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  For a second or two everything was still, and Robert thought he might have incapacitated him. That theory was shattered when more bullets raked the ceiling. Fruit and vegetables exploded in all directions, crates splintered.

  He had to leave that confined space, take out the guy on the roof. Thinking quickly, he looked towards the back door. Robert grinned, then shouldered his bow and ran at the open space.

  At the last moment, he grabbed one of the harpoon ropes still dangling there, attached to the roof. Robert swung out of the trailer just as another round of bullets were pumped into it. When he reached a certain height, he arched his body around, twisting so that his booted feet slammed against the top edge of the door. The rope taut, Robert pulled himself upright then onto the roof of the truck, crouching on one knee.

  When the raider looked across, his jaw fell open. Robert saw that the man's combats were torn at the knee, a wound bleeding there.

  A bullet whizzed past Robert, but not from the raider on the roof. His companion on the bike, riding alongside, was providing covering fire. But before Robert could do anything about that, the truck was already veering sideways, causing the raider on the bike to swerve and avoid a collision. Robert made a mental note to thank the driver of the truck when this was all over. Both Robert and the raider on the roof had staggered sideways, but Robert was the one who recovered first, leaping at his enemy before he could raise his pistol.

  Robert grabbed his arm, trying to keep the gun down. A shot almost went through Robert's left foot, forcing him to step back a little. It gave the raider a chance to bring the gun up sideways, though Robert still had a firm grip on his wrist.

  Robert let go with one hand and punched the man in the stomach. The raider bent, allowing Robert to wrestle the pistol from him. It clattered onto the roof and disappeared over the side.

  The raider retaliated by bringing up a fist, which struck Robert's cheek and caused him to reel. Then he drew his claymore, attempting to run his opponent through - but Robert met the blow with the sword he always carried. Metal struck metal, the vibrations going up Robert's arm. The raider wasn't exactly a novice with this weapon, forcing Robert to meet a couple of crafty swipes that almost opened up his throat and belly.

  Pushing the raider back, Robert suddenly had the advantage - slashing across the man's blade and kicking out at him at the same time. He was about to deal the winning blow when bullets raked the side of the truck. More heavy duty than the biker's pistol, they could only have come from one of the mounted machine-guns on the jeeps. As Robert was pitched sideways by an erratic swerve from the driver - there'd be no thanks for that one! - he saw that one of the raider jeeps had broken through his Rangers and was attacking.

  Another lurch, and Robert found himself going head over heels, losing his sword in the process and slipping over the side of the truck.

  He held on to the edge by his fingertips, while the raider above him rose. The man started to laugh. He held his sword aloft, then brought it down where Robert's fingers had been only seconds before. Hanging on by his left hand, Robert replaced this with the right just in time to avoid another sword swipe.

  He couldn't do this indefinitely - either he'd end up with no fingers or he'd fall off the truck. Then there was the alternative of being riddled with bullets from the jeep's gun.

  But there was nothing he could do. His enemy was giving no ground. Perhaps this was it, perhaps he was about to die.

  The raider lifted his sword one last time, about to bring it down on Robert's head and cleave his hood in two; destroying both the man and the legend with a single blow.

  Then there was another blast of gunfire, but not from the jeep. Not from the biker either, as the bang it made was subtly different. A sound Robert recognised immediately. There was a spark as the bullet stuck the raider's claymore, causing him to relinquish the weapon.

  Simultaneously, both Robert and the raider traced the line of fire back to a woman riding a horse. She was just behind the jeep, her dark hair flowing in the wind.

  "Mary," breathed Robert, still struggling to hold on to the truck.

  She fired again at the raider, the barrel of her dead father's Peacekeeper still smoking from the last shot. Like Robert, she'd been a decent aim even before this past year, but had become even sharper - able to use either hand and either of the two pistols, with equal precision. The raider ducked, but in his confusion stepped too close to the edge. Quick as a flash, Robert reached up and grabbed his ankle, tipping him off balance and pitching him over.

