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"Zara's dead." Guinevere looked as though she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and Lancelot watched the young woman pace the floor of Arthur's office warily. After Tristan had been dragged in half dead by Merlin, they'd been debriefed by the old hippy, but the story still didn't seem quite real to any of the four people who had gathered to work out what to do next.
"As the proverbial doornail".
"Lance..." His brother's voice was low, and Lancelot understood the underlying warning, but he was more interested in watching Guinevere. They still hadn't found out who had planted the bombs at the base, and since the last time he had trusted a woman he'd ended up in jail, he was interested to see Guinevere's reaction to the news. Arthur might be shagging her, but that didn't give him any reason for he himself to trust her.
The dark haired woman gave him a smile as though she had read his thoughts. Or perhaps just his body language. "Back off Lancelot. I could have taken out most of the camp if I'd wanted to by now, including your brother." She gave a swift half smile at the Commander who leaned against the desk in the corner. "My dad and I are on your side. Zara might have fooled us for a while, but the bitch used us. She used us so that Saxon could slaughter people." Turning to Arthur, she shoved clenched fists into the pockets of the hooded top she wore. "Saxon is going to be beyond pissed about this. Whatever time we had before he strikes probably just got cut in half."
"And that's if we're lucky." Merlin let out a tired breath from the overstuffed armchair he was ensconced in. "How many of Saxon's men did your scout kill? four? five?"
"Go team murderous bastard," Lancelot murmured, earning himself a glare from everyone else in the room.
"The lot of them will be out for blood," the old man continued wearily. "Reasoning didn't work when we could match them with men and firepower. Now..." he gave a gesture that encompassed everywhere around them. "There's no way we can hold them back."
Arthur rubbed a hand over his face and wished that there was an easy answer to their predicament. Running wasn't an option. Not now. Not with nearly a hundred and fifty refugees and several dozen wounded. Even if they tried to put a little distance between themselves and Saxon there was no-where to go.
One way or another this battle would have to end here.
"You're right," he said quietly. "The clock is ticking, and Saxon is going to want revenge. But that in itself gives us an advantage." He looked over at Merlin. "The bastard is going to be driven by rage, and that makes him unstable and prone to mistakes. From what you've told me and what I know of him, he's going to want to attack us guns blazing – we've got to be cleverer than that. We've got resources, we just have to use them to our best advantage."
"We're ok for firepower, Arthur," Lancelot said dubiously, "but we're down to maybe thirty decent soldiers and forty or so men and women that know the difference between a Barretta and a baguette. It's no good having the artillery if we don't have anyone to fire it."
"I've got an idea about that," Arthur replied a faint smile playing about his lips. "Han's still in the bunker isn't he?" the commander asked Merlin.
The older man nodded. "He and Burgess are putting together some IUD's to greet Saxon when he visits."
"Guinevere? Can you go and get him?" Arthur asked the woman beside him. "I'm going to need his help with this."
Guinevere nodded and left the room swiftly, closing the door behind her.
"Umm, guys, not to point out the elephant in the room, but isn't there something we need to address here?" Lancelot raised his eyebrows in disbelief when both Merlin and Arthur looked at him blankly. "A couple of days after your lot come here", he nodded at Merlin, "your lot including at least one traitor and a bonafide explosives expert, the place gets bombed to shit. From the inside."
"It wasn't Han," Merlin said firmly.
"And you believe that because...." Lancelot prompted.
"Two of the bodies nailed to crosses on the M1 were his wife and daughter. Saxon found them when he was off scouting for food." Giving a mirthless smile when Lancelot obviously had no reply to that, he continued. "He's found what was left of the bomb that was supposed to take out the munitions bunker, and his guess is that whoever planted it is ex-IRA – at a push a Taliban extremist that got stuck here when the virus struck, but it's unlikely that they'd side with a heathen like Saxon."
"So we're probably looking for an Irish bloke."
"Or woman," Arthur corrected. "There are fifteen in camp and they're being watched."
"News travels fast here," Lancelot said seriously. "Whoever they are must know that time is running out."
"And that's what we're betting on." Merlin looked at Arthur who smiled grimly.
"Whatever they had planned will have to be put into place fast, and once we've got the bastard we can derail Saxon's plans and use them to our own advantage."
Lancelot gave a chuckle. "You're going to use Saxon's own bomber against him?" Looking up, he met his brother's hazel eyes. "I misjudged you bruv – I always thought that you didn't have a creative bone in your body, but that's downright poetic."
"Yeah, well we've got to catch them first," Arthur replied drily. "Until then you've got your orders – get on with it."
Dagonet looked at the checklist that Sarah, the nurse with a pretty smile and a box full of morphine had given him and wondered what had happened to the world. Given that the medical quarters were mostly underground, and as such fairly safe from gunfire and small bombs, it made sense that the elderly, children and women too young to fight would shelter there when the inevitable attack came. But still. The list he had been given wasn't just to make sure that everyone got into the building safely.
