The Yeoman: Crying Albion Series - Book 1 (10 page)

As night fell a solitary car
slowly approached the rear fence with its lights off. It went parallel for a
time to the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Then, after making a
ninety degree turn the vehicle faced the back gateway.

Neville took a few deep breaths
then accelerated at full power towards the back gates. The Vauxhall Vectra’s
roar and the smashing collision aroused many of the inhabitants. The heavy
chain-link fence almost resisted the impact but age, fate, along with the
forces of velocity and mass had their way with it. A small group of huddled men
saw the gate crashed open and the vehicle plunged headlong towards them. An old
Arab was bashed aside and a docile Negro had his spine shattered by the mass of
metal. Neville reversed immediately. The huge, crowded Nissan Huts heard the
commotion and several dark faces appeared at windows. Upon seeing the smashed
gates and car’s headlights shining brightly from outside the camp they
announced to the others excitedly what had happened. Like a wave of hysteria they
interpreted that they were being set free and vehicles awaited them. This was
the moment they were waiting for, a chance to taste the delights of western
women, luxury and lay waste to the weak-westerners. The headlights flashed
several times frantically, exciting the inhabitants further.

Neville had lowered his window
and opened the car door. Stepping out and using it as a rest he shouldered his
Ruger 10/.22. The telescopic sight was ordinary and with the glare of his
headlights it made easy work of picking his targets. He let the first of them
exit the gates then opened fire.

The suppressor and sub-sonic ammunition
were like a near-silent death. Four young refugees were slain before they even
knew what was happening. As the doors to the main Nissan Huts were thrown open
he switched to them and fired without even aiming. .22LR bullets were small,
but the hollow points made vicious wound-trajectories. The copper-jacketed lead
zipped and dashed through flesh to ricochet at weird and strange angles as bone
and tissue became vectors of ruin. Neville’s finger speedily shot off the
thirty-round banana magazine and he slapped in another. The other entrance to
the Nissan Hut became carnage, he paused and shot into windows and through the
thin sheet metal of the Nissan Hut.

From within the crowded huts the
occupants howled and screamed like animals. Outside the bases and offside from
the main gateway the noise attracted the attention of the two policemen in
their patrol car.

“They’re making a real racket
this night,” the younger constable said not wishing to make move inside.

“Let the scum kill each other
for all I care,” said the grizzled old Sergeant. “I’m sick of us having to play
babysitter.” He returned to watching a video-stream of an old Blackadder comedy
show as the noise outside got louder.

Back inside the base though the
situation was frantic. The hard-core refugee fanatics knew that to remain in
the huts was suicide and they too charged out the door. Most of them were
either Arabs or Muslim Negros.

By now Neville had changed to
his primary weapon, the AR-10. This rifle had no suppressor, but as it roared
out shot after shot, the high-velocity hollow-points created their own tale of
mayhem.

An Arab male who had boasted of
his laying with the pretty English girl had his lungs shot out. The bullet went
in through an expensive jacket and left a great fist-sized cavity as it slew
the penetrated man and slammed into the one behind him. Both men fell together
as they’d lain together earlier with their female victim. Through the optical
sight Neville watched with a passive relief that he was taking his revenge. No
law or court would ever grant him vengeance in the ancient way, but his own
will of retribution would settle the matter. A crawling man with his spine
severed cried out while another looked at the ruined leg that would never work
again. The rapists themselves understood the danger and began to hide. At this
though the ones who knew the guilty pointed and shouted at a few of them. This
granted them a reprieve as his sights laid death on those they chose would
receive the bullet. At first Neville, with efficient euthanasia, would slay the
wounded. Then, as the horde became maddened and confused he poured an
unrelenting salvo, after salvo as it surged for the gates. The weapons he used
were not full-auto or burst-fire like the Yeomanry and military had access to though
and the horde pressed on. The high-velocity rounds slammed into them though,
blunting their intentions, but not stopping them entirely. He slew a dozen more
angry invaders outright and as many were mortally wounded, more than one with the
same bullet.

The attacker was fortunate that
the ‘New Europeans’ mistakenly believed it was the police from the main gate
firing on them. This drove them directly into the firing corridor Neville
awaited them at for more vengeance. He only had four magazines for the AR and
by the time the last one was empty his vehicle was becoming a target for rocks
and debris.

Ignoring the missiles the somewhat
rotund office-worker shouldered his Lee Enfield and fired once, maiming a
shoulder. Then he worked the bolt to fire again, dropping another fatally. Now
though the enraged mob was almost upon his car.

