Wrecking Crew

ONE

Charles Rathbone had less than two hours to live. The people watching him were unaware of this, even though they would ultimately be held responsible for his death. The chain of events that would lead to his demise had begun many months before, and like most things in politics, was driven by greed, envy, and lust.

In the scenic village of Finchingfield in the English County of Essex, one of the most photographed villages in England, time seemed to pass with exquisite patience. With a picturesque duck pond and village green sitting at the base of a steep hill, surrounded by Georgian and mediaeval cottages, their white painted walls gleaming bright in the fall sunshine, one could be forgiven for thinking it was a Wednesday afternoon in October 1800. This illusion is quickly disproved by dozens of tourist cars haphazardly parked around the village and the subliminal roar of yet another jet approaching London Stansted airport.

To the casual observer, this is just another normal day in a beautiful, but otherwise ordinary Essex village. Standing by the village pond, an old woman is feeding the ducks with a few bread crusts from a brown paper bag. Sitting at a bench table outside the Fox Inn, five German tourists are resting their aching legs whilst enjoying an excellent lunch, washed down with a few pints of Best Bitter. Across the road, a young man is laboriously riding his bicycle up the steep hill towards the village post office; soon he wearies of his sluggish progress, climbs off, and begins to walk.

After a while, the elderly woman pauses and cocks her head towards the distinctive sound of an approaching car. She brings her left hand to her head, as if to brush a loose hair from her ear, and whispers into the microphone concealed within her sleeve.

“Subject approaching.”

The elderly woman listens to the reply in her earpiece, nodding subliminally.

“Acknowledged,” she answers and returns to feeding the ducks.

Charles Rathbone loved his car. For a man educated in the ways of frugal living by his Scottish mother, it was his one true extravagance. Although being such a tall man, the little 1966 Austin Healey Sprite was hardly a suitable mode of transport. A recently disowned girlfriend once commented that it made him look a bit like he had stolen a child’s pedal car, but Charles didn’t care. The Sprite was a fully restored open topped, two-seater, in classic British Racing Green. Its little four-cylinder 1275cc engine produced a minuscule 65 horsepower, which by modern standards was insignificant, but in such a small car, it was sufficient to provide an exhilarating driving experience.

Charles was a naturally cautious man — at least more cautious than one might expect from someone who was awarded the George Cross for ‘The most conspicuous courage in circumstances of extreme danger’ — but today he was allowing his little Austin to stretch its legs. From his house near Sible Hedingham he made short work of the miles to Wethersfield, where he turned right and accelerated hard, powering on past the entrance to the old United States of America Air Force base. With the soft top down, the little sports car flew along the narrow road towards Finchingfield.

Charles worked the four-speed transmission hard, making the engine roar and the throaty exhaust pipe growl like an angry lion. At 80mph, with almost reckless abandon, he aggressively maneuvered the car through the final bends before the village. As the tires squealed in complaint, flicking the car violently left and right at the very edge of control, Charles giggled and gave a child-like whoop of delight. He was still laughing aloud when he slowed to a more sedate 30mph and entered the village. With his foot lightly on the brake, he coasted slowly down Church Hill towards the duck pond, enjoying the cracking and popping of the exhaust as it echoed off the buildings. With a little spurt of acceleration, he bounded across the humpbacked bridge, giving a friendly wave to the tourists outside the Fox Inn as he passed.

At the junction, he turned to the left, and with a final exuberant burst of acceleration, he drove for another two hundred yards towards the village post office. He parked neatly on the opposite side of the road, perfectly aligned, six inches from the curb. Even after such an exhilarating drive, he could not resist giving one final burst of power, before switching off the engine. Rathbone sat for a moment enjoying the sun on his face and listening to a blackbird singing along to the gentle tick of the cooling engine.

With a sigh of regret, he climbed out of the car and walked across the road towards the post office, nodding politely at a young man on a bicycle along the way. A casual observer may have noted Rathbone’s posture and bearing, and guessed that he was a former military man. Someone with a more trained eye may have also noticed that he favored his left leg, and concluded that perhaps he was still feeling the effects of some old sporting injury. In either case, they would have seen a tall, slim, handsome man in his early sixties, well dressed, with a confident air and a ready smile. The sort of man you would like from the moment you first met. An honest man, someone you felt you could trust, a man of true character and integrity — in short, the perfect political candidate.

