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 swiftly, 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.
God, not even he'd thought he could pull this trick off, managing to convince those few who still believed in the old doctrines that he was the guiding light of a new force - one which looked simultaneously to the past and the future - when in actuality he didn't give a shit about their dogma. He wasn't a Neo Nazi and never would be. But that didn't mean he couldn't
use
them to get what he wanted. After all, hadn't his whole life been a tissue of lies and deception?
From an early age he'd discovered that you could get more by hiding things than coming right out with the truth.
("Was that you who trailed that mud into the house, Achim?" "No Mütti, I swear. It was the dog." His mother thrashed that animal to within an inch of its life, while it looked at him accusingly.)
In his teens Loewe found that the more he lied, the more women would fall at his feet. He dumped them when he'd had his fun, usually after he'd taken them for their money. That fun soon ended when he was drafted into the armed forces, though he'd pulled a fast one to make sure he was given light duties; the doctor at his medical taken in by his protestations about his bad back. He had to admit he'd learnt a lot during his time in the military, however, like where the real money was. When he eventually left - without permission, naturally - he took a stash of weapons with him and sold them all on the black market. It was enough to fund his escape from Germany, and further operations in Belgium, Switzerland, Hungary and various other countries. His reputation, under an assumed name, as an international thief spread throughout the criminal underworld.
He'd stumbled into the world of terrorism quite by accident, after getting involved with a woman called Letty who had introduced him to the other members of her cell: fighters against the injustices of the world.
"So what do
you
believe in?" he was asked, and he'd told them exactly what they wanted to hear. There was money to be made here, he could smell it. To prove himself, Loewe had to plant a device in the lobby of a certain office building with links to slave labour in the third world. He'd tried to convince them to blackmail the company, but they'd gone ahead and detonated the bomb instead. What a waste. Not of human life, but of an opportunity. And he really hated that.