Another nod.
"I would hate for it to interfere with some of the other projects we're involved with over there," Loewe continued, and almost added 'projects you also initiated, Schaefer', but felt his point had been made. "Perhaps we need to find someone to deal with him." He knew Schaefer understood what he meant and would leave him to it, the example of Mayer spurring him on to succeed. But if he failed would Loewe be able to go through with the punishment, as he'd done when blackmailing his targets back in his 'terrorist' days? He needed Schaefer too much. Maybe another pawn could be sacrificed to keep up the pretence. After all, Schaefer was too damned clever to put himself directly in the firing line: he'd always have a fall guy standing by.
Loewe clicked his fingers and the dogs returned to him immediately, Schaefer mirroring the men from the command centre, standing well out of their way. The dogs' mouths were covered in gore as they took their places flanking Loewe. He gestured for Schaefer to clear the corpse away, then shut the door.
Loewe returned to his seat, tossing down the letter opener and adjusting the position of the chair. As he lay back he thought again of Hood and what he'd done, and hoped the man could be stopped before he really did become a threat.
The plane remained high, circling the area like a carrion crow.
When it finally descended, the small craft came in fast and low, making good use of the fading April light. Like its pilot, it was more at home in the shadows than the glare of daylight.
He'd managed to find a patch of grassland some distance from his chosen goal, near to a place called Creswell Crags. Skilfully, he manipulated the sombrely-painted Cessna into position for a landing. He hardly felt the ground as the wheels touched down and carried him quickly under the trees. The man opened up his door and climbed out, bringing his bow and arrows with him.
The dark material of his stitched clothes and his long black hair, tied back in a ponytail, made him resemble that which he loved so much; his weathered skin completing the picture. It was the reason he had taken that name, the one he went by these days.
Shadow.
He began to camouflage his transportation, bending thin branches and layering foliage over the wings and main body of the plane. Before leaving her, he patted her cooling side. She had served him well during his long trip, admittedly punctuated by stops to replenish her fuel. Fuel supplied by those who'd employed him.
Shadow made his way stealthily through the Crags themselves. When he broke into the rundown visitor centre there, to search for a local map of the area, he noted that one of the caves not far away was named after his quarry - the original version at any rate. According to books he found, under all the cobwebs - ones that hadn't been destroyed by vandals - it had been called this because it was rumoured to have been used as one of his storage holes. But thousands of years before that, it had been used by hunters just like Shadow's own ancestors. There was evidence of stone weapons and tools fashioned from animal teeth.
He dug out a map that showed him his destination was within walking distance. So, quiver on his back, along with a handmade rucksack - knife and hawk axe already at his hip - he set off for the place where his 'mark' had once made his home. Nowadays, of course, the man spent most of his time in the city.
Shadow knew a great many things about him, simply from communing with higher forces, listening to his spirit guides. Even before he had set off, visions had revealed much about the Hooded Man and his forest. Prepared him for the task ahead.
Shadow contemplated the events that had led him here, the bargain he had struck. It had been necessary, like most things in his life. Part of him respected the hunter this Hood was. In another time, another world, they might even have been blood brothers. But, here and now, fate had forced them to cross paths as opposite numbers: Hood the person he must 'deal with' - isn't that how they'd put it? - in order to receive his reward.
Did he feel any guilt? Some, perhaps. Though they looked alike, it was not Hood's people who had murdered his brethren, taken their land and left them a minority in their country. Or was it? Hadn't it been that man's own ancestors who'd crossed the ocean and begun to colonise, begun the war that had lasted so long? His blood was their blood, wasn't it? So how could they
ever
be brothers? Though the natives of this country were worlds apart from those across the Atlantic, they were still cousins. They still had the same ways.
Shadow knew that many of his kind had banded together, forming a United Tribal Nation in order to take back what was theirs from the white man. They judged these post-virus times to be the perfect catalyst; thought the Great Spirit had granted them this opportunity. Shadow had always gone his own way, though, and used his own methods. He felt certain that they would achieve better results than the entire UTN affair.
It was why he was on his way to Sherwood, running at a pace that would see him reach the outskirts within the hour. Even though Hood appeared to have turned his back on it for now, in favour of building his army to police this land, the forest was still his seat of power - and it had waited so long for the rightful heir to come along.
Now Shadow intended to take that power away from the Hooded Man.
It was the only way to defeat him.
It was the only way to win.
He couldn't sleep.
The aching in what had once been his hand was keeping him awake again. Not that he slept soundly anyway; the nightmares of the battlefield saw to that. Bohuslav understood it wasn't possible for the hand itself to be aching, because it wasn't there anymore. He understood it was just the nerve endings from the stump of a wrist, extending out into nothingness - perhaps even missing the lost appendage? Was that it; was the wrist, like him, still in mourning? None of which stopped it feeling real. He felt the pain, just as surely as he felt hatred for those who had done this to him.
He was grateful for the fact that the weather was starting to turn slightly warmer. Slightly, as you could never
truly
call it warm during these months. The 'hand' ached more than ever in wintertime, and the winters in Russia were invariably brutal.
Bohuslav pushed himself up on the enormous bed. One of the benefits of his position was occupancy of the Presidential Suite of the Marriott Grand; the only occupied room in the whole hotel. Back before the virus, he would have had the full five star experience. Even today there was a team of staff dedicated to giving him everything he could possibly desire. That included bringing him certain luxuries he craved. Certain 'items': living items. Male or female, it didn't matter which. Not for sex, or anything like that. Bohuslav's desires ran much deeper. It was a way of taking him back to the days before all this, when he would hunt his prey on the streets.
