While the other Al-Qaeda troops had decided to leap off the conveyor belt, these two had decided to die in the rock crusher . . . and they were going to take Mother with them.
The conveyor belt rushed down the length of the cavern, racing toward the rock crusher at about thirty kilometres an hour—eight metres per second.
Mother had lost her gun when she’d hit the conveyor belt and now she struggled with the two terrorists.
‘You suicidal ratfuckers!’ she yelled as she fought. At six feet two, she was as strong as an ox—strong enough to hold off her two attackers but not overpower them.
‘Think you’re gonna take me down, huh!’ she shouted in their faces. ‘Not fucking likely!’
She kicked one of them in the balls—hard—and he yelped. She flipped him over her head, toward the rock crusher, now only twenty yards away and approaching fast.
Two-and-a-half seconds away.
But the second guy held on. Tight. He was a dogged fighter and he wouldn’t let go of her arms. He was travelling backwards, feet-first. Mother was now travelling forwards, on her belly, head-first.
‘Let—go—of—me!’ she yelled.
The first Al-Qaeda man entered the rock crusher.
A shriek of agony. An explosion of blood. A wash of it splattering all over Mother’s face.
And then, in an instant of clarity, Mother realised.
She wasn’t going to make it.
It was too late. She was dead.
Time slowed.
The terrorist holding her arms went into the jaws of the rolling rock crusher feet-first.
It swallowed him whole and Mother saw it all up close: a six-foot man chewed in an instant. Shluck-splat! Another blood explosion assaulted her face from point-blank range.
Then she saw the rolling jaws of the crusher inches away from her own face, saw each individual spoked tooth, saw the blood on each one, saw her hands disappear into the—
—and then suddenly she was lifted into the air above the yawning maw of the rock crusher.
Not far into the air, mind you.
Just a couple of inches, enough to take her off the swiftly moving conveyor belt, enough to stop her forward movement.
Mother frowned, snapped her head round.
And there above her, hanging one-handed from a steel overhead beam, gripping the collar of her body armour with his spare hand, was Shane Schofield.
Five seconds later, Mother was on solid ground again, standing with Schofield and Book II and their new offsiders, Pokey and Freddy. The Light Strike Vehicle was parked nearby, behind the Allied barricade.
‘Where’s Gant!’ Schofield yelled above the mayhem.
‘We got separated over at the other barricade!’ Mother shouted back.
Schofield glanced that way.
‘Scarecrow! What the fuck is going on! Who are all these people?’
‘I can’t explain it yet! All I know is that they’re bounty hunters! And at least one of them is after Gant!’
Mother grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. I got bad news! We’ve already set the targeting laser for the bombers. We got exactly’—she checked her watch—‘eight minutes before this mine is hit by a 21,000-pound laser-guided bomb!’
‘Then we’d better find Gant fast,’ Schofield said.
After the Al-Qaeda stampede had passed her by, Libby Gant leapt to her feet—only to find several green laser beams immediately zero in on her chest armour.
She looked up.
She was surrounded by another sub-group of the Black-Green Force, six men, their MetalStorm rifles trained on her.
One of the black-clad soldiers held up his hand, stepped forward.
The man took off his helmet—at the same time removing his protective Oakley goggles, revealing his face.
It was a face Gant would never forget.
Could never forget.
He looked like something out of a horror movie.
At some point in the past, this man’s head must have been caught in a raging fire—his entire skull was completely hairless and horribly wrinkled, with flash-burned skin that was blistered and scarred. His earlobes had melted into the side of his head.
Beneath this scarring, however, the man’s eyes glistened with delight.
‘You’re Elizabeth Gant, aren’t you?’ he said amiably, taking her guns.
‘Ye—Yes,’ Gant said, surprised.
Like the other Black-Green squad leader, the bald man had a British accent. He looked about 40. Experienced. Cunning.
He pulled Gant’s Maghook out of her back-holster and threw it to the ground far away from her.
‘Can’t let you keep that either, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth Louise Gant, call-sign: Fox. Twenty-nine years old. Recent graduate of OCS. Graduated second in your class, I believe. Former member of Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit 16 under the command of then-Lieutenant Shane M. Schofield. Former member of HMX-1, the Presidential Helicopter Detachment, again under the command of Captain Shane M. Schofield.
‘And now . . . now you are no longer under the command of Captain Schofield because of Marine Corps regulations about troop fraternisation. Lieutenant Gant, my name is Colonel Damon Larkham, call-sign: Demon. These are my men, the Intercontinental Guards, Unit 88. I hope you don’t mind, but we just need to borrow you for a while.’
And with that, one of Larkham’s men grabbed Gant from behind and clamped a rag soaked in trichloromethane over her mouth and nose and in an instant Gant saw nothing but black.
A moment later, the handsome young squad leader whom Gant had seen cut off Zawahiri’s head arrived at Demon Larkham’s side, holding three head-sized medical transport containers.
