Going down in the tunnel was tantamount to walking into a trap.
But Ramm went in nonetheless.
The Bishop greeted him. He was sitting on his relocated throne. At his feet was Shelly Cannon. She’d been stripped down to her undergarments. Her sleek hair hung over her shoulders, a thick lock of hair across her features. When she looked up at Ramm, he saw it was with little recognition. She was doped.
‘Ah, the second best fighter in camp,’ The Bishop said with faux joviality. ‘I knew you would return.’
Beyond their leader a group of men came forward, numbering around twenty. They were holding cudgels and knives. Ramm could see no sign of Hector Buntz, for which he was thankful. He didn’t fear Buntz, he had proven he was more than the giant’s equal, but then Buntz plus the group of armed men would have been beyond even Ramm’s considerable skill.
The Bishop stood from his chair. Shelly pawed at his shins, as if she relied on his presence to steady her. Ramm noted that The Bishop didn’t come forward.
‘Only second best?’ Ramm asked. ‘Tell you what, Bishop. Prove you’re the better man. If not, let me take Shelly and leave. There’ll be no more trouble from me.’
‘I’d love to accept your challenge, but alas.’ The Bishop didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. He hitched up a leg of his trousers and Ramm caught the glint of metal. The reason that ballistic weaponry was banned from his compound was because The Bishop had good cause to hate them. He teetered where he stood, unable to balance well on his recently adapted prosthetic leg. Little more than five years ago Sgt Roy Bishop had been on patrol in Helmand Province when a traitorous Afghan soldier had turned his weapon on him, cutting his legs out from beneath him before The Bishop could return fire. The medics had saved his life, but were unable to save his shattered right leg. Amputation had been his only recourse. Ordinarily Ramm respected veterans, particularly those that had suffered for their country. But he’d lost all respect for The Bishop when he’d learned how the doomsday prepper was building a post-apocalyptic future on a promise of extreme violence and the subjugation of women as breeding or pleasure stock. The man was trash.
‘So let the girl go,’ Ramm said. ‘The way you’ve forced her to lay at your feet, it’s obvious you know who I’m here for.’
‘I’d a feeling that Adrian Cannon would send some champion to rescue her. When I heard you’d been spotted skulking around in the harem I guessed what you were up to. I also guessed that once you’d lost the hunting party sent after you, then you’d be back.’
‘Very astute of you, Bishop. If you’re such a wise man, then you should realise it will be easier for everyone if you just let Shelly go.’
The Bishop sat again. He did so in order to hook a finger under Shelly’s chin and lift her head. ‘I can’t do that. Shelly has no desire to leave. Do you my sweet?’
Shelly’s eyes rolled. She made a mewling noise.
‘See?’ asked The Bishop.
‘I see a girl whose will has been taken away from her, the way your leg was stolen from you. I’m warning you, Bishop. Let me take Shelly – and the other women prisoners – and I’ll let you live. Refuse, and the fact you’re half crippled won’t stop me ripping you a new asshole.’
The Bishop opened his mouth wide and laughed at the ceiling.
‘You think I’m bluffing?’
‘You are only one man. Yes, you’re a skilled fighter, but you are no match for all of my men.’
‘I haven’t got started yet,’ Ramm said. ‘That little charade I put on yesterday? I didn’t even get past first gear.’
‘I never met a blowhard yet who was half the man he professed to be!’
‘That’s like the pot calling the kettle,’ Ramm countered.
‘No one I’ve heard of is the equal of almost two dozen armed men.’
‘Then you’ve never heard of the Battering Ramm.’ Ramm quickly stripped out of the leather jacket he’d taken from one of the dead men at the farm. He stood not in the dirty singlet and jeans of yesterday, but in his nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit. ‘While you were setting up this trap, didn’t you wonder what was taking me so long to get back here? On my first arrival in camp I couldn’t enter wearing my armour so I arranged my flight out of here last night. After finishing off your hunting party I was able to ride to a prearranged meeting place where Shelly’s daddy was waiting for me. He’d had the presence of mind to bring my equipment to me.’ Ramm dropped the cleaver. ‘Oh, plus these.’
From behind his back Ramm drew a twin set of automatic pistols given to him by a grateful Israeli Mossad agent who owed him his life, and more importantly the lives of his children. Ramm aimed the Jericho 941 Uzi Eagles beyond The Bishop. While the crowd of armed men muttered and cursed, The Bishop’s face reddened.
‘I forbid the use of firearms here!’ he roared.
‘I forbid the use of women as sex slaves,’ said Ramm. ‘I think my cause trumps yours.’
The Bishop screamed at his men. ‘Get him! Tear him to pieces. He can’t shoot you all!’
He was right. Not even Ramm could shoot twenty men in the space it took them to charge forward. But he managed to get half of them, and that suited him fine. His guns sang a duet of death and destruction in the tunnel. Bodies jerked and spun and fell while others pushed past the dying. Some of the more hopeful fighters hurled their weapons at Ramm. Cudgels rebounded from his NAS suit and the tips of blades were turned away. Ramm didn’t wait for the surge of bodies to overwhelm him. He dropped his empty guns, dipped a hand to each ankle holster and came up with a punch-dagger in each fist, then swept in to meet the remaining fighters. To engage one at a time would be his death: while fighting one, the others could drag him down and pound him to death. Ramm kept moving, dipping in and out, swerving away, jumping and dropping, counterattacking constantly, and each time his blades found a throat or gut or extended wrist. Blood danced around him as though he was a dervish wind skimming a crimson pond.
He took a few strikes to his body, but his suit fended off the blows. A knife tip took a slither of skin from above his right eyebrow, which brought a grimace from Ramm, but also a renewed intensity to his attack. He cut and punched, and men fell all around him.
Finally only two men remained standing.
Ramm faced a lithe fighter whose arms were decorated with prison tattoos. The man held his blade close to his body, angled down from his fist. From his stance he knew a thing or two about knife fighting. Ramm quirked his bleeding eyebrow at the man. ‘It’s one thing shivving a guy in the showers, quite another facing a trained killer. You sure you still want to do this?’
The man licked his lips, weighing his chances. His gaze went to the twin push-daggers protruding from Ramm’s fists. They dripped gore. In comparison his knife was shiny new. ‘Fuck this, man! I only joined this outfit on the promise of some easy pussy!’ he said, dropping his blade and scurrying off down the tunnel. Ramm grunted in disapproval.
He turned back to The Bishop just in time for the big man to slam a meaty forearm across his jaw, taking him backwards in the classic clothesline manoeuvre made famous in the wrestling ring.
Ramm landed on his back, but he didn’t flounder there. He allowed the momentum of his fall to roll him over one shoulder and he came back up onto one knee. The Bishop had followed after him and had lifted his right leg to stamp down on Ramm’s chest. While Ramm had been engaged in the fight with the others, the big man had kicked off his boot – along with the prosthetic foot – to bare the metal joint of his ankle. In effect he speared down at Ramm’s chest with a steel spike and all his not inconsiderable weight behind it. ‘Let’s see if your fancy suit will turn aside this blade!’ he crowed as he thrust his leg into Ramm.