Hooded Man (105 page)

Jack nodded with satisfaction. “How’d ya like them apples?”

Another skirmish had broken out on the pitch below, Rangers taking on guards with their swords. Rolling to duck bullets, they hacked at legs – cutting into shins and thighs. No guard would be getting up after that.

In doorways and from behind the seats, his Rangers continued to hold their own, loosing arrow after arrow, some explosive, most not needing to be. About twenty of the Dragon’s men, all armed to the teeth, were taken down in seconds by arrows; clustered together, they’d made it easy for his Rangers to wound and incapacitate. Some of the guards were fleeing, retreating back inside the stadium. It wouldn’t do them any good, because already the Rangers were spreading throughout this place: down corridors and on stairwells, checking every room and crushing any resistance.

He made his way up towards a door, but as he did so a guard came through it, brandishing a pistol. Jack flicked his staff up and knocked the gun out of the man’s hand, then whacked him on the temple. There was the sound of boots to the left and right, and Jack dropped immediately, just as the machine-gun fire from two groups of guards on either side opened up. “Chumps,” muttered Jack as he rose again and saw the bodies. The Dragon’s men had shot each other.

Leaving his forces to carry on their clean-up, Jack slipped inside through the entrance ahead of him.

It was a big place, and it was time to begin his search.

After all, he had more than one person to find.

"W
HAT NOW
?”
ASKED
Meghan.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Dale replied. It wasn’t easy when you were pinned down and bullets were sparking off the corner next to your head. He looked around frantically for an answer.

Then he saw it. Their way out of there. Dale smiled.

“What?” asked Meghan.

“Here, hold this.” He put the gun in her good hand, then ran across the hallway.

“Dale...?” came Meghan’s worried voice. It was obvious they hadn’t returned fire in a while and she was thinking that perhaps they should. She was right, but not with bullets. Or not
only
with bullets.

Dale wrenched the red metal cylinder from the wall and joined her again. “Okay, you might want to duck,” he told her as he relieved her of the machine-gun. She did as she was told and Dale pressed himself up against the wall, closing his eyes. “Fingers crossed.”

He set off the fire extinguisher, jamming the mechanism so it continued spraying clouds of white as he flung it around the corner. When Dale heard the men coughing, he broke cover and fired wildly into the gas. He’d been intending just to hit the men, but one of his bullets hit the canister itself and it went up in the middle of the guards, achieving exactly the opposite of what it was meant to – starting a fire instead of putting one out. It sent them sprawling in all directions. The blast also knocked him back against the far wall, reminding him of the injuries the Dragon had only recently inflicted.

But it had been worth it. All the men down at one stroke.

No, not all of them. One guard, blackened from the smoke, emerged. His face was blistered, one eye looked as though it was either gone or had skin stretched over it. There was a lump of metal sticking out of his shoulder.

None of this seemed to be bothering him too much. He grunted and brought his machine-gun to bear. Dale, still holding his, pulled the trigger.

It clicked empty.

In spite of the pain he was obviously in, the man laughed, guttural, deep and throaty, in keeping with his nightmarish appearance. He raised his gun and Dale closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

He heard a dull thump rather than the
rat-ta-tat
he’d been expecting. “You’ve just been Jack-Hammered, buddy,” said a voice that made him open his eyes immediately.

The guard was on the floor, but there was still no sign of Jack. Then, through the smoke, came the end of the staff that had struck the guard on the head. Jack’s face followed, and he adjusted the cap he always wore as he looked down at his handiwork. When he noticed Dale, he looked just as surprised to see him.

“Dale?” said Jack, unable to disguise the delight in his voice. “All that worrying and you’re here sitting on your ass.”

“You know me. Always slacking.”

Jack laughed. “And getting yourself into trouble. I just had to follow the sound of gunfire.”

Dale was having trouble getting up; Jack came over to help, as did Meghan, appearing from around the corner. Jack raised his staff, but Dale held up his hand.

“She’s with me. Civilian. There are more dotted about this place.”

“I see.” The large man lowered his weapon, smiling tentatively at her. She smiled back. He’d had a problem with women ever since what had happened with Adele, although Dale couldn’t really talk – he’d thought badly of Meghan too, when it looked like she’d set him up. Then Jack spotted her hand.

“Why, you’re hurt as well, little lady.” That wasn’t Jack being patronising, it was just what he called most women – and there was a certain respectful charm to it, which Meghan appeared unused to.

“The Dragon,” said Dale, by way of explanation about her hand.

“We need to get that examined,” Jack said, moving closer and placing his hand underneath hers. “We have some Rangers trained in first aid.”

“I-I’ll be all right,” she said shyly.

Jack smiled, then turned and addressed Dale. “I’m guessing he did that number on you, as well.”

Dale nodded. “We’re on our way to him right now... well, we think. He’s got Meghan’s niece.”

“Okay.” Jack handed him the guard’s machine-gun in exchange for his exhausted one, then got him to his feet. “So, what are we waiting for?”

As they got moving, Dale asked how their side were doing. “Creamin’ em, kid,” said Jack. “Tanek still around?”

“Sorry,” Dale told him. “He headed off after the meet, by the sound of things.”

Jack’s face fell. Then he turned to Dale and asked, “Listen, this niece we’re on our way to save. Are you and her... Y’know?”

Dale didn’t say a word, but his expression must have told Jack everything he needed.

“Figures,” said the big man, rolling his eyes. “You really have got to get another act, kid.”

Dale thought about telling him he had; that this girl was different. But Jack probably wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t blame him for that.

The point was they were on their way to try and save her. Sian.

Dale just hoped they were in time.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

E
NOUGH WAS ENOUGH.

He couldn’t take any more of this, it was insane! He’d only been up there a short time, but Ceallach could smell Hood’s flesh beginning to cook. It made his stomach churn.

