Paul Kane - Arrowhead

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…"

"I asked you a question!"

"That would be… him." The soldier nodded behind Savero, and even as he turned, raising his eyes at the same time, he saw the shadow dropping down from the overhanging trees to land on the roof of the truck.

He swore, preparing to fire at the hooded man. The soldier jostled him, spoiling his aim. The man in the hood ducked sideways as the bullets completely missed their target. Savero spotted more men emerging from behind the hedgerow, armed just as they were… because they were them: soldiers from De Falaise's ranks. What was happening here, some kind of revolt?

Before his own men could react, these rebels had pulled them from their jeeps, prodded them off their bikes with the ends of their rifles.

Savero spun back around, training his gun on the youth who had knocked his arm. But before he could fire, the man on top of the truck leaped down on him.

Savero was pushed forwards, the rifle knocked from his clutches. It was quickly picked up by the traitor who had led them into this trap.

"Figlio di puttana!" cried Savero, wriggling out from under his attacker. He was up in seconds, but then so was the bearded man in the hood. "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer him, which only infuriated Savero further. He went to punch the man in the stomach, but his opponent shifted his weight slightly so the blow landed east of where it should have.

The man brought down his own fist and the Italian moved towards the blow, angling himself so that his forehead took the full force of the punch. But he didn't stop there. Savero continued to bring up his head so that he caught the man's chin from beneath, knocking the hooded man sharply backwards. His enemy stumbled a few feet, shaking his head.

Savero grinned. "You won't win." By now he saw that people had gathered round, his own men and those who had come out of the hedges. He also spotted a couple of people out of uniform, one who looked like a farmer holding a shotgun, another – unarmed – limping with a stick. They were all fixated on the fight.

This is more than just a brawl, realised Savero. Whoever wins this will have their respect… But you can take him. He's just some guy who thinks he can play in the big leagues.

He launched himself at the hooded man again, attempting a roundhouse punch to the ear. The bearded man bent, not allowing the blow to settle, then responded with an uppercut, which snapped Savero's head back. It was his turn to shake himself, his vision slightly blurred. Savero saw that the hooded man was rolling up his sleeves, ready to go again.

He didn't give him the chance.

Savero ran at him, grabbing him by the middle, shoving him backwards into the truck. The air exploded out of his opponent's body. Savero stepped back again, watching with satisfaction as the hooded man crumpled. Then he took a run up, to kick the winded man. Instead, he found his foot being grabbed, then twisted and pushed back so that he lost his balance completely. Savero fell onto his shoulder blades; hard.