CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME OF ALL

Sir Godwin Guyson didn't remember much, other than his name, title, family tree, and his boyhood. His thoughts and memories, once in color, now had a strange sepia quality.To him, the last two years had been a safari. A hunting expedition, like the ones he used to fantasize about as a boy. Instead of shooting down elephants in the savannas, however, he was doing it from home. Sure, they were people he was firing at, but they shot at him first. Once or twice.It's not as if he was wrong for doing it in the first place, given the state of things. Guyson was sure at least one of his targets welcomed death. Everyone says it is sweet. He found the payments given by the locale to be just as nice. He had a falcon to feed, as well as himself, after all. That little fellow in the casino, with his odd speech—some Eastern cadence he wasn't used to—paid well to remove some people.Such as the Prime Minister, apparently. Walking down Regent's Street, Guyson said to himself about the task at hand."Prime Minister? "Pah. I know they're a bit controversial now. But I had no idea people hated Chamberlain that much."On his shoulder, a peregrine falcon squawked, pecking its owner on the ear."D- but I suppose you are right. Things were better when old Lizzie was pulling her weight, Heracles."The old gentleman's reminiscing was interrupted by a shout down the street. Then another. Then another."Give me a bucket, and I'll SHOW you a bucket!""Ooooch! It's the rhyme minister!""Boysboysboys! I found a free grenade!"Ah. It seemed like the little Oriental chap had been kind enough to send him some reinforcements."Look, it doesn't even have a pi-"Well, tried to send him reinforcement. But, alas, they were red mist now. Guyson could do this himself, however. He had a rifle, a bird, and a longword. And a flintlock, just in case. But he didn't have time to reflect on the antiquated nature of his equipment. He could see a very angry-looking fellow coming at him, more than a few dozen feet away from that big red toyshop. Ah, Hamley's. He fondly remembered frequenting it often, but not actually buying much.The man seemed to wear a bulletproof vest and some legwear that was more pocket than trouser. He held a Desert Eagle in his hands, but didn't fire yet. Guyson decided he would play this casual, neglecting his weaponry for now."Hello, good sir! My name is Sir Godwin, and I would quite like you to put away your weapon."The man only stared him down, pocketing his pistol before he spoke."Sergeant Collins, Special Air Service. what are you doing here?"Collins briefly took in the gentleman's appearance. Couldn't have been older than eighty, wearing a tweed suit under a brown felt trench coat. Full moon glasses, magnifying permanently squinting eyes, a cluster of wrinkles below them. A fedora with a few high-caliber rounds on it, like some sort of game hunter. The bird, the fastest in the world, or so Guinness claimed, returned the sergeant's intense gaze. Collins thought the bird would be harder than the man. He had a Lee Enfield on his back and a claymore at his side. "Quite right, it's a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant—I'm wondering if you may have someone I'm looking for." Guyson asked, in what might have been an innocent enough tone if it weren't for the circumstance."And who would that be, sir?" Collins shifted his weight a little, his hand in his pocket, just in case."Why, the Prime Minister, of course."ChimamanCollins sighed. "You're one of them lot, aren't you? The Chinese fella's?""Yes, the little gentleman from the Orient sent me; how did you know?""Because those lads who just exploded were his as well." An unspoken threat hung in the air. "D'you want to join them, sir?""I see. My condolences to them, I suppose. May they be in our prayers and all that, now way I see the Prime Minister?"At this, Collins reached for his desert eagle. Fortunately for Guyson, he too was armed via bird. Heracles leaped out from his shoulder. He beat his wings in the Sergeant's face and bared his talons to ward him off. Guyson took time to unsheathe his blade. He got a good two-handed grip on it. He stood straight despite the mess of feathers an inch away.The sergeant eventually batted away Heracles, attempting to throw a punch at the old man. Guyson's stance did not waver, only tipping the blade slightly so that it would meet Collins's hand. It slipped between the middle and ring fingers. Thanks to the phenomenal force behind that punch, the blade slipped halfway through his hand, cutting it open. A twist, then a satisfying snap as several tendons were torn. Guyson withdrew the blade, returning it to the scabbard with a flourish.To his credit, the sergeant didn't scream or shout. He simply grunted, gritting his teeth as he inspected the round. No using that hand for at least a month or two."Again," Guyson continued, rubbing his eyes from beneath his spectacles. "May I see the prime minister?"Collins's good hand went to the Desert Eagle once more."You know, I am trying to let you live. I'm not some hooligan who'll kill willy-nilly simply for the sake of it. Don't make it so hard for yourself. Please." No compassion there—only exasperation in Guyson's voice.Meanwhile, Heracles returned to his perch on Guyson's left shoulder. Collins, with a shaking hand, attempted to undo the safety, but found that he couldn't. Guyson drew his flintlock, the barrel facing the Sergeant's head. His grip was firm, even as he cocked back the hammer."Now, I'll ask again—where is the Prime Mini—" He was cut off, collapsing to the ground. Behind him stood Agent Johns, holding his pistol barrel-first."Poor lad—couldn't even land a punch on the old man?" He grinned, not paying mind to the angry bird of prey looking up at him on the floor."I-I- the old bugger had a bloomin' claymore! I'm a soldier, not some eighteenth-century ponce who partakes in a gentleman's duel!" Collins said, taking his belt and winding it around his bad hand."Doesn't matter, the chap's heart has probably stopped beating by now. Just get back inside, yeah? Dick's waiting; he wants to discuss relocation."The two began to walk back in—Johns trying to holster his pistol, Collins trying not to sulk.Heracles was still pecking at Guyson, who was still breathing. It wouldn't be until night time that he woke up, after his bird had fought off a Blighter for him. He simply got up and got walking again. Sure, it was a failure; but not a total one. He had as long as he wanted to mount the sergeant's head on his wall if he wanted to. All in due time, he told himself.