Hooded Man by Paul Kane Page A

trade meant independence, and De Falaise could not allow that. The villagers would work for him and him alone, and he would take whatever they had to offer without recompense.
    That was why they’d been dispatched to this area. It was why they’d come down on these people so hard: fear equalled respect.
    But it had only taken this one spanner in the works to cast doubt on their mission. One survivalist who thought he was pretty handy with a bow and arrow. Henrik grunted. Amateur .
    He sat up when he saw movement in the woods. Two figures emerged, one dragging the other. His team had done it; they’d killed the primitive and were bringing back the body. No, wait, the body was still moving – not only that but he was dressed in their unique uniform, a combination of colours and styles that De Falaise had chosen himself. He was certainly not hooded. A couple more of his ‘men’ staggered out behind them. The useless dickheads had failed, and now they were returning with their tails between their legs.
    Henrik almost chomped through the cigar he was smoking. He climbed up through the hatch, cursing them in German.
    “Incompetents! Where is he?”
    “I’m here,” came a voice from the woods, strong and loud. In spite of himself, Henrik flinched. But if the man had wanted him dead, then wouldn’t he be already – an arrow between the eyes?
    “Show yourself, coward. Come out of your hiding place and we will discuss this.”
    There was a pause before the reply came. “You come out of yours.”
    Henrik thought about this. Seriously considered hopping down from the Challenger, going to meet this man at the edge of the woods and pounding him into the ground. No weapons other than their fists. They would see who won then.
    But why give up the advantage? Pride was something for romantics, not mercenaries. “I give you thirty seconds to come out, or I will come in after you... personally.”
    “Go back to your Frenchman and tell him this is over,” came the reply. It was not the voice of someone easily intimidated.
    This man was more infuriating than all of his ex-wives put together! Henrik didn’t even give him the thirty seconds. He just slipped back inside and fired off a high explosive shell into the woods, hoping to obliterate the insolent fool, and clearing some space for them to enter. “Forward!” he shouted to the driver, who reluctantly obeyed.
    The hulking thing trundled into the woods.
    I will teach this man a lesson!
    Henrik would knock down or blow up every single tree in this place to get to him if he had to. He swung the 120 mm gun around and was just about to load up another shell when...
    Suddenly there he was, the fellow with the hood, standing ahead of him, bow over his shoulder. He was holding something in his hand, something small and round, like a ball. Henrik watched as the man drew back his arm and tossed it at the tank. It hit the front and bounced off, rolling underneath the Challenger. He felt the explosion, though it didn’t rupture the shell of the tank. Damn him, he must have taken grenades from my troops! “Forward!” Henrik yelled to the driver, but the tank was going nowhere. The explosion had disabled the treads.
    When he peered through the smoke, all he could see were trees.
    The bastard had left him little choice but to come out now, to kill him the old fashioned way. But Henrik didn’t intend on using his fists. Picking up his machine gun, he opened the hatch and stuck his head out, mindful again of the fact that the man could very easily fire off an arrow. He scanned the area. If the hooded man made a move anywhere within sight, he would be dead.
    Henrik was aware of something above him in the treetops, something big. A figure. He ducked back down into the hatch, gun poised and ready to fire upwards. An object dropped into the tank, hard and round. He was still about to fire when his mind registered what had just happened. Henrik’s eyes grew wide and he let go of the rifle,