Not long ago, he would have gladly cheered at the death of this man. The one responsible for his band of raiders losing that haul with the truck. The one who shot arrows at Ceallach himself as he rode alongside on his motorbike, watching as Hood dispatched most of his companions. Hadn’t he himself even ordered Torradan to shoot through the roof of the van and kill Hood? But, when all was said and done, the woodsman had defeated them, pretty much single-handedly.

Ceallach had been thrown off his bike during the course of the scrap; or, more accurately, when Hood jammed his sword in the wheel. That had hurt. But afterwards, when Ceallach had dragged himself back to the vehicle to make his escape, Hood had also been the one who’d allowed him to escape. Ceallach had seen him in the smashed mirrors, preventing the guy with the shotgun from shooting.

The trip back to the castle hadn’t been easy. Knowing he was leaving so many of his friends behind stuck in his craw. But if those captured Rangers were telling the truth, then they were at least being treated humanely. Ceallach had heard in the past about Hood’s hotel prisons – sounded quite nice actually, better than some of the accommodation here.

And, after he’d returned to tell the Widow what had happened – still hurt and angry that her reputed vision hadn’t shown her what would happen – what had she offered in reply?

“Aye, I knew Hood would be waitin’.”

Just like that. Which told him one of two things. Either she couldn’t see shit, and all the voodoo bollocks they believed about her was just a crock, or she’d let them walk into a trap. Neither option made him warm to her. Why exactly would the Widow knowingly send them into an ambush? She hadn’t shared her reasons with him – simply sent Ceallach to the Vaults to be punished for answering back. Re-education, she’d called it. That had hurt more than fucking falling off the bike. Some of the stuff they did to people. He’d thought it was only reserved for their enemies, but apparently not.

Well, he’d been re-educated all right. It had definitely made him think twice, but not about questioning the Widow’s motives. More like what the fuck he was still doing here? He’d pretended the experience had done him a favour; the Widow didn’t generally try that conversion thing on people like him if they turned against her. She just had you killed; less trouble. He played along, all nice like. He knew how to do that from before, when he’d been one of Freddie Banks’ guys, pulling bank-jobs and other robberies. You did the work, you took your cut; you smiled, said thanks. That’s what he’d done after he’d finished his stint in the Vaults. The Widow usually asked to see you afterwards, to look you in the eye, check out whether you really
were
sorry. And he’d been scared of that, he had to admit, if not as scared as before. See, he was starting to lean more towards the opinion that she was a fake. This Widow could no more see into the future than his testicles were going to sprout wings and fly away, waving a cheery goodbye to his dick.

As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to pass the test, because that was when Hood was captured. He’d had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, he’d wanted to find him and punch him in the face. On the other, it showed that not even this man, the living legend, was immune to the Widow’s power. If only those people who’d believed Hood’s press over the past couple of years could see him now; naked and helpless as a baby while the heat roasted him.

Ceallach knew what she had in mind next. He’d known ever since they’d called him to help escort these prisoners to the Reservoirs – re-enforcements, after something had happened in the Great Hall. What the Widow had planned was something the men always talked about, but no-one could confirm. Something she’d done to men she’d been fond of, but was bored with, or who’d betrayed her. Seems she’d had designs on Hood, from what he could make out, even used that mojo of hers on him; the symbols were still painted on his glistening skin. But he’d spurned her, so now she was going to cook him.

Then eat him.

Again, Ceallach felt his stomach lurch. He’d seen some weird shit in his time at Edinburgh Castle, heard tales about so much more. But this wasn’t him. Not this. If most of the fellas here knew what was actually going down, they’d feel the same – which was why she’d only allowed a couple to remain, locking the door behind her. Ones she felt sure were loyal to her. Ceallach had only just undergone re-education, so was unlikely to want to go there again in a hurry. The other guard across the way, Artair, lived up to the name she’d given him; stone-like, unmoved by what was occurring.

Which was more than could be said for Hood’s woman. Little wonder, when the Widow had just told them she was up the duff, and now her husband was being treated like a suckling pig on a spit. The Widow was licking her lips at the prospect. Salivating.

This was too much; too much. He’d done some bad things in his time, but a line was being crossed here. Could Ceallach just stand by and watch? He had to do something. Ceallach – no, that’s the name
she
gave you, a Celtic name meaning
war
or
strife
; your name is Tommy Neagle, remember? Tommy gritted his teeth, knowing that he was going to regret this, but the time had come to test his theory.

The time had come to see if this bloody madwoman really could see into the future.

He turned his machine-gun on the Widow.

“Let him down,” Tommy told her. “Or I’ll shoot.”

At first he didn’t think she’d heard him. She didn’t turn or even look. Then, slowly, she shifted her gaze from the fire, and Hood, to Tommy. She frowned, perhaps thinking he’d gone insane, unable to see that the only crazy one around here was her. “And what exactly do yer think yer doin’, Ceallach?”

“Tommy,” he grumbled under his breath. Then, louder: “My name is fuckin’ Tommy! Now let him down, for God’s sake.”

“God?” The Widow didn’t move, but he saw beyond her that Hood’s wife had begun to look hopeful.

When Tommy looked back at the Widow, she’d moved closer. He raised his machine-gun higher. “Don’t move, I’m warnin’ yer!”

Then everything seemed to happen at once. The Widow leapt forward again, and Tommy fired. At the same time, Artair turned his gun on Tommy, which this was all the distraction Hood’s woman needed to strike. She spoiled Artair’s aim by grabbing the rifle and twisting, then delivering a punch across the face that any heavyweight boxer would have been proud of. But she hadn’t finished yet. With the flat of her hand, she smacked Artair squarely in the face. There was a loud
crack
as his nasal cartilage shattered, was driven up into the man’s brain.