The majority of people agreed that Charles Rathbone, GC (George Cross), was the perfect candidate for a parliamentary seat in the imminent general election. A native lad and the son of a local farmer, he performed well at school before going to Cambridge University where he achieved firsts in engineering and politics. Later he excelled at Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, and after receiving his commission, he joined the Royal Engineers.

The unfortunate climax to his outstanding military career came in Afghanistan with an act of extraordinary bravery. Despite being badly wounded by a land mine explosion, he twice entered a mined area to rescue his injured colleagues. His bravery and selflessness won him the George Cross but cost him his right leg below the knee. Unwilling to take a desk job, Charles left the Army, took over the family farm, and in due course turned his eye towards politics.

Disheartened by media reports that less people had voted in the last general election than for a popular television game show, Rathbone put his sharp mind towards finding a way to re-engage voters. Freed from the need to earn a living by his Army pension, Charles was able to take time away from the farm to meet with prospective voters from across the country and explore the reasons behind their antipathy for the current political system. The answers were consistent: ‘With this two party system, you are always faced with the same choices’ and ‘it doesn’t matter who you vote for, nothing will change — so what’s the point of voting?’ Although to begin with he had no political ambition, Charles soon became a vocal advocate for political reform — principally through the concept of the ‘None of the above’ vote along with holding regular referenda. Soon the concept of the ‘True Democracy’ party was born.

The idea of such a ‘No’ vote being included in a ballot was not new, it had been used as the basis for a film comedy in the 1980’s; but Charles was the first realistic candidate to campaign for such political reform in a British election. The notion was shockingly simple, yet frighteningly effective — especially if you were a sitting Member of Parliament (MP) or a political lobbyist. Rathbone was proposing that at every election, local, county, national and European, the ballot should include an option to reject all of the candidates that had been presented.

Critics protested that such a system would throw the election process into disarray, making Britain a laughing stock around the world. Charles countered that giving such power to the electorate was true democracy. In his opinion a ‘No’ vote — or the fear of it — would result in many more acceptable candidates standing for election. He predicted that in future they would have to present realistic policies that they could deliver, rather than the empty promises that had been the cause of such voter apathy in the past. Giving such a democratic voice to the public would, he predicted, led to a much higher percentage of the population voting, which must be a good thing — at least for the public.

For a while, his ideas were popular talking points in the press and on current affairs shows, but soon the campaign started to lose momentum — helped by the naysayers and lobbyists, painting pictures of political chaos and wasted taxes. The turnaround in fortunes for the True Democracy movement was unexpected and ironic.

In an effort to kill the idea for all time, a media mogul arranged for his most popular television talent show to add the ‘No’ vote to its phone poll for contestants. At the same time, the political media made sure to give Charles full credit for the ‘flawed’ idea, in anticipation of a glorious failure. The show presented eight contestants with varying degrees of talent. In total almost two million people voted, but to the surprise of many, more than a million of those votes were to eliminate all of the contestants.

Although this rejection was a very public display of people power, it supported the argument that True Democracy would inevitably lead to political chaos. The panel of expert judges selected eight more contestants, and the producers invited the public to vote again. This time over nine million people voted and again the majority chose the ‘None of the above’ option. The show’s viewing figures were sharply increasing, and the producers were delighted. The lobbyists and politicians were considerably less happy — but the process had started and it was now far too public to stop.

By this time, the social media was buzzing. People were publically refusing to vote for the next group of candidates; they wanted their own choice. Eventually the show’s producers had to give in to such overwhelming public pressure. At the end of June, a third round of voting took place. Six new contestants were presented, including four that had received the most support from social media. Almost twenty-two million people voted in the third poll — a television record. The winning contestant was a seventeen-year-old comedian from Manchester, chosen with the support of social media; she received over fourteen million votes.