If Saxon won then the nurses had the means necessary to end the lives of the men, women and children sheltered here should they want it. The thought made him almost physically sick, but there was no way around it. An overdose of morphine was better than being subjected to Saxon's men's torture for god knows how long. Ugly enough as that was however, the fact was that they simply didn't have enough drugs to do the job.
Shifting the box Burgess had given him under his arm, he drew the grubby curtain away from the med bay that concealed Tristan's bed.
He looked like shit warmed over, was his first thought. The scout was awake, but nowhere near well. Skin pale, the stitches that marred his forehead seemed more obtrusive than the tattoos that marked his cheekbones. Slitted brown eyes watched him approach warily, but his mouth twitched in a faint smile, which was about as close to an affectionate "hello" as Dagonet had ever seen from him.
"Arthur's already asked me," Tristan said before Dagonet could say anything. "The girls start things, I finish it. For those who come to me and ask for a way out."
The big ex squaddie shifted his weight uncomfortably and placed the Glock 9mm and several rounds of ammunition by the bed. "Sarah and Sacha have what's left of the morphine. Those who want to will go to them first if the worst comes to the worst. Those who are left when the supplies run out will come to you...
Dagonet sat on the end of the bed and studied the injured scout. "If the time comes, do think you'll be able to do it?"
"Aren't you the optimistic one." Tristan gave a huff of a laugh and winced as his broken ribs protested the movement. "So much for Zara's happy clappy lets all live happily ever after."
"Yeah, well you used the double faced bitch as a bullet shield if you don't remember," Dagonet pointed out. "I reckon she didn't see that one coming either."
Tristan gave a faint shrug and studied Dagonet's face. The big man looked tired, his eyes dull. Comfort wasn't something that he was familiar with giving or receiving, but he did his best.
"'spect you want to kill the bastards who killed Fulciana."
The ex-squaddie took an inordinately long time to re-arrange the ammo clips in the box on the bedside table before answering.
"We weren't..." he shook his head and shrugged. "But we might have been eventually."
Tristan nodded. "Still. I'm sorry."
"Why was your wife killed?" It was a brutally honest question, and had most people asked it, the scout would either have hit them or ignored them, but the weary compassion in Dagonet's eyes made it seem right to talk. After all, they might all be dead by the morning so what was the harm?
"I was a game keeper after I left school. Loved it. Met Isolde at the library because I had to look up partridge disease; there's romance for you." He gave a rueful smile. "Fell in love and married her." He gave Dagonet an almost embarrassed look. "Fuck knows why she wanted me – she was beautiful. Sweet. We had a boy together – Anthony. And you know, just having them near... that was like..." He struggled for words, and Dagonet felt like a complete bastard for bringing up the subject. Most of them knew bits and pieces about Tristan's past, but none of them had actually dared ask outright what had happened to him or his family. When Tristan fixed him with determined amber eyes he understood. This was Tristan's confession, and poor excuse as he was, he was his priest.
"The bloke I worked for – Lord McBride died. Nice bloke he was, but his son Gareth was a nasty piece of work. He took a shine to Isolde. She'd have nothing of him, but he pestered her. I don't know how bad it got because she was scared to tell me. She didn't want me to lose my job, and the house was part of the estate. It was Burns night..." He stopped and took a breath. "Gavin, rang me – I'd been called out because the deer fence was down and what with the electric fence short circuiting and half a dozen hinds trapped it was fucking chaos up the moor. He said that he'd seen Gareth and a couple of other men go into my house and was going to go in after them. I told him to ring the police." He stopped and took as deep a breath as his injured ribs would allow. "Fucking idiot must have gone in when he didn't get a signal on his phone. When I got there he was dead on the steps to the house and the whole place was blazing. I tried. I really tried..." Tristan's voice tailed off and Dagonet looked away, sure that Tristan would be embarrassed at him seeing the tears that ran down his face. "There was no getting in, and people kept dragging me away. There were police and firemen... When the ambulance took Gavin away they left his phone behind on the driveway. It was dark, but I saw it flash. He'd left it on – for proof I suppose. Gavin always liked his toys. It was one of those video phone mobiles. There was a video of Gareth and his men... and Isolde. She kept fighting them off and they didn't stop. Dunno if they meant to kill Anthony, but he died in the fire once they had finished with my wife. I think she was dead by then. I hope that she was dead by then."
"Tristan..." Dagonet reached out uncertainly and touched the scout's shoulder, but when he looked up at him he knew that the younger man wasn't really seeing him.
"They tell me that I knocked out two policemen. I don't remember that. I do remember driving off, getting the rifle from the garage at the main house and shooting the bastards. I think they begged me, but I'm not sure. There was a lot of blood and noise." The scout seemed to mentally shake himself and gave Dagonet a wry smile. "Don't remember that much afterwards. Remember waking up in a jail cell the next day though, and I remember the trial. Turns out the law doesn't much like toffs getting butchered by the staff. Dunno how they covered up Isolde and Tony's murder though. Couldn't exactly get the papers when I was inside.... Isolde's mum wrote me a letter when I was locked up though; they're buried by their granddad. That's something isn't it?"