At first they'd just brought them to him, knocking on the door and leaving the meat standing there quivering. Where was the sport in that? He'd soon grown bored when there was no chase, no excitement. Then he'd struck upon the notion of letting them loose in the hotel. If they could escape him, they went free. If not...
None had ever escaped.
He closed his eyes and could imagine the weight of his sickle - once handheld but which now had to be attached to his stump - as it slashed and gutted. A smile played across his face. The memories of all that bloodshed, before - when he had been one of the most wanted serial killers in this country - and after the virus, came back to him all at once. It made him want to grab the sickle right now and slide it in place. Go out hunting and-
Bohuslav sighed. He should really try and rest, because he had responsibilities beyond the ending of individual lives at his... hand. Inherited responsibilities from the man who had once been Tsar, who now rotted away in a distant land - killed by Hood.
It was no use. Bohuslav flicked on his bedside light, powered - like so many things these days - by generator. He padded across the room, yawning. When he reached the door that would take him into the spacious living area, he paused, remembering a meeting here more than a year ago.
Remembering that large, olive-skinned bastard who'd got them into all this, persuading The Tsar to mount an offensive against Robert Stokes. Tanek. The name brought bile to his throat. If De Falaise's former Second had never come here, things would have continued as they were. They would still be at full capacity with their troops and armament - instead of building forces back up again - and would now be thinking about a strategy of moving against other, more important enemies. It was what other countries were now doing, Germany included, from what Bohuslav was hearing.
Hood may have dealt the blow, but Tanek brought them all together. And, while it was true being the new Tsar of Russia did have its benefits, Bohuslav would still prefer to have been more behind the scenes.
Pulling on a robe, he walked over to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of Smirnoff; he preferred this to drugs when his stump was aching. By the second glass, the pain had dulled considerably.
Even after the alcohol, he heard, and felt, the person outside his room before they knocked. The sickle attachment was back in the bedroom, but Bohuslav never answered a door unarmed, even if there were guards out in the hall. He settled for a nearby ice-pick, concealing this behind his back as he looked through the spyhole.
It was a member of his staff called Klopov, but still Bohuslav kept the pick hidden as he opened the door.
Klopov smiled inanely as the new Tsar bid him enter.
It was obviously good news
, thought Bohuslav. If it wasn't, the man might have been more reticent. Bad news ran the risk of enraging him. And very bad news meant the same for the messenger. It was how any military dictator would act.
"Sorry to call at such a late hour," Klopov said.
"Yes, yes," said Bohuslav. "What is it?"
For a second an image of stalking Klopov through the corridors of this hotel flashed through Bohuslav's mind, the pulse at the man's neck exciting him.
No, concentrate. Listen to what he has to say.
"I thought you'd like to know that he's there."
"Who is where, exactly?"
"The arrow," replied Klopov, then added for good measure. "The arrow has landed, sir."
Now it was Bohuslav's turn to smile. The first part of his plan had been put into effect. The Native American was on British shores. "Excellent!" If all went well, he would soon be celebrating his revenge, or at least part of it. There would be more to come eventually.
It would be
so
perfect. Bohuslav looked down at his stump for the millionth time since he lost that hand fighting Hood and his men. "Would you care for a drink, Klopov?" He nodded towards the bar.
Klopov smiled again, then nodded.
Bohuslav was happy now, and ordinarily that meant he would leave the messenger be. It had indeed been good news; the
best
news in fact. But as Klopov moved towards the bar, once again the new Tsar's mind was filled with things he'd like to do to him. The way he might wish to celebrate.
The blood. The flesh. The ineffectual pleading of the victim.
Bohuslav smiled and followed him, pick still behind his back, having yet to decide whether the messenger would leave this room alive.
Chapter Three
From the outside, it was a spectacular sight.
From the inside, it was even more impressive. Opened in 1999, this stadium marked the end of one millennium and the beginning of another. A fresh new start for everyone, but nobody could have guessed just how radical that new beginning would be.
He'd come here often once upon a time to watch the matches; brought by his Dad - though only after his eldest son, Gareth, had died from leukaemia. It was home to their national rugby union team, after all. He remembered their matches in the Six Nations, mainly their victories - the crowd going wild, that tribal thing of territory against territory. Mimicking his father, he'd cheer on their team. "It's all about that," his Dad repeatedly told him, pointing to the national flags some supporters were waving. Then he'd chorus with the crowd nearest to him: "We are dragons! We are dragons!" He was a poor substitute for Gareth, however, who'd always been Dad's favourite. Still was, to this day.
When they lost Gareth, his Mam and Nan turned all their attention on him, as if they might lose that boy too at any moment. They'd feed him up, putting massive meals in front of him, including cooked breakfasts, sausages and mash or fish and chips for dinners, and all kinds of treats in-between. All while his Dad looked on, the obvious disappointment in his one remaining offspring apparent. It wasn't even as if he had any skills, like Gareth's knack of fixing things. Gareth had been training to be a joiner when he became sick; would have made a good one, as well. Not only that, Gareth also excelled at several subjects in school, especially Maths and History. While he, the younger brother, excelled at nothing, failing all his exams and claiming dole when he left school early. "Nobody'll ever take him on, you know," he'd overheard his father say once to their mother. Straight away, she defended her little darling. "He's just a late bloomer, that's all. One day that boy will show everyone, Ryn, just you see if he doesn't."