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firing line: he'd always have a fall guy standing by.
    Loewe clicked his fingers and the dogs returned to him immediately, Schaefer mirroring the men from the command centre, standing well out of their way. The dogs' mouths were covered in gore as they took their places flanking Loewe. He gestured for Schaefer to clear the corpse away, then shut the door.
    Loewe returned to his seat, tossing down the letter opener and adjusting the position of the chair. As he lay back he thought again of Hood and what he'd done, and hoped the man could be stopped before he really did become a threat.
     
    The plane remained high, circling the area like a carrion crow.
    When it finally descended, the small craft came in fast and low, making good use of the fading April light. Like its pilot, it was more at home in the shadows than the glare of daylight.
    He'd managed to find a patch of grassland some distance from his chosen goal, near to a place called Creswell Crags. Skilfully, he manipulated the sombrely-painted Cessna into position for a landing. He hardly felt the ground as the wheels touched down and carried him quickly under the trees. The man opened up his door and climbed out, bringing his bow and arrows with him.
    The dark material of his stitched clothes and his long black hair, tied back in a ponytail, made him resemble that which he loved so much; his weathered skin completing the picture. It was the reason he had taken that name, the one he went by these days.
    Shadow.
    He began to camouflage his transportation, bending thin branches and layering foliage over the wings and main body of the plane. Before leaving her, he patted her cooling side. She had served him well during his long trip, admittedly punctuated by stops to replenish her fuel. Fuel supplied by those who'd employed him.
    Shadow made his way stealthily through the Crags themselves. When he broke into the rundown visitor centre there, to search for a local map of the area, he noted that one of the caves not far away was named after his quarry - the original version at any rate. According to books he found, under all the cobwebs - ones that hadn't been destroyed by vandals - it had been called this because it was rumoured to have been used as one of his storage holes. But thousands of years before that, it had been used by hunters just like Shadow's own ancestors. There was evidence of stone weapons and tools fashioned from animal teeth.
    He dug out a map that showed him his destination was within walking distance. So, quiver on his back, along with a handmade rucksack - knife and hawk axe already at his hip - he set off for the place where his 'mark' had once made his home. Nowadays, of course, the man spent most of his time in the city.
    Shadow knew a great many things about him, simply from communing with higher forces, listening to his spirit guides. Even before he had set off, visions had revealed much about the Hooded Man and his forest. Prepared him for the task ahead.
    Shadow contemplated the events that had led him here, the bargain he had struck. It had been necessary, like most things in his life. Part of him respected the hunter this Hood was. In another time, another world, they might even have been blood brothers. But, here and now, fate had forced them to cross paths as opposite numbers: Hood the person he must 'deal with' - isn't that how they'd put it? - in order to receive his reward.
    Did he feel any guilt? Some, perhaps. Though they looked alike, it was not Hood's people who had murdered his brethren, taken their land and left them a minority in their country. Or was it? Hadn't it been that man's own ancestors who'd crossed the ocean and begun to colonise, begun the war that had lasted so long? His blood was their blood, wasn't it? So how could they ever be brothers? Though the natives of this country were worlds apart from those across the Atlantic, they were still cousins. They still had the same ways.
    Shadow knew that many of his kind had banded