"Yeah." Dagonet met Tristan's eyes. Reaching out, he squeezed the scout's hand. "You did right by them."
Tristan nodded and briefly returned the pressure before letting go.
"Thanks."
Dagonet stood and gave the man in the bed a last glance back, at a loss for words. "Tris..."
"Fuck off and kill the Saxon bastards," Tristan said with a weary smile. "I'll do what I have to if I have to, but I'd rather not."
With a weary chuckle the big squaddie left, pulling the curtain back behind him, and having the tact not to acknowledge Kate who stood frozen in place just beyond the doorway.
Being a spy was rubbish, Galahad decided. James Bond, Jason Bourne – they made it look easy and cool, but in real life? It was boring and time consuming. Sure he had the gun, but the only girls around were more worried about their potential death at the hands of the Saxons than striking sexy poses, which he had to admit was probably for the best. Thomas, the Irish bloke that he had been told to keep an eye on seemed pretty innocuous given that he was pushing seventy and looked at the gun he had been given as though it were an object from outer space, but Arthur had given orders and he wasn't about to disobey his commander.
Even if it did seem a lot like glorified babysitting.
The group of twenty men and women he had been teaching the basics of weaponry to were all busy reassembling their guns, and although he should have been concentrating, Galahad felt his attention wander.
Over the far side of the camp he could see Gawain, his blonde hair catching the light and making him easy to find. Alice wasn't with him for once, and Galahad stifled a smile. The man had come back to camp after going to the medical quarters yesterday with a smile that was only slightly less subtle than a sign around his neck pronouncing himself "freshly laid". Of course the bastard had then refused to share any salacious details which was just rubbing salt in the wound really.
"I'm gonna go to the bog lad," Thomas said, interrupting Galahad's train of thought. "The bladder isn't what it used to be if you know what I mean."
Too much information, Galahad thought, but nodding at the old man he smiled. "Ok. When you're back we'll go through re-loading with the others and then we should be done.
"Right you are." The old man wandered off, and Galahad watched him go, leaving a good minute before he got up to follow him. "Back in a minute – don't try and reload until I get back", Galahad told his makeshift class. Walking over to the building that contained the toilets, he inwardly sighed. Everyone else was preparing for battle; making bombs, sorting out artillery, and what was he doing? Going to listen to an old man taking a piss. A thought struck him and he paused, looking back. His "class" seemed to be doing from a range of "reasonably competent" to "never should be allowed to hold a firearm" at reassembling their guns, but where was Thomas' weapon? If he hadn't left it behind then.. Oh Shit! Breaking into a jog, Galahad found his own weapon and approached the building in time to see Thomas disappear through the side door.
Following the man as quietly as he could, he watched as Thomas fished something out of the small bag that he had concealed under his coat.
"Put it down," Galahad said with what he hoped was a commanding voice. Keeping his Glock aimed squarely at the old man's head, he approached slowly. "And keep your hands where I can see them."
Thomas gave an incredulous laugh and threw the bag at Galahad who instinctively jumped backwards. Drawing his own gun, he studied the younger man with amusement. "Not too bright are you, boy? Giving the enemy handguns – not that I don't appreciate it, but the irony in killing you with it seems a bit much doesn't it?"
"Put it down." Galahad kept his voice calm and his hands steady. "There's no-where for you to go."
The old man gave a snort of laughter. "Come off it boy, the only place worth going is with the winning team, and I hate to say it, but that's not with pretty boy Castus and his noble speeches. Sorry. Nothing personal." He pulled the trigger and a shot rang out.
Galahad flinched, before striding forward and punching Thomas squarely in the face. Looking down with not a little satisfaction, he reached down, grabbed the man by the arm and hauled him up, jamming his gun firmly against his ribs.
"Do you honestly think I'd have given you live rounds, you murdering, bombing fuckwit? So much for being on the winning team." Thomas dug his heels in, refusing to move, but when Galahad moved his gun lower and whispered "Arthur wants you alive, but he didn't specify in one piece – it's not like you need balls at your age anyway," he let himself be escorted to the commander's office without another protest.
A/N: I'm really sorry that I've taken ages to update - my computer decided to die in a dramatic and fiery way (seriously, it was like being in a Roland Emmerich movie. Well one with a teeny tiny budget anyway and with less national landmarks being destroyed unless you count a bit of my rug and the singed whiskers of Mr Tibbs my cat). I now have a shiny new computer which actually takes less than a quarter of an hour to boot up - yay!
So updates will be faster now *touch wood* - not too long to go until we're done now, my pretties. As always thankyou so much to everyone who is following the story, and big hugs to the reviewers.
