Short fiction: Robyn Hood - a modern tale

Robyn Hood, A Modern Tale

London, 2007
Robyn pulled the trigger. The fifty Calibre rifle recoiled into Robyn’s shoulder as the round jumped from the barrel and closed the half kilometre distance to the Target.
On the step in front of Ten Downing Street, the Prime minister paused and waved to the increasingly indifferent crowd. The Worst of the Hecklers were well back. The round caught him in the left eye and exploded through him as he stepped forward towards the Car. The Policeman in his shadow caught a handful of skull and frontal lobe as the body went down. The policeman hurled his body against the smiling Minister for Defence pushing him back through the doorway.
The Press went into a photographic feeding frenzy. That smile would cost a political career.

Robyn moved. Looking one last time at the English longbow and arrows in a black drawstring hood for a quiver he had placed deliberately on the roof. He then picked up the rifle and moved back through the building. It was teeming with Government personnel. Perhaps it didn’t matter to them that the Painter was carrying a large rifle wrapped in a drop-cloth. The rifle was still cooling as he dropped it into the Storage Box and closed the locks.
Passing through Security and out into the backstreet, he loaded the box into the Transit.
The big man in the back looked at him.
“Done?” Little John was a man of precise words.
“Yes.” Robyn stared at his sombre giant.

London, 2000
Robyn stared at it again. The government of Afghanistan was hiring professional soldiers to train its people and work on bringing order from chaos.
“So you’re saying we get paid to train the troops in Afghanistan’s new army?”
“Yes. They are very interested in building their nation.” His Contact had brokered quite a few of these deals in the last few months.
“Okay, why not.” Robyn had done his bit for Crown and Country, so this little Crusade would be to help someone else build something from the rubble.

Afghanistan, 2002
The towering giant of a man smiled at him.
“John Foster.” The big man smiled. It was all he could find.
“Robyn…” Robyn started at the Jets overhead. The Americans were invading a Sovereign state and killing or rounding up anyone who got in the way.
Robyn focused on the old Taliban soldier talking up front.
“They said they are heading over the border into Pakistan.” Robyn looked back to John Foster.
“Fuck.” Foster smiled at Robyn’s profanity.
The explosion ripped them from the back of the Toyota as the rest of the convoy vaporised.

Bandits came out of the darkness to pick over the bodies.

John woke Robyn. They were being sold to the Americans. The CIA front man handed over a wad of cash and waved to his band of Soldiers to load the pair up.
“How are you doing lads? Where is the Airport?” Robyn put on his best friendly face.
“Shut the fuck up!” The rifle-butt in the back of his head told him they were not going home just yet.
The CIA Operative dropped the black drawstring hood over Robyn’s Head and pulled the cord.
“You terrorist bastards are going to get yours.” A vague voice whispered in his ear.

American Occupied Cuba, 2004
“Think you’re going home, do you?” The Interrogator sat on the chair on Robyn’s chest that much harder. Robyn’s bound hands were crushed beneath the weight of his own back.
“Where the fuck is Osama Bin Laden?”
“Never fucking met him.”
This would take a while.

His cage sat opposite John Foster. The Giant no longer smiled but his lack of communication had caused his interrogators to do bad things to him.
“How you like your holiday in Cuba?” Robyn smiled through bloody teeth.
“Robyn Hood and Little John fuck your Norman Wenches.” Robyn unleashed with the protest Song.
“And when you go home you’ll hear them moan and find them up the trenches.” Came Little John Foster.
Their Jailer opened with the Fire Hose.