He jumped inside to slam the
door and lock it from the central console. With the driver’s window still down though
one big Negro began climbing in through it to reach out, tear and gouge. Neville
leaned far to the right, pulling his P-38 to pump two bullets into the big
man’s skull. Those behind the dead Negro pulled his body out of the way before a
tanned face appeared and tried to overpower the driver. A first struck his
face, glancing off his cheek but Neville shot another four times. This silenced
the shrieking face as he engaged reverse-gear and floored the accelerator, sending
the Vectra racing backwards.

The horde began to race after
him but Neville felt confident now. He stopped once hundred yards was made
between he and the illuminated danger, then got out again.

“For Natalie!” the angry white
man cried with a point of his finger. “That was vengeance for Natalie, my
sister!”

He shot the remainder of his
sidearm into the bloodied horde before driving away at full speed. Neville’s
heart raced with intensity, sweat soaked his shirt and leather jacket but drove
on without being reckless. He suspected the Vauxhall Vectra might be a suspect
vehicle now. A few miles away though his main escape car was waiting where he’d
left it hours before. It was still there outside the derelict library as he
pulled up next to it.

The entire city seemed to be
screaming with sirens as he transferred his arsenal and equipment to the BMW.
He was a wanted man and it was a strange feeling for Neville to be hunted by
the law enforcement he once praised so highly.

The Yeomanry
garrison was unofficially the edge of a border town between the outside world
and their fledgling state. The ancient flag of green and blue proudly displayed
the
Albionic
dragon with its companion the White
Horse. Originally the members of the garrison were made up of Warwickshire
Yeomanry, but since the border had shifted north-east they were now Albion Border
Yeomanry. It was at the night hour when they’d almost begin to close the
crossing-point.

Inside the guardroom, the TV showed
an old Benny Hill broadcast from decades past. Suddenly it was interrupted by a
news-alert. There had been an incident at one of the British refugee camps
further south. A man had clandestinely entered with a high velocity rifle slaughtered
many dozens.

A blue BMW car without Albion
tags on the plate drove up to the checkpoint before halting at the metal
gate-barrier. Two camouflage-clad men left their sandbagged bastion with rifles
cautiously held at the low-ready.

The driver was in his early
forties, dark haired and with bright hazel eyes. Yeoman Frost knew something
was wrong with him and tightened his grip on his SLR. There was a bright intelligence
that radiated from his roundish face, like one who would be able to figure his
way out of a labyrinth with raw deduction alone.

“My name is Alfred Hale Neville,”
the driver said, his voice loaded with emotion. “I’ve just waged war against
foreign invaders who raped my sister and her friend.”

Yeoman Frost’s eyes went wide
and the nearby Corporal made a signal to the guard room. Neville kept talking.

“I would like to claim asylum in
Yeomanry territory. Although I’ve often spoken against you Yeomen, that time is
over. If you’ll have me I’d like to join you, if not, let me turn around and go
down fighting.”

The growing wail of a police
siren became noticeable and in the distance blue flashing lights appeared.

The young soldier looked
hesitant but the older Yeoman got on the radio.

As the flashing lights drew
closer the barrier was raised and Neville, under close-guard, drove into the border
sanctuary.

In the guardroom
the duty field officer Captain Dan Buckley appraised the situation mentally as
Sergeant Joe Quinn advised him. Both he and the old Sergeant had briefly
interrogated the man and now, back inside the fortified guardroom, they decided
his fate.

Captain Buckley knew what he had
to do by his heart, but his head told him the smart thing to do was not at all
on the same alignment. Quinn was more for safeguarding their position and
placating the police outside their border.

Buckley watched the BMW through
the camera monitor intently. Neville was without weapons now, all had been
removed from both him and his vehicle. From where he sat in his BMW he was
almost resignedly at peace. They had no spectrum equipment handy for vetting
outsiders like this, it was down to gut instincts and good old fashioned
intuition instead. By the time they'd have called in Eagle Intelligence there
would be a media circus on the border. The officer was silent as his stream of
consciousness went on within him.

“It’s trouble and you know it
Dan,” the old ranker said, interrupting his thoughts. “He could be a spy, one
that’s made to do things in order to look plausible.”

“You saw the news report Joe, she
was someone’s daughter. If a man can’t be sheltered for taking retaliation
against such a thing within Albion, then it’s not an Albion I want a part of.”

“I know, but even assuming he’s
above board, it could be war with Britain if we allow him in.”

“I know it, but if we turn him
away now we’ll look like we’re abandoning our own code. Invaders don’t have
rights, especially when they attack our folk. If it was us in their realm, we’d
be shot on sight for abusing one of their own. Killing innocents is terrible,
but those refugees, most of them aren’t innocents, our intelligence proves
that.”

“The masses in Britain don’t
believe us though! No matter how many broadcasts we make.”