The conclusion was clear, people loved the idea of True Democracy; they felt engaged and empowered. Suddenly, Charles Rathbone the war hero had also become a political hero — and a safe bet to win a seat at the next election. Now he was a man who was about to die.

As Charles Rathbone entered Finchingfield post office, he found that there were several customers queuing at the counter. On hearing him enter, one elderly lady turned around and Charles smiled widely as he came face-to-face with Mary Heffernan. Many years ago when she was a tall and dangerously attractive young woman, Mary had been an English teacher to the young Charles Rathbone. He was saddened to see her now, bent over with age, and confused by her developing Dementia. Back then, this beautiful woman, with her razor sharp mind and ready wit, had won the heart and mind of that hormonally challenged teenager.

Charles still addressed her as Mrs. Heffernan, even though they had been friends for well over forty years, and despite her repeated pleads for him to call her Mary.

“Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Heffernan. And how are you today?”

She looked up and assessed him with watery grey eyes that gave little indication of the intelligent blue sparkle that had once lived within.

“Goodness me, if it isn’t Charles Rathbone,” she said in a voice as cracked and dry as old paint. “I heard that you are going to be the next Prime Minister.”

Charles smiled at the thinly veiled compliment.

“Well, perhaps next year. Right now I am just hoping to become a Member of Parliament.”

They were blocking the doorway and had to stand aside when another customer entered the post office — it was the young man who had been riding his bicycle in the street. He had a black eye and seemed rather surprised and embarrassed by the crowded room. He stepped to one side and began inspecting a display of elastic bands on the stationery counter. Charles and Mary exchanged a knowing glance.

“I’m sure you will win handsomely, you can count on my vote.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “But only if you promise to call me Mary.”

“Good gracious, Mrs. Heffernan,” Charles said in mock surprise. “Attempting to bribe a candidate, and in a public place as well — I am shocked! Whatever will people think?”

“People will think that you are a naughty schoolboy who still won’t do what he’s told,” she replied, patting his arm.

Charles smiled.

“And they would probably be right.” He tilted his head and gave a dramatic sigh. “OK, I give in. If I win the election, I promise to call you Mary, Mrs. Heffernan. You have my word.”

“Well then, I had better go and campaign for you. Once you have reinvented democracy, perhaps you can do something about the price of vegetables — this cucumber cost a pound at the market; it’s an absolute scandal!”

“Goodness! That seems expensive. I promise that I will make salad pricing for the elderly my first priority,” he quipped. “It is a lovely looking cucumber though.”

“The man said it was special, one of those orgasmic cucumbers.”

Charles’s heart sank at her confusion and the barely concealed titters from the other customers.

“I think you mean ‘organic,’ Mrs. Heffernan,” Charles replied kindly.

“I know exactly what I mean,” she said, giving him a sly wink as he held the door open for her. “Good luck with the election.”

Charles went to the greeting cards display. After a brief inspection, he smiled and selected a birthday card showing a picture of a car. He paid for a stamp and the card, and using a borrowed pen, he wrote an address on the envelope and added a birthday wish to the pre-printed greeting. Charles stood very still for a moment, before suddenly turning to face the young man who was standing by his side.

“How’s the cycling today?” Charles asked.

For a moment the young man seemed confused and a little startled, but he recovered quickly, mumbling a polite ‘Fine, thanks’, before turning away to inspect another packet of elastic bands. As soon as the man turned away, Charles pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and quickly slipped it inside the card. He carefully sealed the envelope shut and dropped it into the internal mail box, then gave the post-mistress a friendly wave goodbye, and headed back to his car.

As he watched Charles drive away, the young man stood by his bicycle and used his cell phone to make a call.

“It’s me, Darren Jeffers. It looks like he’s heading back home.” He listened to a question and replied, “No, nothing else to report. He just sent a birthday card to some guy called Stone.”

Eric Stone was annoyed. His golden rule in life was always, ‘Don’t get involved,’ and now he was about to break it.

At the age of fourteen, battered and bruised from yet another beating at the hands of the school bully and his sidekicks, Stone had joined a local Wado-Ryu karate club. After his second night of training, the Sensei, an aging Japanese man who had an 8th Dan black belt, pulled young Stone to one side.

