Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 - The Scav and the Sky-Kart

  2 - The Horse-Drawn Jag

  3 - The Mangled Wreck

  4 - The Chalk

  5 - A Scav on the Loose

  6 - A Day at the Museum

  7 - A Near Kiss

  8 - Smoke!

  9 - Discovered!

  10 - Reward Paid on Arrest

  11 - The Hanging

  12 - Queen of the May

  13 - The Choosing

  14 - Safe House

  15 - Surprise Inspection

  16 - The Vicar's Note

  17 - The Trap

  18 - Smoke and Flames

  19 - Rescue

  20 - Oxford

  21 - Generosity and Hospitality

  22 - On Trial

  23 - Cadet Carter

  24 - The Verdict

  25 - They Shot at Us!

  26 - Adam Gets a Mission

  27 - The Wrong Key

  28 - Execution

  29 - Posse

  30 - Staying Ahead

  31 - Truda! Truda!

  32 - The Body by the Tower

  33 - Amelia

  34 - The Tracker's Dead!

  35 - Intercepted

  36 - The Kingsman Princess

  37 - It's a Trap!

  38 - Preparations

  39 - An Early Start

  40 - Final Assault

  41 - On Trial. Again.

  Next Up

  Also Available on Kindle

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  WANTED

  Tim Arnot

  Copyright © 2013 Tim Arnot

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The moral right of Tim Arnot to be identified as the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book was written, produced and edited in the UK, where tea is drunk hot, colour, honour etc. are spelt correctly, Z rhymes with Fred, and Lieutenant is pronounced LEFF-tenant. Remember that, especially the Lieutenant bit. ;-)

  A Tango Alpha publication.

  20150326/1

  For Nicky

  1

  The Scav and the Sky-Kart

  SHEA THREW HIMSELF flat on the ground, scared out of his wits. The damp, earthy smell of the forest floor was strong in his nostrils. Green shoots were starting to push their way up through wet leaves covering the ground. Something had spooked him and now he risked a glance up, to see a quivering arrow buried in the tree, just inches from where he’d been.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered, and pressed himself further down. He listened, heightened senses reaching out for the smallest of sounds. He could hear the thump-thump of his heart, but nothing else; the forest was strangely quiet; the birds had stopped singing, even the sighing of the wind through the almost bare branches had stilled. Maybe the arrow was just a stray and he hadn’t actually been spotted. There were no shouts or cries of alarm, but then again, there wouldn’t be if he was being stalked.

  Seconds passed. The silence was gradually replaced by the normal sounds of rustling branches and birds singing. He risked a small movement, reaching out for his leather bag.

  Nothing.

  So far so good.

  He raised his head to look around. Trees, the derelict red brick building that he’d stopped to investigate, and beyond, the clearing where his rag and tube sky-kart sat waiting for him. He took a closer look at the arrow. Brown and white feathers were tied on with thread, along with several more coloured bands, the flint tip embedded a good half inch into the tree. Hunters, or possibly bandits, slavers even. At least it wasn’t Kingsmen. Kingsmen had guns–ancient things from way back before The Collapse, but still guns–not bows and arrows, and they rarely missed their target. Whoever owned the arrow would certainly be looking for it; arrows could be reused and weren’t lost lightly.

  He cautiously reached down to feel the knife in his belt. It was an ordinary hunting knife, old, handed down from generation to generation, but no good for throwing. He’d have to fight hand to hand, or make a run for it. One knife against a hidden archer? He didn’t like those odds.

  ‘Happy eighteenth birthday, dumb arse,’ he muttered to himself.

  It had been a routine flight, heading east from his home in Bristol. The sky-kart was little more than a buggy with a propeller on the back, strapped under a massive fabric and solar panel delta-wing. The buggy had two seats in tandem, but he had been flying alone. He’d been told to stay close to home, but it had been a nice day, the first truly nice day after nearly a month of rain, and he’d just kept going, and going. Then he’d seen the clearing and the complex of old buildings, and the urge to scavenge was just too strong. So he’d landed in a nearby grassy field and crept in to investigate, hoping to find something of value that would compensate for the trouble he was sure to be in later.

  ‘Never, ever land anywhere where you don’t know exactly what’s on the ground or who’s in the area!’ That was the first thing said to him in the briefing. He’d pretty much ignored that advice and now regretted it.

  The buildings turned out to be the derelict remains of ordinary houses. The roofs had collapsed, and there was little sign of where the gardens had been. They’d been picked clean over the years, by the locals and other scavengers. Shea had found nothing of value, just a few scraps of blue plastic sheeting; hardly worth bothering with, yet alone getting shot at for.

  Static burst from his radio, staccato and loud enough to make him jump. Instinctively Shea reached for his belt, fumbling for the knob to switch it off.

  Damn!

  The slightest sound could give his position away–that was the last thing he needed and so he had to get out of there, and fast. He was struck by the sudden realisation of what might happen if he were caught; a severe beating, that was certain, but then would they imprison him? Or kill him? Out here he was just a dirty, stinking Scav. They didn’t know who he was, and wouldn’t even care.

