possible threat could that woodsman and his followers pose to me?'
Tanek scowled. 'That is exactly what De Falaise thought.'
'But your dead master was a lot nearer, wasn't he? The world's a much bigger place these days, my friend.'
'Hood is already expanding.' Tanek knocked back the vodka. 'He has appointed himself protector of the region. Next it will be his country. Then he will look to Europe.' It was the most Tanek had said in years, probably ever. But he felt he wasn't just speaking on his own behalf anymore.
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
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.
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