“I’m worried about you, Eric. Clearly, you have a natural aptitude for karate. I can see that already. But these bruises you carry on your face tell me that you may want to learn karate for the wrong reason.”

“I don’t understand, Sensei,” Eric pleaded. “I just want to learn to defend myself. What’s wrong with that?”

The Sensei gave Eric a kind smile and spoke sympathetically.

“I think that you have been beaten many times. Is this correct?”

Eric nodded and blushed as his shame burned bright in his cheeks.

“Yes, Sensei.”

“For a young man in your situation, it is natural that you want to fight these boys — to try and right a wrong. Is that the way you feel, Eric?”

Eric cast his eyes to the floor.

“Yes, Sensei,” he mumbled.

The Sensei crossed his arms.

“If you are to learn the way of Wado-Ryu, you must promise not to fight with these boys, Eric.”

“But why, Sensei?” Eric asked in shock. “These boys beat me up, and other people as well — I just want to stop them.”

“I understand how you feel Eric, but karate is not a tool of justice. The founder of Wado-Ryu karate, Hironori Ohtsuka Sensei, taught us that. He said, ‘Violent action may be understood as the way of martial arts, but the true meaning of martial arts is to seek and attain the way of peace and harmony.’”

The Sensei looked into Eric’s eyes.

“I am very sorry young man, but I cannot let you learn this skill, if I believe you intend to use it as a weapon.”

Eric huffed and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Great! Now what am I supposed to do?”

“You have a decision to make. If you stay, you must promise that you will try to walk away from confrontation. If that is impossible, then you must run — there is no shame in avoidance from a position of great strength. Finally, when there is no other option, you may use your skill to defend yourself, or another person.”

He knelt down to put himself at Eric’s height.

“Now do you understand?”

Eric bowed his head in respect

“Yes, Sensei.”

“So now you have a choice. If you wish to fight, you must leave, but if you want to learn the way of peace and harmony, you may stay.”

“Thank you, Sensei.” Eric nodded. “I wish to stay.”

The Sensei smiled. He decided that he was talking to a very brave and remarkable young man, who deserved the best training he could provide.

The young Eric Stone kept his promise. Under the expert eye of The Sensei, he trained hard and soon came to see that there was no shame in avoiding confrontation. Perhaps the bullies sensed his growing confidence, or heard about his quick progress through the karate grading’s, but very soon afterwards the beatings stopped and they never came after him again.

Now twenty-five years later, Sensei Eric Stone was a respected martial arts and self-defense instructor with his own dojo and a staff of twelve. Skilled in the disciplines of Wado-Ryu karate, Jujutsu and Aikido, Stone had also developed an excellent reputation as a fitness coach, training people of all ages and abilities. Along with his regular clients, he privately trained several celebrities, their bodyguards, and a former police officer turned private detective. Occasionally he was contracted by the Army to give unarmed combat training at the local Army barracks. This was normally to help build the confidence of young soldiers who were about to go somewhere hot and very dangerous for the first time.

It seemed like an age since a young and frightened boy had promised his Sensei that he would walk away from confrontation, and throughout that time, Eric had done his utmost to keep his promise. It had become a matter of personal pride, a commitment to a long dead friend and mentor. However, now he was going to break his promise — three times in short succession.

After leaving his dojo for the day, Eric’s route home took him through Braintree’s Town center market place. It was late afternoon and the market traders were taking down their stalls and getting ready to move on to the next town on their schedule. Along the street, council garbage collectors were hard at work clearing away the piles of empty cardboard boxes and heaped fruit and vegetables, discarded earlier as unfit for sale.

As he squeezed his little blue Ford Focus between a council dustcart and some inconveniently situated road works, Stone spotted something round, yellow, and about the size of a soccer ball, curving through the air towards the car. It was a melon. He ducked instinctively as it exploded against the window pillar, spraying water and bits of rotten pulp across his windshield and hood.

“Damn kids!” Stone muttered to himself, shaking his head in dismay.

