Simon Green - The Man with the Golden Torc

"I don’t know! I haven’t done anything! None of this makes any sense, Uncle James…"

"You’ve been officially declared rogue," he said. "A clear and present danger to the whole family. Every Drood is authorised to kill you on sight. For the good of the family."

We stood looking at each other. Neither of us wore our armour. Neither of us had a weapon. His face was cold, even calm, but in his eyes I could see a torment I’d never seen before. For perhaps the first time in his life, James Drood didn’t know what to do for the best. He was torn between what he’d been ordered to do and what was in his heart. Remember, this was the Gray Fox, the most loyal and dependable agent the family had ever had. Uncle James. Who’d been like a father to me. Who in the end wouldn’t, couldn’t, kill me.

We both sensed that at the same moment, and we both relaxed a little.

"So," I said. "What do we do now?"

"I go back to the Matriarch. Tell her you were already gone when I got here," Uncle James said flatly. "You…you run. Run, and keep running. Hide yourself so deep that even I won’t be able to find you. Because if we meet again, I will kill you, Eddie. I’ll have to. For the good of the family."

Uncle James disappeared without even saying good-bye, air rushing in to fill the space where he’d been. I should have told him about the faerie arrow that pierced my armour, but he hadn’t given me a chance, and anyway, I was still in shock. My family wanted me dead. After everything I’d done for them, after ten long years of fighting the good fight on their behalf, this was my reward: to be declared rogue. Traitor. Outcast. I might have had my disagreements with them, but they were still my family. I would never have betrayed them. It’s one thing to run away from home; quite another to be told you can’t go back because if you do they’ll kill you on sight. I looked at the lead-lined container that should have held the Soul of Albion, staring into its empty red plush interior as though it might have some answers for me. It didn’t, so I threw it away.

I went back to the Hirondel and slid painfully in behind the wheel again. I might be hurting in all kinds of ways, but I was still a professional, so I had the car’s defence systems run a complete diagnostic, to make sure there weren’t any more bugs or tracking devices anywhere on board. Or indeed any other nasty and possibly fatal surprises. The car muttered to itself for a bit, and then gave itself a clean bill of health. I relaxed a little and started up the engine. Even after all she’d been through, the Hirondel roared smoothly and immediately to life, ready to take me anywhere I wanted. It was good to know there were still a few things left in my life that wouldn’t let me down.

I headed the Hirondel back up the M4, away from the south, back towards London. My home territory. If they were going to come for me, I wanted it to be on home ground. I passed dead bodies and crashed vehicles, blazing fires and black smoke and all the other damage I’d done. There seemed to be quite a lot of it. Poor damned fools, dying for nothing, over a prize that was never there. And if there were similarities in that to how my life had turned out, I tried not to think about it. The Hirondel laboured along, reluctant to hit high speeds anymore, but I was in no hurry anyway. The family’s remote viewers couldn’t see or find me as long as I wore the torc. Slowly my shock crystallised into anger, and then into something colder and more determined. I wanted answers. My whole world had just been turned upside down, and I needed to know why. According to James I had been officially declared a rogue, so none of the other family out in the world would talk to me. Hell, most of them would try to kill me the moment they set eyes on me. Droods have no mercy for traitors.

Which meant there was only one place left I could go for answers, for the truth: the people I’d been fighting all my life. The bad guys.

I left the M4 by the first exit I came to. I needed to lose myself in country roads and back lanes before the family’s search hounds came sniffing up the motorway after me. I hadn’t gone half a mile down the exit before I was forced to slow down and stop by a police barricade. It wasn’t a particularly impressive barricade; just a few rows of plastic cones backed up by the presence of two uniformed officers and a squad car. A long line of stationary vehicles faced me in the other lane, and a small crowd of impatient drivers had gathered on the other side of the cones, taking it in turns to loudly berate the police officers. They all looked around as I approached in the Hirondel, and they all seemed pretty surprised to see me. I stopped the car a respectful distance away, and the police officers came over to talk to me. I think they were quite pleased for an excuse to get away from the drivers. They both did distinct double takes as they took in the condition of my car, and they stopped a respectful distance away from me and ordered me to turn off my engine and get out of my car. I smiled and did as I was told. They had answers, whether they knew it or not.

I sat on the bonnet of the Hirondel and waited for them to come to me. They approached cautiously, pointing out the bullet holes and the shattered windscreen to each other. They hadn’t expected to see anything like that on traffic duty. One of them started writing down my license plate number in his little notebook, for all the good that would do him, while his colleague came forward to interrogate me. I gave him a nice, friendly smile.

"Why is this section of the motorway sealed off?" I said innocently, getting my question in before he could ask me for ID that I had absolutely no intention of providing.

"Seems there’s been a chemical spill, sir. Very serious, so they tell me. Are you sure you haven’t seen anything, sir? This whole section of the M4 has been officially declared a hazardous area."

"Well, yes," I said, allowing myself another smile. "I did find it rather hazardous in places…"

The police officer didn’t like the smile at all. "I think you’d better stay here with us for a while, sir. I’m sure my superiors will want to ask you some more detailed questions down at the station. And the hazmat people will want to make sure you haven’t been exposed to anything dangerous." He stopped. I was smiling again. He looked at me coldly. "This is a very serious matter, sir. Please move away from your vehicle. I need to see some identification."

"No, you don’t," I said. I drew my Colt Repeater from its shoulder holster. The police officer put his hands in the air immediately, palms out to show they were empty. His colleague started forward, and I raised the gun just a little.

"Stay where you are, Les, and don’t be a fool!" said the other officer.

"Remember your training!"

"It could be a replica," said Les, staying back but still scowling at me.

I aimed casually at the squad car, and the Colt shot out all four of the tyres. The small crowd of drivers by the cones cried out in shock and alarm. People aren’t used to guns in England, which on the whole I approve of. I gestured for both police officers to remove the cones from the road, and they did so slowly and reluctantly. I kept a careful eye on them, making sure they stuck together so I could cover both of them with the Colt. I had no intention of shooting anyone, but they didn’t need to know that. The crowd of drivers was starting to get restive. I needed to get under way before one of them decided he was a hero type and did something stupid. Innocent bystanders can be a real pain in the arse sometimes. I backed away and slid behind the wheel of the Hirondel. I was breaking the first rule of the field agent; I was being noticed. So, when in doubt, confuse the issue.