot and brought it down on the man's thigh.

  Then he pointed the twin barrels of his shotgun in his face.

  "What are ye doing here, Red? What d'ye want?" he asked him through clenched teeth. The man shook his head, so Bill leaned more heavily on the thigh. There was a howl of pain. "I'm not a patient bloke. Tell me!"

  "Poshyol ty!" Bill had no idea what it meant, but the way the man spat this out told him he was getting nothing.

  "Fair enough," said Bill, taking his boot off the wound long enough to kick the man across the face.

  He made his way a little further down the slope, to the dead locals. The fact there were women and children among them eased his conscience somewhat about the killing he'd done that day.