There was nowhere convenient to stop in the market square, so he drove for another hundred yards, turning left twice as he followed the one-way traffic system. The car’s wiper blades had smeared the gunk across the windshield, dangerously degrading his forward visibility, so he found a place to pull over and began to clean away the mess. He picked off the bigger pieces of fruit with his fingers and dropped them into a nearby bin, and used a water bottle to wash away the remaining juice, before wiping the screen clean with an old t-shirt that he had in his gym bag.

As Stone was about to get back into his car, some boisterous laughter attracted his attention. Even though the noise from the nearby diesel generator and pneumatic drill made the laughter difficult to hear, there was something disturbing about it. Suddenly, Stone realized that by following the one-way system, and turning left twice along the way, he had parked in an open area a little way to the rear of the market place. From a distance of about fifty-yards, Stone had a clear view of three lads who were laughing and bumping fists. They were using the council dustcart for cover, so that they could throw discarded fruit at passing cars unobserved.

All three appeared to be in their teens; Stone speculated that perhaps they were friends from the same gym. They were all heavily muscled and tattooed, with the same short-cropped hairstyles. Almost like a uniform, they sported similar scruffy jeans and white t-shirts, in keeping with the local fashion at that time. Stone watched them for a minute, dismayed by the callous arrogance that they displayed as they threw fruit at unsuspecting drivers. They egged each other on, offering different fruits from a cardboard box that Stone presumed they had found in the back of the dustcart.

“Try a peach,” one lad shouted. “They really go splat when they hit!”

Another pointed. “Get that taxi — it’s that Pakki bastard.”

The lad in the middle threw like a baseball pitcher, and they all whooped in delight as the rotten peach struck the side window of the cab, startling the hapless driver. Stone sighed in silent disappointment and shook his head.

“Don’t get involved Eric — don’t get involved,” he whispered in warning to himself. “This isn’t your fight.”

He was about to climb into his car when he heard another shout. Stone’s shoulders slumped when he realized the implication.

“Look! Get the old bitch, the one with the shopping bags.”

“Yeah!” Another joined in. “Let’s all throw together!”

“She’s coming this way, wait until she gets a bit closer.”

Stone closed his eyes for a moment and swore under his breath.

“Perhaps I can just warn them off,” he said hopefully.

Stone jogged up a sidewalk that connected the market square to the area where he had parked his car. From that direction, he was able to approach the three lads from behind — unobserved. At the top of the sidewalk, he paused for a moment to assess the situation. The old lady was still about forty-yards away, slowly shuffling along, weighed down with her grocery shopping. He decided she was out of range and in no immediate danger for the time being. Stone scanned the buildings and light fixtures for CCTV cameras and decided that the men had inadvertently chosen a position behind the dustcart that gave perfect cover from any spying eyes — electronic or human. If things turned nasty in the next few minutes, Stone would be on his own, without the prospect of any aid from the police; but by then, so would the men.

He took a moment to study the three men, Stone decided that they were a little older than he had first thought, perhaps as old as twenty-one. From the bulging muscles under their tightly stretched t-shirts and jeans, it was clear that they worked out a lot. Although bulky muscle can appear physically intimidating, it will usually be tight and inflexible, making that person slow an unbalanced. The absence of any athletic movement in the way that the three men braced their legs, with their knees stiff and feet flat, told Stone that it was unlikely that they had ever had any significant martial arts training. Although Stone was not a large man and did not appear to be particularly muscular, many years of dedicated training had given him astonishing speed, strength, and flexibility.

Looking to his right, he could see that the old lady was getting closer. Stone looked at the three young men again and decided that he was comfortable with the odds. If he was going to act, it had to be now. He calmly walked forwards and stopped eight feet away, directly behind the center of the group. Eight feet away, two fast paces, or a step and a kick; a gap he could close in less than one second. Far enough away to be out of range from a sudden attack, far enough to stay out of someone’s personal space, and far enough to be conversational without seeming intimidating — which was his intention.

The fruit throwers were all facing away from Stone, still unaware of his presence, using the dustcart as cover they jostled with each other as they prepared their ammunition for the attack on the old lady. The man on Stone’s right seemed to be the ringleader; he was bouncing a pear in his hand as he readied his throw.