  As Robert climbed back up, he saw both the jeep and Mary swerving to avoid the felled raider as he spun over and over on the concrete below.

  The gun on the jeep was swivelling in Mary's direction, the raider there fixing to take her out. But before he could do anything, Mary had urged her mount forward, pulling alongside the jeep. She jumped onto it, pistol tucked back in her belt. Robert watched proudly as she gave the gunner a right hook that looked like it would have floored a gorilla, then turned and backhanded the raider who was climbing through from the front of the jeep - so hard, his breathing mask and goggles came off. It gave her time to pull her Peacekeeper out again and 'encourage' them to surrender.

  Robert smiled, but it faded fast when he saw the biker from the other side of the truck pull back so he was diagonally opposite the jeep. He had his pistol drawn and he had it trained on Mary.

  Snatching up his sword, Robert ran back along the length of the trailer's roof and leapt, grabbing another harpoon rope, swinging round like a pirate in the rigging.

  Directing himself at the bike, he drew back the sword and slashed at the rider. The vehicle wobbled as the man attempted to avoid the blade. As the bike straightened again, Robert was swinging back in the other direction. This time he hefted the sword like a javelin and threw it at the front wheel.

  It jammed in the spokes and held the wheel fast. The rider was flung from his bike, landing awkwardly on his shoulder.

  Robert was dangling from the rope, banging against the side of the truck, but he felt the vehicle slowing. The driver had obviously seen him in his side-mirrors. Mary was forcing the jeep to slow, as well. Soon both had stopped and Robert was able to let go, dropping gracefully to his feet. Finally, he peeled back his hood, revealing his features.

  He looked over to see Mary kicking men off the jeep. "That's it, down you go boys." She mouthed a silent 'Are you alright?' to Robert, who nodded.

  Overhead there was the sound of chopper blades. Robert looked up to see a Gazelle helicopter coming in to land between them and the Rangers cleaning up further down the road. The familiar figure of Bill hopped out, even before the blades had stopped turning, holding up a hand. He'd been monitoring the situation from above, keeping well enough back that the raiders didn't see him, but close enough to let Azhar and the cavalry know exactly when they were needed. Of course, if he'd had his way he would have brought that brute of an attack helicopter instead; the one that the Tsar's men had left behind. Robert could hear that rough Derbyshire accent in his head right now: "It'd all have been over in seconds if ye'd just let me blow 'em up." But what would that have achieved? These men were no good to anyone dead. Apart from the fact he and his Rangers weren't cold-blooded killers, Robert wanted to question them, find out for sure who'd been behind the raid. Not to mention the many others along the border and inside Scotland itself.

  Robert waved back. In fact it had been Bill who'd brought them all here, drawing their attention to the attacks on the trade routes that were interfering with Bill's markets, causing people to go hungry. It smacked just a little bit too much of what De Falaise and his army had been doing in Nottingham all that time ago, reminding Robert too much of those days to simply ignore it.

  As Robert watched Bill make his way towards him, carrying that beloved shotgun of his, he suddenly became aware of Mary screaming, "Look out!"

  The expression on her face was pure shock, but she was looking past him, over his shoulder. Robert turned s
wiftly, in time to see a glimpse of the remaining raider from the back of the truck - the one he thought he'd put down - leaping with his sword raised.

  As Robert was tensing to avoid the blow, the raider was dropping to his knees, claymore falling from his hand. Behind stood a man holding a baseball bat. Robert looked beyond him to see the cab door of the truck was open.

  "That's for what you lot have done to Stacey," said the driver, hitting the raider again just to make sure he stayed down.

  Robert nodded a thanks to the man.

  There was an engine gunning off to his right. God, what now? He looked over to see that the raider who'd been trailing them all this time, who he'd forced off his bike, had got the thing going again. The guy looked half dead, practically slumping over the handlebars, but was able to get the bike upright, gun it, and get it going in spite of the damaged front wheel.

  Bill, who had caught up to them, was bringing his cannon of a gun to bear. Robert motioned for him to lower the weapon.

