Reign of Evil

Yank worked on Sassy. Whatever she’d expected to find on Cadbury Hill, it wasn’t a body full of metal. She’d lost a piece of an ear and would have a lasting reminder on her right cheek, not to mention those that had pierced her triceps, quadriceps, and stomach. She fumed silently as Yank and one of the Marines worked on her, first removing the flechettes and then cleaning and bandaging her wounds.

No one had gone unscathed.

YaYa had a leg wound.

Walker had wounds on the back of his upper leg.

And Holmes had one in his arm in addition to the cut from Yank.

Still, they were lucky. Their body armor had caught most of it. Had the enemy really wanted to kill them, though, it could have set up a far more considerable ambush. Claymores, IEDs, machine guns with interlocking fields of fire, bouncing Betty mines, trip wires… Holmes could think of dozens of more efficient ways to kill them than the flechette cannon.

Was it a statement?

“Stop looking all motherly, Boss.”

Holmes finished affixing the bandage over and around the flechette next to Laws’s eye. “Not sure if you lost the eye or not, Tim.”

Laws dropped his smile at the use of his first name. Holmes knew it would get Laws’s attention. He wanted to make certain that his second understood his predicament. But then the smile returned.

“Can’t worry about what’s already done. How are the others?”

“You were hit the worst. The witch is next, but her pain is more intramuscular.”

“She’d going to be one large bruise.”

“She already is.” Holmes held up one of the flechettes. “Why?”

Laws took it from him. “I was laying here thinking the same thing. If they’d really wanted to kill us, I can think of better ways.”

“Exactly. So why this?”

“You think it’s a statement, don’t you?”

Holmes nodded.

“Let’s look at it from the Arthurian perspective. The Romans used plumbatas—small handheld darts with lead weights. The Picts of Scotland also used darts, some tribes exclusively. They were also used by the Celts and the Gaels. One could look at it as symbolic of a return to the past.”

Holmes knew that to be true but had a hard time believing that this was the reason now that he heard it out loud.

“But I’m with you,” Laws continued. “It doesn’t sound as good out loud as it does in our heads. Let’s look at it another way. We’ve done considerable damage to their operation.”

“Not enough, it seems. Arthur is still out there. Even though we’ve removed several high-ranking officials and killed some of his hunt, we don’t know how many are left.”

Laws grimaced as he brought himself to a sitting position. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Back to the question at hand. Where is Arthur? We’d believed all along that he’d come here to crown himself.”

“You’re forgetting something.” Laws made to stand and Holmes helped him. “There’s already a ruling monarch. The people aren’t going to follow Arthur as long as Elizabeth lives.”

Holmes beckoned Ian over, who’d been speaking to the pilots who’d just arrived. Ian came and brought along one of the pilots, who introduced himself as Patrick.

“Ian? Where is the Queen right at this moment?”

The sole surviving member of Section 9 blinked several times. “Buckingham Palace.”

“So she’s spending Christmas in London,” Holmes said.

Ian snapped his fingers. “No. She’s at Sandringham Estate. It’s in Norfolk.”

“How fast can we get there?”

“By truck about six hours.”

Holmes pointed at the helicopters. “And in one of those?”

“Ninety minutes. Maybe a little more,” said Patrick. “We can get about one hundred and ninety-five miles per hour out of them.”

“Then let’s get everyone loaded. We can continue triage on board.”

The helicopters were in the air within five minutes. The SEALs, Ian, and the witch flew with Patrick. Magerts and his men flew with Keith in the other helicopter.

Holmes sat in one of the co-pilots’ seats and wore a helmet. He stared at the top of Cadbury Hill wondering what it was he had missed. There had to have been a reason for the flechette cannon. He knew he was going to regret not knowing.

CHAPTER 53

NAP-OF-THE-EARTH. ENGLAND. 1419 HOURS.

About fifteen minutes into the flight he turned to the pilot. “How’d you know we needed help?”

“My boss contacted me.”

“That would be Conor?”

Patrick glanced at Holmes, an impressed look on his face. “So you know Conor?”

“Just as he knows me. We’ve worked with the Finn McCools a few times. Were you in on the Isle of Man disaster?”

Patrick shook his head. “That was before my time, but I read the record. Unbelievable.”

Holmes smiled wryly. “Not so unbelievable if you’d been there to see it.” Then his face went stone again. “It must have been Preeti then. My guess is Section 9 had some sort of back-door communications plan.”

“They had to. We can’t call or e-mail out. Everything’s shut down. Hell, I shouldn’t even be flying. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get some Tornadoes want to tussle.”

“Your IFF?”

Patrick pointed to his console. “It’s off. And as you can see, we’re flying NOE, so we might go unseen.”