“Sir,” a Yeoman corporal spoke
through the bullet-resistant glass. “The
civvy
police
are demanding we hand him over.”

“Are they specialist firearm
units?”

“Just patrol ones I think. Not
threatening us though,” the Yeoman replied.

“Fire if fired upon, pass the
word,” the officer ordered before turning to the Sergeant. “Sergeant Quinn pass
the following order.
Mr
Neville is to be given passage
under guard to The Estates. The Colonels can decide his application.”

“Roger that sir,” the sergeant
nodded with the feeling of a slight let-down.

He moved quickly out the
guardroom door and made their way to the sandbagged search area.

“It’s your lucky day Alfred,
welcome to Albion,” Sergeant Quinn said bluntly without shaking his hand.

The man’s eyes brightened and he
bowed his head in prayer.

“Thank you, thank you,” he
implored.

“Don’t thank me yet mate, the
Colonels have to decide your fate, not us. We’ll secure your weapons for you
here, if you’re granted asylum they’ll be restored to you, if not you can have
them and leave to where you wish.”

This was done without a fuss and
the Sergeant got in and switched places with Neville. They drove the BMW a
short distance to the duty driver location without incident. There Neville was
transferred to the back of a green Land Rover that was part of the main
garrison.

“To the Estates with this one
Carter,” the Sergeant ordered the duty-driver.

“What’s the duty
Sarge
?” he responded, wondering what entry to make in the
driver’s log.

“Asylum-seeker.”

“Are we getting the invaders now
as well?” Carter complained.

“Does he look like a fucking
invader?” the Sergeant said sardonically pulling a face.

“Well no but—”

“Just drive him there son and
less of your gob. I’ll follow in his BMW, I always wanted to drive one of these,”
the Sergeant grinned. As the senior rank moved away the driver of the Defender
turned to his new passenger getting in next to him.

“So what’s your story then mate?
the Yeoman asked casually to the nervous-looking man.

Neville said nothing, his
tiredness and adrenaline now seemed to give way to a sleepiness.

“Did you piss off the Prime
Speaker’s government?” he quizzed, trying to coax an answer.

“I retaliated and killed invaders,”
the bookish man answered wearily to the astonishment of Carter. He asked more
questions but the fugitive was exhausted. His words about fair ones manning a
wall against a brown tide went mostly over Carter’s head. The drone of the
engine and fading adrenaline soon had Neville asleep for duration of the drive
north.

Chapter
7

The
Alliance

The Ministry
conference room was a place rarely opened to outsiders. Even those within the
Ministry umbrella tended to be considered undesirables unless fully vetted. The
High Commissioner used to consider the SOTF a mere puppy compared to the might
of his police and enforcers. The growing threat from Albion and their elusive
Yeomanry intelligence operatives meant even he had to listen to his advisers now
though. Only one, Richard Granby was seated with him in the room, the other three
were his Ministry Elite agents and unknown to most in the ministry. Cordell
Mastock
, Rachel Shears and a wolfishly alert operative
named
Synel Shildz sat to
the side of the table.

A fifth person, Dominick Nichols
sat with them as well. Unlike the predatory agents Nichols was quite ordinary
to their hardened ways. He was
a re-enlisted Ministry Guard who’d been brought
in to make up the numbers. All wore suits but the bodyguard wore dark gray,
where the others wore the others wore dark blue.

“Warrant
Officer Atkinson and his team are waiting outside now Commissioner,” came a
pleasant voice from the secretary outside.

“Send
them in please Laura,” he responded.

As the four-person group that
made up the SOTF entered the room Roberts scanned them in hawkish fashion with
his gaze. The outsiders, unlike his agents, had been disarmed on exiting the
lift and, without the remote threat of assassination, he breathed easy.

“Welcome to the conference,”
Roberts said drily before rambling on for a few minutes about SOTF history and
their accomplishments. It was more to butter them up to the three special
agents than for any friendly reason of endearment.

“I’m told you can get me the
Yeomanry spooks who spy and collude in my cities officer?” the Commissioner
asked Atkinson.

“We can Commissioner, but our
manning levels are awful, on paper we should have at least a dozen more
operators.”

“Ministry resources are tight
right now, what I can do for you is lend you the support of my top agents.”

Atkinson looked at the two men
and one woman who regarded them. The two men looked like killers, the sort that
would be perfect for handling extraordinary rendition overseas and rough
interrogations. The younger one seemed a shade more even-handed, yet the
murderous intent seemed to burn in them all.

“Agents Cordell
Mastock
, Rachel Shears and
Synel
Shildz
,” High Commissioner Roberts spoke as he introduced
his elite spies.

Atkinson raised an eyebrow at
the exotic name of
Shildz
. The Commissioner picked up
on it and nodded.