  "But he's getting away," complained Bill.

  "Let him." Robert's eyes trailed the lone and injured biker as he made his way up the road, attempting to mount the verge. "We need someone to go back and tell whoever's running the show. Tell them what happened here. Tell them they can't get away with what they're doing anymore."

  Bill shook his head. Shoot first and ask questions later, that was his philosophy. The amount of arguments they still had about the use of modern weapons... Robert went over and retrieved his sword from where the biker had left it, after plucking it from the wheel. This was the weaponry of the 'future', he'd tried to get Bill to see that. Someday, all the bullets and missiles would run out and this is what they'd be left with: swords, bows, arrows. Robert and his Rangers were just getting a head start.

  You only had to look at this convoy to see the way things were going: horses and carts mixed in with the trucks. Of course, not everyone wanted to accept that.

  "Bill? Was this your idea?" asked the driver of the truck, slapping the baseball bat into the palm of his hand.

  "Aye, Mick," he admitted. "Had to draw them bastards out some way."

  "So we were bait?"

  Bill looked down for a moment, then back up. "I was keeping an eye on things, making sure ye were all safe."

  "You call that safe?" Mick pointed down the road at the truck that had ended up in the crater, the Rangers digging its driver out "Explosions were going off all over the place!"

  "Look," said Robert, cutting in. "Those raiders would have attacked anyway, whether we were here or not."

  "That's right." Mary had joined in now, Peacekeeper still trained on her captives. "You'd probably all be dead right now if it wasn't for us, so maybe a little more gratitude would be nice."

  Robert suppressed a grin. When his wife had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. It was one of the many reasons he loved her so much.

  The driver, Mick, thought about this for a moment. "I suppose when you put it like that... You still could have warned us you suspected an ambush today. And that bloody Rangers were hiding in our cargo."

  "We needed you all to act as naturally as possible," Robert explained.

  "Running scared, you mean?"

  "To keep them lot on the back foot," Bill told him.

  Before the discussion could go any further, Azhar joined them to report - or rather to whisper his report to Bill. The dark-skinned young man didn't say much, and when he did it wasn't to an audience. "Ta, lad."

  Robert inclined his head, waiting for the information to be relayed.

  "He says the raiders are rounded up - didn't put up much o' a fight. Weren't expectin' this kind of resistance."

  "Excellent," said Robert. "And do we have confirmation about who runs their operation? Is it the person we suspected?"

  Bill said nothing.

  "Then let's find out, shall we?" Mary said. She pushed the barrel of her Peacekeeper into the face of the closest raider, tearing the goggles and breathing mask off. "Who do you work for? C'mon, talk."

  The man shook his head. Mary smiled, then grabbed his privates with her free hand, squeezing. "Now, if I don't get a name, I'll just keep twisting until they come off. Understand?"

  The raider nodded vigorously.

  "So?"

  "T-the Widow." the raider gasped. Mary let go and the man breathed a sigh of relief.

  "I knew it," said Robert.

  "Widow?" asked Mick.

  "Someone we'd heard rumours about, but couldn't confirm the existence of until now," Robert said. "She's been gathering troops in Scotland, and by all accounts generally making a nuisance of herself with the local population. That tartan they're wearing must be her personal calling card."

  "Seems like it's time the Rangers looked into this Widow character more closely." Mary said.

  "Agreed, especially if we're to cultivate better links with the Scottish people, and recruit more local Rangers to help police those territories."

  It was something they were already experimenting with in places like Wales, and even down South. Robert realised he was running the risk of being seen as just as much of a dictator as the men he'd fought against in the past, but that was so far from the truth it was funny. All he wanted was to extend the protection he was offering people in and around Nottingham outwards, across the land. He envisaged local Ranger stations being run by locals. It was the only way to stop people like this Widow from rising to power. And it was the only way to keep invading forces out. If they saw a more unified territory that could fight back, they'd definitely think twice before coming here.

