and Bill's eyes, the hooded man strode over to where the prisoners were tied up. He examined their faces one by one, the men he'd attacked, those who'd fallen foul of his traps.
One of them, a soldier Robert had last seen dangling from a net, stared at him. He couldn't have been more than twenty.
'Please don't kill us.' The young man spoke with a Southern accent.
Robert pulled down his hood. 'You want me to let you go, is that it? So you can return to De Falaise?'
The youth thought about this, then shook his head. 'Not after what he did to the others. The men you let go last time…'
Robert remembered what another young man had told him in similar circumstances, almost in tears. 'Please… please don't hurt me, I had no choice. He was going to kill me; kill us all.' Then Robert looked across at the other troops, saw that they were terrified of the same thing.
'You did these things, joined De Falaise's army, because you had no choice, right?'
He nodded.
'Okay, now I'm going to give you one,' Robert told him.
The youth looked puzzled.
'What's your name?'
There was a moment's hesitation before he replied: 'Granger.'
'All right, then, Granger. I'm going to offer you, offer all of you, a choice.' He looked back over his shoulder at Tate. 'You can join me… join us. Help take down De Falaise, provide information so that we can put an end to his operation. Or you can take your chances out there.'
Tate limped over to join him. 'Hold on, what are you doing? This isn't what I meant. They were sent here to kill you, Robert.'
'They're scared.'
'They can't be trusted,' argued the Reverend. 'They've committed terrible acts.'
'Many of them because they were forced to. Because De Falaise rules through terror, not trust.' Robert undid the bonds that held Granger. 'If we're going to do this, that's not how it'll work here.' Robert held out his hand. 'So, what do you say?'
Granger looked at the outstretched hand, as if not quite sure what to do, as if nobody had ever shown such faith in him before.
Then, finally, he reached out with his own scarred hand and shook Robert's.
CHAPTER TEN
It had been rich pickings that day.
In the front seat of the truck, Savero nursed his rifle and smiled. De Falaise would be more than happy with the hoard his unit were bringing back to the castle. As specified, they'd started up near a place called Worksop a few days ago and wound their way down the map, back towards Nottingham. De Falaise – as per usual – had guessed correctly that the most productive communities had actually sprung up away from the major towns and cities, in countryside like this. It made sense for people to gather together out in rural areas, away from the attention of the gangs and violence that characterised the larger, urban localities. These were the communities using a network of markets and trading to get by. England had indeed been thrown back to the Middle Ages in some respects, to a time before rail networks and airports. People had to be self-sufficient, which suited De Falaise and his army well… because they weren't. Why bother, when they could just go around creaming off food, clothing and any other useful items they might want from less well organised – and less well armed – factions?
Just outside a place called Sutton-in-Ashfield, in fact, they'd come across a clump of people who'd gone back to their roots. They thought the world had forgotten about them, off the beaten track, but what they didn't know was Savero and his troops were actively searching for such places. They'd steamrollered in, the three jeeps, four bikes and two trucks, enough to put paid to any resistance from the inhabitants. In the face of uniformed men with automatic weaponry, they'd handed over their goods without complaint. Savero had organised the collections, ordering the men to take whatever they could find that might be of use, loading it up into the back of the Bedfords for transportation to the next location, and then finally on to their base.
They used the back roads mainly, as it was easier to spot the houses that might be hidden by trees or in the dips of hills. A couple of times they'd come across isolated farm houses, with only a handful of people gathered there. It always amused Savero to see how the 'men' of the villages and households crumpled when confronted with people armed to the gills. Now and again you'd get one who fought back, but usually only with crude weapons like knives. England's pre-Cull gun ban ensured that only criminals and those from large cities had any halfway decent weaponry. Certainly nothing compared with De Falaise's arsenal.
Savero hated using the old cliche, but it really was like taking candy from babies. It was just as De Falaise had promised when he recruited the Italian. The practised speech he'd given when they met in Parma might have come across as so much hot air had anyone else been speaking the words. But the Frenchman's impassioned plea, the way he carried himself, and the way he had already inspired loyalty in the men he'd recruited to his cause, made Savero take his words very seriously indeed.
'You have balls, Savero. Come with me, work for me,' De Falaise had said, 'and I promise you won't regret it.'
Savero hadn't in the slightest, not even when they'd been in the heat of battle. Because his life had turned around at that moment. He was no longer on his own, scrabbling for survival, fighting off the nuts stupid enough to approach him, avoiding the gangs that had sewn up pockets of Europe. He felt a part of something special, however small, and now look where that decision had taken him, look how it had all grown. Savero was an officer in De Falaise's army, had men under him once more. Just like the old days in the Esercito Italiano – the Italian Army – before the lure of money persuaded him to go AWOL. Granted, they weren't the elite he'd fought with then, but there was strength in numbers. And they were petrified of him, of De Falaise. With good reason. Savero watched his driver for a moment, a man in his late twenties, dressed in the uniform of a soldier but with the uncertain look of a new recruit. Even more uncertain the longer Savero stared at him, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
No, there was something else. Something his driver had spotted down this country lane they were following towards Nottingham, fields, trees and hedgerows on either side of them. Savero faced front again and saw what the problem was. Up ahead, just as the lane hit a kink, was a car… Wait, it was a jeep. Not only that, it was one of their jeeps, a Wolf similar to those accompanying his unit today. It was blocking off the narrow road, bonnet up, a couple of uniformed men examining the inside as if there was something wrong with the engine.
Savero ordered the truck to slow down – they were going nowhere till this was sorted out. He wound down the passenger window and stuck his head out.
'Hey, you – what's the big hold up?' he called out to the soldiers by the broken down vehicle. One of the men standing by the bonnet came forward, shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. He shrugged, pointing back to the jeep. Savero sighed deeply. He could see there was something the matter with it, he wanted to know what. Opening the door, he clambered out. He was going to leave his rifle on the front seat, but at the last second took it with him. It was habit. A good soldier always kept his weapon with him at all times.
Savero walked towards the young trooper, even more fresh-faced than his driver. 'What's wrong with it?'
The man shrugged again, this time adding, 'No idea. Don't know much about engines. It just started making this funny noise and…'
Savero wasn't really listening to him anymore. He was listening to his instincts instead. Something wasn't right here. Something didn't add up. 'What are you doing out here anyway? This was our designated route back.'
'Routine patrol, sir,' said the soldier, but there had been a brief hesitation before answering.
'Who's in charge? It can't be you.'
Another one of the soldiers, the guy with his head in the engine looked up at the pair of them. Suddenly Savero saw it, the panic in his eyes.
'Er…' began the first lad. 'In charge… er…'