“Gentlemen! May I have your attention please?” Stone shouted over noise of the pneumatic drill.

Looking as if they had been jabbed with a cattle prod, the three men comically jumped in surprise. They quickly gathered themselves and turned to face the source of the voice, relaxing visibly when they saw Stone. From their point of view, he was just some middle-aged man, of medium height and build, dressed smartly in brown leather shoes, beige slacks and a loose fitting cream golf shirt. They saw him as someone twice their age, someone old, someone who was of negligible threat to three large men.

“What the fuck you want?” spat the man on the right.

Stone held his hands out to his sides with the palms facing forwards, in the international gesture that said, ‘I am unarmed and I wish you no harm.’ He spoke in a calm, clear voice.

“I just wanted to suggest that perhaps you have had enough fun for today and that now would be a good time for you to go home.” He gave a big reassuring smile.

The ringleader wrinkled his brow for a moment, as if he was unable to comprehend the meaning of the words. He looked at his two colleagues and, with the confidence of a pack of hyenas, they all laughed together at a secret shared joke. The spotty lad on the left was the first to recover; he spoke next.

“What’s it to you GRAND D-A-D!” he said, deliberately stretching the last word for comic effect.

Stone smiled and dipped his head politely, allowing the intended insult to pass.

“I do not want any trouble. I am just asking you guys to stop throwing fruit, before someone gets hurt.”

The big guy in the middle of the group was quick to return the comment.

“The only person what’s gonna get hurt is you — dickhead.”

“Unlikely,” Stone responded in a frank assessment. Then he smiled and tried again with exaggerated politeness. “Please gentlemen. I would be most grateful if you would stop what you are doing and move along; it really would be in your best interest.”

The spotty one joined in again. “You gonna stop us on your own then?”

“I would rather it didn’t come to that, but if I have to I will.”

“There’s three of us and one of you.”

Stone smiled at the spotty kid. “Thank you for that excellent demonstration of your mathematical superiority, but I was already aware of the ratios.”

“Wah?” the spotty kid grunted in confusion.

“You reckon you can take us then?” the big guy asked curiously.

Stone looked him straight in the eye.

“If I have to, but it doesn’t need to come to that. Walk away right now and no one gets hurt today.”

“Or what?” the big guy asked, pushing the point.

“Or learn the hard way and crawl away.” Stone casually crossed his arms. “Either way your little game stops right now. Nice or nasty — it’s your choice.”

“You seem confident for a little guy,” the big guy said.

“I am,” Stone said calmly, “Perhaps you should pause to consider why that would be.”

“I’ve had enough of this shit,” the ringleader hissed, as he produced a knife from his back pocket.

It was a small knife, perhaps a kitchen paring knife, but with a wickedly sharp four-inch blade and the handle wrapped in multiple layers of duct tape. It sat in the ringleaders hand with familiar confidence.

“Go on Spike,” the spotty kid leered, “cut the bastard!”

Stone looked directly at the one called Spike and sighed dramatically.

“Now why did you have to go and do a thing like that; just when we were starting to build a good relationship?”

“I’m gonna fuck you up good man,” Spike said. He waved the knife in his right hand as if it was a magic wand.

“If you don’t put it away Spike, I am going to have to take it away — and you will not like it when I do.” As he spoke, Stone circled casually to his right, covertly forcing the three men to line up along the sidewalk, one behind the other, trapped between the wall and the rear of the dustcart. Now they had to attack one at a time, with the knife welding Spike at the front of the line.

“Man! You gotta learn some respect,” Spike sneered.

“Yeah! Stick him Spike,” someone shouted from the back of the line.

Stone bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, with his left foot slightly forward and his hands held ahead at waist height, palms open. It was a purely defensive position; physically unthreatening, but ready to react to any attack.

“Last chance, Spike. Put the knife down and walk away — please.”

Spike smiled in anticipation.

“Fuck you, old man!” he shouted as he attacked.