  It wasn't going to be easy, Robert understood that as well, but then it hadn't been easy getting the Rangers off the ground in the first place. Hadn't been easy rebuilding what they'd lost when the Tsar had almost brought them to their knees over a year ago. But then what worthwhile thing was ever easy?

  Robert noticed Bill was frowning, rubbing his chin. "What is it?"

  "Hmmm." He was looking at the jeep next to them, then at the bikes that had fallen by the wayside during the attack. Bill bent and picked up one of the raider's pistols.

  "Bill?" prompted Robert.

  "AGF Serval jeeps, Motorrad motorcycles, Heckler & Koch P8 handguns. And can I see a few MP7 rifles, tucked away in the jeep there?"

  "So?" Robert was tempted to add how scary it was that Bill could recognise that kind of weaponry and equipment now; his interest in military aviation having extended further over the past couple of years.

  "So," said Bill, "they're all German issue, Rob. Don't that strike ye as a bit odd?"

  Robert considered Bill's words for a moment. Was this kind of equipment freely available over here? He didn't have a clue. But yes, it did seem strange that it should all be German. He didn't know what that meant just yet, or what connection it had with the Widow's people, but he intended to find out.

  And where to begin was with the prisoners they'd bagged today. Like Mary, the Rangers had them all by the balls.

  They'd just twist until someone started talking.

  Germany, thought Robert, as he began to give the orders to round up the Widow's men.

  Germany.

  Chapter Two

  It had waited a long time to become the rightful seat of power once more.

  Constructed to house the parliament of the German Empire, the Reichstag Building was formerly opened in the late nineteenth century. It existed solely for that purpose until 1933, when a fire - supposedly part of a Communist plot, though some suspect otherwise - ravaged the place. This paved the way for new masters to seize control. After the Second World War, the parliament of the Federal Republic of Germany - or West Germany - decided to meet in the Bundeshaus in Bonn, but it wasn't long before the Reichstag Building was made safe again and partially refurbished in the 1960s.

  It would take the reunification of this country, though, before the building was itself fully renovated, at last becoming the meeting place of the modern German parliament, the
Bundestag.

  Then the virus struck.

  The parliament itself had been just as helpless as the rest of the world's politicians. Nations blamed other nations back then, arguments raging while the clever few got themselves to safety and hid away. No-one really knew what happened to them, but they'd never been seen again. By the time any kind of plan had been agreed on, it was too late. The virus was killing anyone who didn't have O-Negative blood, and what few safeguards were put in place to try and halt the infection rate proved ineffectual.

  Inevitably, the survivors ran amok. Months, years of anarchy followed - of gangs on the streets of all sizes and allegiances, from the small youth groups to the much larger and more organised army-sized variety. Several attempts were made to take over the entire country, of course: those with lofty ideas looking to Russia for their inspiration, and tales of an all-powerful Tsar - now rumoured to be dead, but quickly replaced to prevent a crumbling of the system.

  There had even been an attempt by a Frenchman called De Falaise, who had, in the end, travelled to England to try his hand there - with just as much success.

  Failed; every one of them.

  Until he came along.

  Loewe patted back his slicked-down hair, taking in the scene from one of the levels of the huge glass dome that sat atop the Reichstag Building. He'd had any cracked glass replaced a long time ago, so it wouldn't spoil his enjoyment of the 360 degree view of Berlin. Or his enjoyment in watching the troops that he'd amassed outside, along with the many tanks, jeeps, Tiger and NHI NH90 helicopters, Tornado fighter planes, Skorpion minelayers and so on. Not a bad little defensive force from which to move outwards - and upwards.

  Not bad, especially for a monumental conman like him.

  Loewe began his walk back to the command centre he'd established. "With me!" he snapped, and the two magnificent Alsatians that went everywhere with him dutifully came to heel and trotted alongside. As he walked, Loewe came across various members of his staff, soldiers and military brains alike, nodding to each in turn. All wore the muted grey uniform of his legion, The Army of the New Order: its emblem a variation of the Mursunsydän symbol, using overlapping squares to form a very familiar shape.