The good news was that Little John had an escape plan.
The bad news was, it had many flaws and he was too indecisive to go for it.
The Sherwood Women’s Union seemed casual with their weapons. When John craned his neck to peer into the lounge he saw boxes of ammo, two rifles and an 80,000-volt stun stick lying amid empty beer cans and half-eaten nachos.
So, he’d wait until it was quiet, use the rust to grind through the parachute cord binding his wrists, grab a gun, then bolt for the door …
Sherwood Forest stretched over fourteen thousand square kilometres and John didn’t know where he was. But he knew people used to bring their kids to Treetop Buzz for a weekend outing and figured nobody would build a place like this more than a couple of kilometres from Route 24.
The road to the highway would be overgrown, but he could follow it on foot until he reached the motorway, and then …
This was one of the places where John’s plan fell apart. Nobody would pull off the highway to pick up a random giant teenager who’d wandered out of the forest. Especially one wearing tartan boxers and holding a gun.
Plus Little John had never shot or even loaded a gun, and had no idea where they’d put his clothes and boots after he got stripped.
He couldn’t see anywhere further than the lounge, so an armed guard might shoot him the instant he stepped outside. And his captors knew the terrain.
Every time Little John reached up to start scraping through his bindings, he found three more reasons not to risk it.
His torso trickled sweat as the day got hotter. Agnes checked in every so often and brought a bottle of tepid Rage Cola and some rice with spicy courgettes for lunch.
Little John couldn’t see a clock, but it felt like late afternoon when the teenager paid her next visit, stretching her hockey shirt over her mouth as she grabbed his toilet bucket and saw a big brown present inside.
‘Are you kidding me!’ Agnes snapped furiously, trying not to retch. ‘Pig!’
‘I can’t hold it in forever,’ John said apologetically.
The sympathy Agnes showed when she’d given him cushions had worn out. When she came back, she flung the hosed-out bucket hard enough to sting his leg.
‘I’m not doing this disgusting job again!’ Agnes told the world, as she stormed out. ‘Can we at least close the door, so his BO doesn’t stink up the lounge?’
Agnes’s anger drew T out of the Treetop Buzz manager’s office.
T gave Little John a look of contempt as her lanky frame leaned into his room, with hands resting on top of the door frame.
‘Does Gisborne want him or not?’ Agnes asked, making John feel like beef hanging in a meat locker.
‘My contact tells me the arrow Gisborne was shot with went deep into his groin and caused a lot of internal bleeding,’ T explained, as she scowled at Little John. ‘He’s been helicoptered to some fancy private hospital in the capital and needs complex surgery to sew up all the damaged pipes.’
‘So who’s left in charge?’ Agnes asked.
‘I think that’s our problem,’ T sighed. ‘Gisborne’s oldest kid, Clare, is getting involved. So are his current girlfriend, his ex-wife and at least three flunkeys who seem to think they’re boss. But nobody’s brave enough to hand us a big chunk of Gisborne’s cash without his say-so.’
‘How much longer?’ Agnes groaned, shaking her head.
‘Gisborne should be out of surgery by now,’ T said. ‘But his mind will be foggy when he comes round from a general anaesthetic, and it’ll take time to agree a price and organise the handover. So we’re stuck with our guest until morning, at least.’
Little John realised he’d have a better chance to escape at night, but didn’t let the women see he was pleased.
Agnes tutted again, irritating T.
‘Sister, it’s worth emptying slop buckets for fifty thousand!’
The teen snapped back, ‘Easy to say when you’re not doing the dirty work.’
As Agnes took a moody walk back to a paused Game of Thrones episode in the lounge, a little walkie-talkie clipped to T’s belt erupted with bleeps, followed by a tinny voice.
‘This is Jess at the treetop lookout,’ a stressed woman announced. ‘Red alert! I have eyes on Castle Guards.’
T snatched the walkie-talkie. ‘Is it a routine patrol?’
‘Negative,’ Jess said. ‘I’ve spotted four guards moving around to the west and I think there’s more creeping up from the other side …’
‘That’s an ambush,’ T told the radio. ‘All sisters who can hear this, tool up and get ready for a fight!’
‘I guess Gisborne’s people would rather not pay us,’ Agnes said, grabbing an assault rifle and fitting a fresh ammo clip. She threw this rifle to T before opening a cabinet to grab another.
‘Chuck me more ammo!’ T demanded.
Little John eyed the rust patch at the top of the post and heard an echoey popping sound, followed by the shack’s front window shattering.
T dived for cover as a black-finned object shot into the room and made a rubbery bounce off the ceiling. The fins broke off as it landed in the seat of a recliner and bright purple smoke began spewing out of the top.
‘You are surrounded by overwhelming force,’ a Castle Guard announced through a bullhorn, as the smoke swirled around Little John’s legs. ‘You have fifteen seconds to put down your weapons and step out with hands raised.’
‘Stick that where the sun doesn’t shine!’ T shouted back, scrambling back into the office to grab a gas mask.
‘Five seconds,’ the bullhorn announced.
Little John went on tiptoes and began frantically scraping his wrist bindings against the rust.
‘Four … Three …’
Nobody heard two, because a sniper rifle cracked off a shot from the treetops.
‘I blasted one …’ came over T’s radio.
Little John used his massive strength to snap the frayed remains of his wrist bindings, as fifty people started shooting.