  He tensed himself and sprinted to the wall of the nearest house. It faced away from the direction of the arrow, so afforded at least some protection and the chance to take stock. He eased along the side of the wall, staying close and stopping frequently to listen for anything that might suggest he was being followed; the snap of a twig, the rustle of a branch or feet through leaves. So far it had been quiet, but now he had run out of wall. He sprang forward and ran as fast as he could.

  He was half way to the sky-kart when he heard the first shout, and immediately swerved to the right. That saved his life as an arrow tore past him. Another arrow ripped through the air as he crossed the last stretch of open ground, embedding itself in the cloth wing. He clambered into the front seat, not even stopping to fasten his belt before jamming the throttle forward. The electric motor came instantly to life, and within seconds the rag-and-tube machine started bumping across the grass. There was one last clang as an arrow bounced harmlessly off the spinning disc of the propeller behind him, and he was airborne.

  ‘Shit, that was close!’ He felt a sense of relief, even though his heart was pumping furiously. He forced himself to take deep, regular breaths, calming himself down. When
he’d gained sufficient height that he judged himself to be out of the range of any further arrows, he circled around and looked down at the clearing. Whoever had shot at him was nowhere to be seen. Up here it was safe, and all he had to worry about now was getting home, and how much trouble he’d be in when he got there.

  The sky-kart lurched.

  ‘Turbulence?’ he wondered. Then it started shaking violently. Something was seriously wrong.

  ‘Training… Training… Don’t panic,’ he muttered to himself.

  Panic! Oh Shit, Oh Shit, Oh Shit, I’m going to die!

  He held tightly onto the cross-bar. The aircraft tossed and bucked like a wild thing. Why did he not stop to fasten his safety belt? Because someone was trying to kill him! Well now his sky-kart was trying to kill him! It must be the prop, or the engine. He didn’t dare look around, it was hard enough just holding on. If he fell out, he would be dead for sure. The sky-kart lurched, pointing rapidly upward and Shea’s view filled with sky. Then down again and the ground loomed.

  Blue. Green. Sky. Ground.

  It seemed to go on for hours, bucking like a bronco and shaking the sky-kart to pieces in slow motion.

  He had had many months of training, but several of those months had been spent sitting on the ground cursing the wind, or looking at the snow, or the rain, or the fog. Some of them had been spent doing useful stuff, like practising for emergencies, and those months now finally kicked in. He reached down and flicked the switch that cut off the motor. It was the last thing that any pilot wanted to do, and the effect was immediate.

  The violent shaking stopped. It was calm, still. Just the sound of the wind in his hair, not even a hum or gentle vibration from the motor. Then Shea noticed the ground rushing up to meet him.

  ‘Recover! Recover!’ He shouted to himself, pushing forward on the bar, and pulling out of the dive. He’d lost a lot of height–too much–and his options were limited. The sky-kart would glide for a while, but there was no escaping the ground. He was going to hit it, the only question was, how hard.

  He only had seconds to pick the spot. Not too close; not too far. He still had a limited amount of control. He could turn a little, but turning cost height and speed, and he didn’t have too much of either. There, just ahead at the base of the ridge, the trees hadn’t encroached into the ancient fields and there was open space. Decision made, he concentrated on flying the craft. The wind, swirling off the ridge and the trees bounced him around. He was level with the tops of the trees now; this was it. Then a gust of wind picked up one wing and tipped it. He tried to correct, but it was too late; there was no time.

  2

  The Horse-Drawn Jag

  FLICK STOOD BY the heavy wooden gate as the bay horse trotted through the archway, its shoes clattering on the shiny wet cobbles. With a barely perceptible tug on its reins the horse came to a stop at the rear entrance to the coaching inn, snorting as it did so. Flecks of foam dripped from its flanks, and jets of steam erupted rhythmically from its flared nostrils, merging with the cold March drizzle before fading into the early evening gloom.

  Flick grabbed hold of its reins. ‘Steady boy,’ she said, patting his neck.

  The carriage to which the horse was harnessed was black and sleek. Lights from the inn reflected in its polished surface, catching the myriad raindrops and making it sparkle like jewellery. It had the classic lines of an old luxury automobile, which, in fact, it had once been. Shafts extended from the front, and leather straps ran to the horse’s collar. The reins passed into the cabin beneath the windscreen. Flick stroked the horse’s neck as the vehicle’s doors opened.

  Just then a large, balding man came out of the side entrance. He wore a grubby apron over a rough woollen shirt, and wiped his hand on it as he approached them.

  ‘Welcome, welcome to the Crown Inn,’ he said. ‘My name is Carter; Nicholas Carter, Nick to my friends, and I’m the proprietor. And this here is my daughter, Felicity.’ He indicated Flick. ‘We hope you have a pleasant stay here.’ He stopped and smiled. Realising he was still wiping his hands, he quickly smoothed his apron, and extended his right hand for them to shake, his smile fixed.

  The two occupants of the car had got out and brushed themselves down. They were both wearing black military uniforms, picked out with small gold crowns. They stood looking at the innkeeper expectantly, studying him like a hunter studies his prey.