The first principle of Wado-Ryu karate is avoidance. There is no shame in walking away from any situation, or indeed running; but if confrontation is avoidable, the first moves you learn to make are all about how to avoid an attack. As Spike lunged forwards, Stone stepped to his left with his left foot, easily moving his body aside and out of danger. At the same time, he used his right arm to deflect the knife hand, so that it passed harmlessly several inches to his right.

The second principle of Wado-Ryu karate is entering — positioning your body correctly and in a balanced fashion, ready for what comes next. In the next half second, Stone swung his right arm in a clockwise loop over and then under Spike’s arm, trapping the forearm under Stone’s armpit. This simple move locked Spike’s elbow straight, painfully counter-rotating the shoulder and elbow, making it impossible for him to use the knife.

The third principle of Wado-Ryu karate is attack. In the next second, Stone used his right foot, in a back-heel kick, to sweep Spike’s front foot away. Already off balance, and trying to bend over backwards because of the painful pressure on his elbow, Spike flipped backwards and slammed his head against the rear bumper of the dustcart. As he slid into unconsciousness, Stone lifted the knife from his lifeless hand and tossed it into the dustcart rubbish chute.

Three seconds had passed.

In an ideal world, such violent actions would be unnecessary. In an ideal world, the other two youths would have had an epiphany and run away — but they did not.

Without taking a moment to process what had happened to Spike, the big guy let out a mighty roar and charged forwards with his arms out, as if he intended to catch Stone and crush him in a bear hug. He was a large man with substantial muscles, most likely developed through many hours of lifting dumb weights in the gym and topped off with imported steroids. His biceps were bigger than Stone’s thigh and his chest looked as hard as rock. Stone knew what would happen if such a strong adversary were to catch him in a bear hug. Avoidance was not an option this time. With Spike’s unconscious form slumped on the sidewalk, there was insufficient room to maneuver effectively. If he sidestepped the attack and ‘big guy’ got past, then Stone would be trapped between two aggressors and in a tactically disastrous situation. Stone knew he had to meet this attack head-on.

As big guy charged, Stone stepped forwards with his right foot, keeping the knee bent low, and pushing through his locked left leg, drove his right arm forwards into his attackers sternum. The straight line he created, from the rear foot to the striking hand, is called a single line of force; it is the perfect method of transferring energy. If you bend a pencil sideways it is easy to snap it in two, but stand it upright, and slam your hand down onto the point, and you will painfully understand the concept.

For big guy, it felt like he had run into the wrong end of a concrete lightning bolt. A punch to the solar plexus may have winded a smaller attacker, but like Stone, big guy’s stomach muscles were easily capable of absorbing a mighty blow — so Stone aimed for the little bone at the base of the sternum. His heel hand strike, combined with the weight of the charging weight lifter, created an impact of tremendous kinetic energy, short-circuiting the nerve bundle at the center of big guy’s chest. As the strike exploded into the xyphoid process, the little bone at the lower end of the sternum, the seventh intercostal nerve went into shock. Like a man being electrocuted, big guy went into a standing seizure with his arms and legs comically stretched out to his sides. Stone stepped back to create more space, gave big guy a cheeky wink, and delivered a massive kick to his unprotected scrotum. Such a kick would easily have sent a soccer ball out of the stadium; the effect on big guy’s nervous system was devastating. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he dropped to his knees with a sickening ‘smack’ and cross-eyed in agony, he rolled into the gutter where he began to twitch and vomit uncontrollably.

Six seconds had passed.

Perhaps shocked by the speed and efficiency of his compatriots’ demise, the spotty kid at least had the presence of mind to stop and consider the situation. He may even have thought of making the wise choice to turn and run, but after a moment’s hesitation, he too decided to fight. Adopting what he may have perceived to be a martial arts combat stance, he turned slightly sideways with his hands held out like a praying mantis and shuffled forwards to attack. Stone dropped his left foot backwards and raised his left hand to ear height as if he was preparing to deliver a huge punch. It was a simple diversion, like a magician’s sleight of hand, drawing your attention away from the real action; all the time Stone’s right fist was creeping slowly into an attacking position. The spotty kid fell for it. Naturally focusing all of his attention on the threatening left hand, he remained completely oblivious to the real danger — until Stone’s right fist whipped up from a few inches away and connected perfectly with the side of his chin. The kid turned a comical half circle on rubber legs and collapsed into an inert heap onto the sidewalk. The entire combat had taken twelve seconds.