“They are from overseas, brought
them in from the cold you might say,” Roberts joked.

His own agents ignored the
humor. The youngest and oldest ones
Mastock
wrote off
immediately as unsuitable. One was too innocent, the other too old. The woman
and seasoned-looking fellow named Johnson seemed to show promise though.

“I’d tell you more but your
vetting clearance isn’t quite high enough. Suffice it to say they’ve been
trained in top secret conditions and locales elsewhere, they have some
equipment that will help in our task too.”

Deep inside him the old warrant
officer was wary, the agents had no look of the discipline and bedrock of army
life or training. Yet lurking in Atkinson’s periphery was the coward in him. It
saw a pension and overseas life not far away if he stomached just a few more months
of the Ministry madness.

“SOTF welcome the aid Commissioner,”
Atkinson said readily.

Even Templeton, the most
open-minded to change felt instinctively wary. She saw the red-headed woman as
a rival. Shears was younger and taller than she was. Even the way she
dismissively registered her was an affront. All of the Elite group seemed to be
cold and stand-offish, like they were factions within a faction. Yet
Mastock
looked at her with a disdain, an anti-
Kaslar
disdain she wondered?

“We have a mission for the SOTF,”
Roberts said. “There’s a city in the Midlands I want a field unit sent to. I’ll
go into details later, for now I want one of my agents to provide Land Ministry
oversight.”

“This is most irregular Commissioner,”
Atkinson said softly. “Special Occurrences is a military unit, civilians must
be vetted and processed for side-by-side activities.”

“Danny, with respect you are not
within your barracks or jurisdiction now though.”

“I expect the agents are
suitable?” Atkinson said changing tack.

“The Land Ministry have absolute
clearance for its agents,” Richard Granby said with a dull drone. “They are to
an elite caliber, likely teach your operatives a thing or two,” the advisor
chirped sardonically. Johnson glared at him with a glint in his eye, he kept
his voice from responding yet mouthed a few silent curses at the civilian.

“I see,” Atkinson said merrily,
“well we SOTF have a few tricks up our sleeve as well you know,” the old
officer responded.

“To put things bluntly, I expect
the apprehension and capture of our enemies Officer Atkinson, hand them over to
Land Ministry forces. Shoot to kill only if necessary. Live captives are
preferred.”

“Understood Commissioner. Are we
getting a boost in numbers? With us at platoon strength we—”

“That will depend on your
performance would it not?” the leader countered sharply.

“I expect it would, but a small boost
of numbers for SOTF, authorized by you from our home base would benefit—”

“
After
I see how your branch performs, not before,” Roberts smirked
wirily.

The meeting went
on for a time longer before it concluded, then SOTF left the office to return
to their inner sanctum several floors below. Once there they all converged on
their own leader’s office for heavy talk. The officer had few answers though.

“Are they out to replace us?
Apart from Dominick I don’t trust any of them,” Rebecca said.

“Even he’s a bit suspect,”
Johnson grumbled.

“Why’s that?”
Athered
asked.

“He’s ex-security provost, MPGS.
Not the proper army if you ask me. Better than those other three though.”

“I don’t like any of this either,”
Atkinson said to his three operatives, “but it’s the only way we can stay on
top of the situation.”

“Them being lumped in with us is
a bit much,” Rebecca said frankly, “but like Danny says, we need a boost in
numbers, as do they I suspect.”

“A boost in our
own
numbers though,” Johnson retorted,
“not these
civvy
agents we know little about. If you
ask me those three
ain’t
ex-military either, more
like black ops spooks, death-squad-types, executioners who’d be happy to kill
entire villages on a false flag. I say we refuse Danny.”

“No way! We’re stuck with the
hand Roberts dealt us. We aren’t a bunch of Yeomanry who do our own thing
Scott! Not even in SOTF. Here’s the script, Becks, the duty bodyguard Nichols
is assigned to you. I want you with him in London districts as your guard when
chasing.”

Templeton nodded with a slight
grin. Vehicular pursuit was a role she excelled at.

He turned to the two men.

“Scott, Brian I need you as eyes-on-the-ground,
working as follow-on for Becks.”

“What about for the mission up
north?” Brian
Athered
asked.

“I’ll probably go on that one
lad. I have to show Roberts we’re flexible. We need most us down here. Let the
Land Ministry run with things for a bit in my absence.”

His three operatives protested
but the old officer wouldn’t have it any other way. Templeton’s earnest ways
had triggered some of the old fire in him and he wanted one last hands-on
mission.

“It’ll be alright, that
Synel
character can do all the hard work I’ll probably end
up on
overwatch
from the chase car,” he joked.

Atkinson was light-hearted about
it on the outside, but on the inside he was dreading the next few days.