'Bloody Sheriff? What's he talkin' about?' Bill looked down and sensed that Mark would have taken off at that point, if there had been anywhere to hide. But this wasn't the city, this was open countryside. And there were precious few places to find cover out here. Bill hoisted up his shotgun, not really knowing what good that would do when – not if – this turned ugly.
Without any provocation at all, the men on bikes raced round and round the stalls, shooting into the air. Others were climbing from the jeeps, knocking people to the ground and pointing rifles at them so they wouldn't move. Some of them snatched food. Bill saw one young man grab a hunk of cheese and bite down into it, waving an automatic pistol at the owner, daring him to do something. A pair of people did run, in fact, off across the field to get away. Apparently that counted as resistance, because one of the soldiers threw a grenade at them. It exploded just a few feet away from the couple, blowing them several metres into the air. When they landed they weren't moving.
'Yer bunch o-' began Bill, moving towards the men. Mark got behind him, perhaps reasoning that if he couldn't hide in a building he'd hide there. Bill raised the gun to his shoulder, then let off a round that hit one of the bikers squarely in the chest. The rider slumped over the handlebars, and the machine he was on smacked straight into the side of a Sierra belonging to one of the marketeers. The body was flung over the bonnet to land in a slump on the other side.
Bill let off another blast. This time it only glanced across the front of one of the jeeps. Several rifles turned in his direction, but something made them hold their fire. Bill cracked open the gun and loaded up two more cartridges. 'That's it, yer bastards, ye do well to be frightened.'
He was aware of Mark tugging on his jumper, trying to get him to turn around. When he did, Bill understood why the men had held off. The noise of the engines had masked the approach of something else: a great beast of a thing, rumbling over the hill. Bill gawped at the tank, blinking as if that might make it go away. He'd never seen one up close like this. But it was real, it was solid, and the cannon on the front was swinging in his direction.
'Judas Priest!' said Bill. Mark tugged at him to run, to get out of its path. But Bill stood there, raising his shotgun again. 'All right then, bloody well come on!'
As Mark fled, Bill shot at the tank twice, both barrels having as much effect as a wasp sting trying to penetrate a suit of armour. The tank carried on advancing; it must have looked like some kind of surreal modern twist on George and the Dragon, or even David and Goliath. Only Bill was out of stones for his slingshot.
The tank rumbled up and didn't stop until the cannon was inches away from Bill's head. He looked down that black hole, expecting at any minute to be on the receiving end of a live shell.
Mark ran; he hated leaving Bill but didn't know what he could do if the man wouldn't budge. He'd be dead in seconds if that tank opened fire.
The boy was aware of a bike riding up alongside him. A quick glance to the side told him a boot was kicking out, trying to knock him over. Mark ducked and rolled away, but the bike swerved round, readying itself for another pass. Mark reversed direction, aware that the bike was gaining rapidly on him.
He looked up and saw that another one of the riders had decided to join in the game. That one was coming after him from the front. He was being hemmed in.
On the first pass, he managed to dodge sideways, hoping the two bikes would just slam into each other. It wasn't going to be that simple. Avoiding one another, they rode now in a pair, leaving a gap between to squash Mark. He ran as fast as he could but knew that he wouldn't be able to get away from them this time, that he'd be crushed beneath one set of tyres or another.
Then something odd happened.
Mark heard a whizzing sound, felt the brush of something flying past him. He heard a loud bang as the front wheel of the bike to his left exploded. He risked a look over his shoulder, just in time to see the spokes and mudguard of the bike bite into the field, sending the rider over the handlebars.
But Mark couldn't stop running. The second bike had weaved out of the way, and was still chasing him, unwilling to give up on this cat and mouse fun just because his partner's tyre had burst. In fact, the rider had a grenade in his hand and was getting ready to toss it at Mark.
Another couple of whizzes and this time Mark saw the arrows hit the bike and its rider. They went down heavily, leaving Mark to throw himself out of the way, just as the grenade the man had been holding went off.
Mark felt a searing heat, then there was a ringing in his ears.
Shapes passed overhead, arrows flying through the air. Two more soldiers crumpled beside him. Mark finally got to his feet and attempted to track the source of the arrows, but he could see nothing.
Panicking, they began firing every which way, because that's where the threat appeared to be coming from. Now that Mark's hearing was coming back, he caught barked orders, and more than a few scared yelps.
Someone had got these people spooked even with their guns and their armoured vehicles.
The same someone who had just saved Mark's life with a few of bits sticks.
Bill heard the explosion at the same time as the tank crew, it appeared. To begin with he thought it was the soldiers killing more people from the market, but when he looked properly he saw it was one of their own bikes that was in flames.
The cannon swivelled away from Bill, chasing the person who had done this. It couldn't find anyone – and neither could Bill. To his right, a couple of soldiers holding rifles dropped to their knees. No bangs, no gunshots – nothing. But now Bill could see they were clutching at arrows protruding from their chests.
Farther down the field, a jeep had stopped dead – its two front tyres useless now that they had been punctured. The men inside were climbing out, rifles poised, but already three had gone down.
Bill grinned.
He took this opportunity to get out of the tank's way, rushing back towards the market. One soldier was heading in his direction, but before he could bring his rifle up, Bill had already whacked him in the face with the butt of his own gun.
The top portion of the tank was still swivelling, and Bill observed the hatch opening up on top. A thickset man smoking a cigar emerged. He was trying to get a bead on whoever was firing those arrows. Then he pointed, shouting in a German accent: 'There, you idiots, he's over there!'
It was the man Bill had met a fortnight ago, but hadn't forgotten. The 'poacher' with the rabbits.
The man called Robert who'd worn a hood.
Henrik couldn't believe how incompetent these foot soldiers were. Granted, there were only a handful of properly trained men to spread around the units (hence the fact he was doing the job of three – tank commander, loader and gunner – while his driver, chosen for his previous experience with tracked diggers, sat behind a 10 mm partition up front). The rest of their 'army' was made up of dregs they'd struck the fear of God into on their journey. But surely even they should be able to handle one man using such a primitive form of weaponry?
Yet he was running rings round them; running, ducking and hiding behind bushes. Bushes for Heaven's sake! Henrik couldn't get a shot off fast enough with the cannon, so he dropped back inside and ordered his driver to lead the rest of his squad down towards the figure, or at least where they'd last seen the man firing.
Looking through the viewfinder, Henrik saw the remaining vehicles not only following, but getting ahead of them, taking the hunt to this cretin with the arrows.
And there, yes, Henrik could see the speck running. He wouldn't get far, not on this terrain, not with bikes, a jeep, and a tank in pursuit. He'd picked the wrong people to play tag with. He was outnumbered and outgunned.
They followed him over the next small hill, and it was then that Henrik saw what the man had in mind. He was trying to get back to cover. He was going back to ground.
If he made it there, they might never find him. And he'd never let a kill get away.
Henrik bit down on his cigar, then ordered the Challenger driver to speed up.
Rory Wilkes didn't even know what he was doing here.
He'd gone along with all this since the armed men had arrived in his home town of Coventry – let's face it, they hadn't really given any of them an option. But now people were getting hurt; and there was a good chance he might be as well. While he had to admit the feel of the combats, the weight of the M16 in his hands, did feel good (what little boy hadn't wanted to play Action Man at some point, even after he'd grown up?) this was all getting a bit too serious for his liking.
Rory had been impressed by the ease with which they'd taken Nottingham, De Falaise's words as they moved into the castle like something from an old movie. But if one man could now send them into confusion like this…