“GRANDDAD my arse!” Stone mumbled.

He glanced left and right to make sure that they were still out of sight behind the dustcart. The only person nearby was the old lady who was crossing to the other side of the road, seemingly oblivious to the battle that had just been fought for her protection. Stone carefully checked each man, to make sure that they were breathing freely and unlikely to choke to death, or spring up and attack him again. Satisfied that they were all temporarily incapacitated, he was about to head back to his car when he had an idea that appealed to his sense of justice. Working quickly, Stone roughly stripped each man from the waist down. Then he dumped their clothes and shoes into the back of the dustcart.

“Payback’s a bitch,” he said as he pushed the big green button to activate the rubbish compactor.

Ten minutes later the dustcart drove away, revealing the huddled forms of three half-naked men, who had lost all interest in throwing rotten fruit at unsuspecting old ladies.

Charles Rathbone drove his Austin Healey Sprite home at a more sedate pace, checking his mirrors frequently. He knew about the observers, he had been aware of them for almost a month. He knew why they were following him, and now he knew what he had to do if he was going to stop them. No one could help him now — although a few had tried. Even his friends, his powerful friends, his good friends were unable to help.

Rathbone had fought a good battle, and for a while he had thought he was winning, but now he knew that he had lost — he knew for sure thirty-six hours ago. A good and trusted friend had shown him the evidence. His friend had been so apologetic. She had explained that the evidence was clear, she said there was nothing he could do, she had cried as she told Charles what would happen next. Then she gave Charles a wonderful gift; she gave Charles a small amount of time. At great risk to herself, his friend promised to delay what had to happen for forty-eight hours, to give Charles time to prepare, time to get his affairs in order — and now that time was almost gone.

It was crucial that the observers did not suspect anything, so Charles made sure that he kept to his usual routine. The little green sports car turned into the driveway of the family farm and pulled into the garage as usual. Charles climbed out of the car, closed the garage doors, and walked back down the driveway to check the post-box before closing the old wooden gates. He could not see the observers, but he was certain that they were close by — probably using binoculars and cameras to monitor and analyze his every move. As he walked confidently towards the beautiful farmhouse, he thought that the thatched roof would probably need attention in the spring, and for a moment, he was saddened that he would miss the fun.

Once inside the house, he carefully locked and bolted the front door. Charles walked swiftly to his study where, using his favourite 18 karat gold Cross fountain pen and personalized writing paper, he hand wrote a short letter. After carefully drying the ink with a blotter, he sealed the letter in an envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Confident that the thick net curtains on the windows would prevent anyone outside from seeing in, he unlocked his gun safe and removed a shotgun and a few shells. This began the critical phase.

Once he had closed and relocked the gun safe, he lay down on the carpet and belly-crawled down the corridor and into the sitting room. He rose slowly and stood absolutely still alongside the window for five full minutes; watching for any movement in the rear yard. When he was confident that there was no one hiding in the bushes, he somberly loaded both barrels of the shotgun.

Inherited from Charles’s father, the Baikal IZH-43KH shotgun was manufactured in Russia, and imported from Canada. Although the shorter 18.5-inch barrel makes it less accurate than a traditional shotgun, Charles considered it an excellent weapon for close quarters fighting. It was also exactly the correct length for what he had in mind. The Remington hypersonic steel shells he was using were specifically designed for shooting fast moving ducks. These unique shells combine a tight pattern of pellets with a 1,700 foot per second mussel velocity, capable of delivering a devastating punch — deadly to both ducks and men.

Rathbone silently opened the French doors and walked out to the exact center of his lawn, where he turned a slow, deliberate circle, checking once more for the observers. Satisfied that he was temporarily alone, he faced his house and knelt down on the grass. Then, Charles Rathbone, decorated war hero took a deep breath, put the shotgun barrel into his mouth and, without hesitation, pulled both triggers.