Paul Kane - Arrowhead

"Merda!"

Rolling onto his side, Savero noted that the hooded man was climbing to his feet. Getting a knee under himself, he rose as well, but not quickly enough. The man was on him, not letting up for a second. Savero was being pummelled with blows from the left and right. He held up his arms to defend himself, swinging blindly. In the end he tried to push the man away, but after a few seconds the punishment continued. Savero reached down to his belt, loosing the knife he kept there. He brought it up in an arc, slashing the hooded man across the chest, though not deep enough to penetrate his clothes.

Now, squatting down, he slashed at his enemy again. But then he saw the hooded man produce his own knife: a hunter's blade with serrated edge. Savero acknowledged this with a tip of the head. They circled each other, two sets of eyes fixed. Savero watched for any sudden movements, and he knew the hooded man was doing the same. At last, it was the Italian who moved first, running at his enemy and bringing down his blade. The hooded man blocked him by raising his forearm, linking the pair together so that neither could strike. They pulled each other around, as if in some kind of crazy dance, until finally the hooded man brought up his knee and levered Savero back. The Italian was not fast enough to avoid the slash that cut open the top of his right arm, and he let out a wounded shout.

Through clenched teeth, Savero cursed the man again. Why won't you just lie down? Why won't you die? In all his time he had never encountered an opponent so reluctant to give an inch, so hard to read. It was as though he wasn't bothered about dying; and if he wasn't frightened of death why should he be scared of Savero?

When the Italian came at him this time, he made a false play, pretending to go in one direction, then dodging back behind the hooded man, snaking an arm around his neck so that it was in the crook of Savero's elbow. The knife point dug into Hood's chest. One false move and he'd drive it downwards into his heart.

"Ah, that's it… " he grunted in the man's ear. "You're mine n-"

Savero was aware of a numbness. Something warm and wet was leaking into the crotch of his trousers, and for a bizarre second he thought he might have somehow wet himself. But a wave of pain was spreading outwards; enough for him to let go of his captive. Savero looked down and saw the knife sticking out of him, right in the 'V' of his legs. It was almost as if the sight, the knowledge of what had happened made things so much worse, caused the pain to increase a million fold.

Savero dropped his own knife and his hands went to the other one. He thought about it, but daren't touch the thing, let alone pull it out. He saw the faces in the crowd, the 'thank God that's not me' expressions, and he stared at the hooded man, uncomprehending. It was one thing to kill him, to die in battle – it was quite another to do this to someone.

Savero staggered a couple of feet, but the pain when he moved was tremendous. He knew the blood was draining out of him rapidly – the femoral artery sliced. Wincing, he dropped to his knees, then fell over sideways. Tears were streaming from his eyes.

The shape of the man standing over him was indistinct, the pain that had been so sharp a minute or two ago was now dull and throbbing. So this is what it's like, Savero thought to himself. In a funny sort of way he welcomed death, for what kind of a shameful life would he be able to lead after what had happened.

Something De Falaise had said that first time they met came back to Savero. "You have balls…"

He would have laughed, or at least chuckled at the dark irony, had he been able.

Robert took no great delight in what he'd done.

It had been kill or be killed, and once again his survival instinct hadn't allowed him to give up. Breathing hard, he gazed down at the dead man, curled up on the road in a foetal position, then at the people who'd been watching the fight. Their mouths hung open. They'd never seen anything like it, not even during The Cull. He knew he had to say something – anything – to break the silence.

"Check the back of the trucks, see what we've got… and where we need to return it."

They all continued to gawp at him. He'd said only recently that he didn't want to be like De Falaise, couldn't rule through fear, and yet here they were all so scared of him they could barely move. Thank goodness Mark hadn't been here to see this; Robert was grateful he'd got him to see sense about staying out of harm's way, if only this time. The kid had probably seen worse, out there on the streets, but still…

His opinion of you matters, doesn't it? Go on, admit it.

"Didn't you hear me? Check the truck, I said. We have work to do." This time they snapped out of their reverie, welcoming the chance to leave the scene. Robert nodded at Granger, who'd been the bait in this particular hunter's trap. "You did well," he told him.

The young man blinked and nodded back. "Thanks."

"You're in charge of talking to the men from this unit – finding out whether we can trust them or not, weeding out the bad bets."

Robert had to admit, he still hadn't been a hundred per cent sure about his men until they'd come out from behind their hiding places, until Granger had pushed the commander's arm when the man was firing at him. Now he knew he'd been right to do what he did, freeing them, giving them the option of walking away or teaming up with him. He'd seen wayward kids like Granger before on the beat, who needed to be shown trust before they could trust. Given the right circumstances – and motivation – they could be turned around.

But that hadn't been what changed Robert's mind. Nor that little pep talk Tate had given him, right after he broke down in the face of those flames.

(All he'd been able to see was his house burning, his wife and son being cremated inside, his injured dog crawling out of the door on fire… Jesus, it was enough to make anyone seize up, wasn't it?)

Though Robert had to declare that something Tate mentioned sparked the turnaround. He asked him what Robert's family would have thought, what they would have wanted him to do…

"Read to me some more, Dad… please…"

It was then that it all fell into place for him. It was all connected, he saw that now. Even down to how he'd chosen to dress, where he'd picked to hide away from the world.

"Read it to me again, read the part about where he robs from the rich to give to the poor."

Somebody, somewhere, was playing a game with him – providence was having its own little joke. Robert Stokes's life was now the equivalent of a storybook. Only an idiot couldn't spot the parallels, and only an idiot couldn't figure out what he had to do next.

"Read the bit where he defeats the evil Sheriff…"

What would his family have wanted him to do? Joanne would have wanted to keep him safe, of that he was certain, but she was also so very proud of what he did.

"You help people. It's what you do, it's who you are, even without the uniform."

As for Stevie, he'd been trying to tell Robert all along.

"Read to me, Dad, go on."

That's when he'd got up and walked across to the captured men. That's when the decision had been made, not even really by him, but by two people he'd loved so dearly and lost so suddenly. If he was to wait it out, bide his time until he could be with them again, then he might as well do some good while he was at it. But if Robert was going to bring down this new 'Sheriff of Nottingham' he'd need men. And he was banking on the fact that Granger and his lot could be persuaded to switch sides.

Some had been unsure, of course, and some Granger had marked out as being dangerous; the ones who hadn't needed any threats to throw in with De Falaise. Robert would still let them go, in spite of Bill and Tate's protestations. He was, after all, a man of his word.