  The innkeeper swallowed, ‘This way gentlemen,’ he said, motioning to the door with his unshaken hand. ‘Felicity will be along directly with your bags.’ He turned and hurried back into the inn. The two men in black followed at a leisurely pace. They didn’t give Flick a second glance.

  Flick unhitched the horse from its harness and led it towards the stable.

  ‘Adam!’ she yelled at the top of her voice, ‘get your lazy arse down here and give me a hand!’ Even shouting, her voice was melodic, although her Oxfordshire accent gave it a certain twang.

  While she waited for her younger brother to appear, she tugged at the heavy black gates and latched them shut. There was still no sign of him and she yelled again, ‘Adam!’

  When the door eventually opened, a young girl of maybe twelve, appeared. Her long blonde hair was bunched into two pony tails, contrasting with Flick’s short spiky look. ‘Oh hey, Ro,’ said Flick, ‘do you know what’s happened to that good-for-nothing brother of yours?’

  ‘He’s your brother too,’ the younger girl snapped back.

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Dad says he doesn’t know where he’s at, so I’m to give you a hand.’

  ‘Thanks Ro. You look after the horse while I take the bags in, and then we’ll stable him and brush him down together.’

  Rosie nodded and grinned. She loved horses.

  Flick went around to the back of the carriage. There was an emblem, a large silver cat, pouncing. Beneath it, a wide chrome strip had letters embossed into it, the name of the maker, lost in the mists of history. She traced the letters casually with her finger, saying them in her mind, ‘J … A … G … U … A … R.’ She rolled the word in her head, savouring it.

  ‘Jag-you-are.’

  She wondered what it meant; something from before the Dark Time, no doubt. But that was idle speculation, and indulging in it was not her place. She snapped out of it, popped open the boot of the car and hefted out the two large bags before heading into the inn.

  Flick juggled three mugs of ale between the people standing in the bar. Friday nights were always busy with a mixture of locals and guests, although the locals tended to stick to the downstairs bar, and the few guests kept to themselves in the upper rooms.

  Working the bar came with being the owner’s daughter, and Flick had quickly developed a thick skin. Besides, her shrewd head for business had soon realised that a little bit of flesh and a knowing wink was good for trade, and The Crown had the busiest bar in town. In any case, one day the inn would be hers.

  Three lads in green serge uniforms sat around a table, the faint glow on their faces cast by a solitary candle wedged into the top of an old bottle. Flick approached and put the glasses down, and three hands reached eagerly for them.

  ‘Now lads, not without paying,’ she said, winking. The hands quickly disappeared and seconds later reappeared holding coins.

  ‘Thank you Fred,’ said Flick as the first lad put his coins into her outstretched hand. His fingers lingered, touching her skin, almost caressing it. ‘How is your lovely lady?’ she continued without missing a beat or even looking down. ‘It was such a lovely wedding, and only a month ago; I think we’ve still got some cake out back. I can have Maggie bring it out…’

  Fred’s hand beat a rapid retreat, and it seemed that the room grew several degrees warmer as he muttered something under his breath. The other two were more circumspect, dropping their coins into Flick’s hand from a height of at least several centimetres.

  ‘Stanley, Bill,’ she acknowledged as they did so. Bill and Fred were brothers. Flick had kn
own them since they were all small. Bill was her age and Fred a year older.

  Flick was turning to go when Bill motioned her to come closer. ‘I heard,’ he said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, ‘there’s a pair of Kingsmen staying here.’

  She leaned toward him as she answered, ‘What's it to you, Bill Watson?’

  Bill got an eyeful of Flick’s cleavage. He swallowed nervously at the proximity of all that soft flesh before continuing. ‘What are they… I mean, like?’

  The other two roared with laughter, obviously thinking that Bill’s theatrics were designed just to get him up close and personal with Flick, but she sensed the worried edge in his voice. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-four height and looked at the trio.

  ‘Well, they’d take the three of you without even looking! I mean, have you seen yourselves?’ The three Watchmen looked crestfallen. ‘But don’t worry lads,’ Flick continued, ‘they ain’t interested in you; they’re just passing through. Be gone in the morning.’

  That cheered them up.

  Flick had turned to go again when Stanley grabbed her arm. ‘What is it this time?’ she asked. ‘There’s other people in this bar you know, and they all want serving…’

  ‘Has he, you know, asked you, yet?’ he asked, ‘only, you know, if he’s not gonna, I quite fancy my chances…’ He flashed his best puppy-dog look at her.

  Even though she was used to being chatted up in the bar, Flick felt her face redden slightly. ‘In your dreams!’ she said indignantly, pulling away.

  ‘You know you want to, really!’ he muttered to her back.

  ‘I heard that!’ she called, making light of it, as she retreated back towards the bar, although she admitted to herself that Stanley wasn’t unattractive.

  On the way, she collected several empties and picked up orders for more drinks, while dodging the occasional stray hand. She drew the beers from the casks and served them. Back at the bar, her father came out from the kitchen with two steaming plates of food.