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Authors: Nick Christofides
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eyes cold and menacing- this is where he wanted to be, this was his showdown and he was in control.
Three of the four doors opened in each car with the familiar dull clunks and out stepped six men. Nat’s adrenalin and fear were combining like a horrific speedball, adrenalin taking him up like a racehorse at the gate and the fear paralysing him with that muddy lethargy of overwhelming nerves. So, he stood stock still and relied on instinct to take over.
* * * * *
As they pulled up to the curb, Roland spoke through the graphic injuries which the farmer had inflicted. They were slowly healing, the left side of his face had been a swollen mass of purple and his nose remained bent to the right. Nat had broken his cheekbone, eye socket and nose on the table and the boy was in no mood for another fight like the last. Political debate was his bag not physical war. He slurred through bulging lips,
“It’s definitely him again. I’m staying well back this time.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, mate, we’ll leave Rudi to deal with this one,” said Gerry.
"That's what worries me: he's a bloody psychopath as well."
Davey sank as low into the back seat as he could.
Rudi Truter had arrived in the North East like a whirlwind three months before. He was one of Lucas Start’s party enforcers. He had set about organising the party members into teams to action the new system and the redistribution of wealth. He was a ruthless mercenary with no real affiliation to the party beliefs, but he had met Start at a rally in London years earlier and had been caught up by the violence of the revolutionary struggle. It was his job to bring Northumberland under the control of the NSO and, until the previous night, things had been going well. This headache had occurred when that woman had fought too hard and the retribution had spiralled out of hand. At this point, he only needed to remove this farmer from the equation. Then he could create his own version of last night’s events, instead of his bosses and the wider public finding out the truth somehow.
* * * * *
Six men stepped out of the cars. Nat snarled in their direction - now the fuelled blood was coursing his veins and rage was taking over the nerves. The three men who arrived in a black car looked instantly more capable than the three he had met before. They lined up in front of him. The skinny kid with an ugly face and the guy Nat had beaten up weeks before hung back beside the white car. In front of him, from left to right, stood a thick-set black man wearing a black Gore-Tex jacket, black cargo pants and sturdy boots. Next to him stood a giant man of eastern European origin, who looked as though he had fought with every person he had ever come into contact with. He wore primarily the same clothes as his accomplice, just a variation in manufacturer, and together they certainly formed a military impression - worse still, a Special Forces image - to the proceedings. Next to them stood the leader- he had that swagger, the air of authority. He, too, wore black, his hair was golden and he was tanned, but he wasn’t soft. Nat could see the coldness in his eyes; he was dangerous and he was the man Nat wanted to break. To his right stood the man who had squared up to Nat in his kitchen but had thought better of taking him on then.
Now the golden man spoke, his Boer guttural tones breaking the silence,
“Mr Bell, my name is Mr Truter, and I’m in charge of NSO security in Northumberland. You are in serious trouble, Mr Bell. The explosion you caused at your farm last night killed people, Mr Bell.”
Nat seethed at how this was being spun, he wanted this guy alone so that he could take the time to cause him suffering.
Truter carried on, “…it may seem like there is no law currently, but there is, and it's me. We still live in a civilised society, Mr Bell, and although there is new leadership in the country and a little
Three of the four doors opened in each car with the familiar dull clunks and out stepped six men. Nat’s adrenalin and fear were combining like a horrific speedball, adrenalin taking him up like a racehorse at the gate and the fear paralysing him with that muddy lethargy of overwhelming nerves. So, he stood stock still and relied on instinct to take over.
* * * * *
As they pulled up to the curb, Roland spoke through the graphic injuries which the farmer had inflicted. They were slowly healing, the left side of his face had been a swollen mass of purple and his nose remained bent to the right. Nat had broken his cheekbone, eye socket and nose on the table and the boy was in no mood for another fight like the last. Political debate was his bag not physical war. He slurred through bulging lips,
“It’s definitely him again. I’m staying well back this time.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, mate, we’ll leave Rudi to deal with this one,” said Gerry.
"That's what worries me: he's a bloody psychopath as well."
Davey sank as low into the back seat as he could.
Rudi Truter had arrived in the North East like a whirlwind three months before. He was one of Lucas Start’s party enforcers. He had set about organising the party members into teams to action the new system and the redistribution of wealth. He was a ruthless mercenary with no real affiliation to the party beliefs, but he had met Start at a rally in London years earlier and had been caught up by the violence of the revolutionary struggle. It was his job to bring Northumberland under the control of the NSO and, until the previous night, things had been going well. This headache had occurred when that woman had fought too hard and the retribution had spiralled out of hand. At this point, he only needed to remove this farmer from the equation. Then he could create his own version of last night’s events, instead of his bosses and the wider public finding out the truth somehow.
* * * * *
Six men stepped out of the cars. Nat snarled in their direction - now the fuelled blood was coursing his veins and rage was taking over the nerves. The three men who arrived in a black car looked instantly more capable than the three he had met before. They lined up in front of him. The skinny kid with an ugly face and the guy Nat had beaten up weeks before hung back beside the white car. In front of him, from left to right, stood a thick-set black man wearing a black Gore-Tex jacket, black cargo pants and sturdy boots. Next to him stood a giant man of eastern European origin, who looked as though he had fought with every person he had ever come into contact with. He wore primarily the same clothes as his accomplice, just a variation in manufacturer, and together they certainly formed a military impression - worse still, a Special Forces image - to the proceedings. Next to them stood the leader- he had that swagger, the air of authority. He, too, wore black, his hair was golden and he was tanned, but he wasn’t soft. Nat could see the coldness in his eyes; he was dangerous and he was the man Nat wanted to break. To his right stood the man who had squared up to Nat in his kitchen but had thought better of taking him on then.
Now the golden man spoke, his Boer guttural tones breaking the silence,
“Mr Bell, my name is Mr Truter, and I’m in charge of NSO security in Northumberland. You are in serious trouble, Mr Bell. The explosion you caused at your farm last night killed people, Mr Bell.”
Nat seethed at how this was being spun, he wanted this guy alone so that he could take the time to cause him suffering.
Truter carried on, “…it may seem like there is no law currently, but there is, and it's me. We still live in a civilised society, Mr Bell, and although there is new leadership in the country and a little
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