‘Sir,’ the squad leader said, ‘we have the heads of Zawahiri, Khalif and Kingsgate. We found the body of Ashcroft, but his head was already missing. I believe the Skorpions are here and that they got to him first.’
Larkham nodded thoughtfully. ‘Hmmm, Major Zamanov and his Spetsnaz Skorpions. Thank you, Cowboy. I think we have gained more than enough from this incursion already.’ He looked down at Gant’s prone body. ‘And we might have just added to our catch. Tell everybody to head for the back door. Time to get back to the planes. This mine has been lased for an airstrike and the bombers are on their way.’
Two minutes later, Schofield’s Light Strike Vehicle slid around the conveyor-belt end of the Al-Qaeda barricade and skidded to a dusty halt.
Schofield, Book II, Mother and the two junior Marines piled out of it, guns up, searching for Gant.
‘Mother. Time to the bomb?’ Schofield called.
‘Six minutes!’
Gant was nowhere to be seen. As was the Black-Green force. The area behind the Al-Qaeda barricade was deserted, the battle over.
Mother stood at the near end of the barricade, not far from the conveyor belt. ‘This is where I last saw her. We saw a good-looking guy from that black-and-green group cut some terrorist dude’s head off and then suddenly a whole bunch of Al-Qaeda chumps came stampeding at us from over there.’
She indicated the far north-eastern corner of the cavern, beyond the air vents. There Schofield saw a small tunnel about the size of a garage door.
And then he saw something else—on the floor.
A Maghook.
He went over to it and picked it up, saw the words ‘Foxy Lady’ written in white marker on its side. Gant’s Maghook. He clipped it to his belt.
When he rejoined the others, Mother was saying: ‘. . . and don’t forget the fourth force that’s down here.’
‘A fourth force?’ Schofield said. ‘What fourth force?’
‘There are four separate forces in this mine,’ Mother said. ‘Us, Al-Qaeda, those black-and-green fuckers who took my little Chickadee, and a fourth force: that bunch of guys who killed Ashcroft and took out the Allied barricade from behind.’
‘They killed Ashcroft?’ Schofield said.
‘Fuckin’-A. Cut off his goddamn head.’
‘Jesus. It’s
another group of bounty hunters,’ Schofield said. ‘So where is this fourth force now?’
‘I, uh, think they’re already here . . .’ Book II said ominously.
They materialised from within and around the Al-Qaeda barricade—about twenty armed troops dressed in tan desert fatigues, caramel ski-masks and yellow Russian combat boots. They stepped out of the Driftrunner vehicles and tip-trays that made up the Al-Qaeda barricade.
Most of them held sinister-looking short-barrelled VZ-61 Skorpion machine pistols: the signature weapon of Russia’s elite special forces unit, the Spetsnaz. It was from this gun that they had garnered their bounty hunting nickname: the Skorpions.
They’d been waiting.
A man wearing major’s bars stepped forward from the group. ‘Drop your weapons,’ he said crisply, curtly.
Schofield and the other four Marines did so. Two Spetsnaz soldiers immediately rushed to his side and held him firmly.
‘Captain Schofield, what a pleasant surprise,’ the Spetsnaz major said. ‘My intelligence did not mention that you would be at this site, but your appearance is a welcome bonus. Your head may pay exactly the same price as the others, but there is no doubt a certain prestige that goes with being the bounty hunter who brings in the famous Scarecrow.’
The major seemed to appraise Schofield down his long aquiline nose. He snorted. ‘But perhaps your reputation is unwarranted. Kneel, please.’
Schofield remained standing. He nodded at Gant’s laser-emitting diode on the ground. ‘You see that device down there. That diode is leading a 21,000-pound laser-guided bomb to this mine. It’ll be here in five minut—’
‘I said kneel.’
One of the guards whacked Schofield behind the knees with his rifle butt. Schofield dropped to the ground underneath one of the cathedral-like domes of the air vents.
With a sharp slicing noise, the major then withdrew a glistening sword from his back-holster: a short-bladed Cossack fighting sword.
‘Really,’ the major said as he approached Schofield, rotating the sword lazily in his hand, ‘I am somewhat disappointed. I had thought killing the Scarecrow would be more difficult than this.’
He raised the sword and, gripping it with both hands, started to swing it . . . just as a pair of blue laser dots appeared on the chests of Schofield’s guards. The next instant, the two guards were blown away.
Schofield snapped up—
The Spetsnaz major whirled around—
And they all saw him.
He was standing out in the open, underneath the other air vent, two silver Remington shotguns in his hands, held like pistols. High-tech blue laser-sighting devices were attached to the shotguns’ stainless steel barrels.
Erected next to him on collapsible tripods were two remote-operated FN-MAG machine-guns—also equipped with blue laser sights. One of the robot guns was now illuminating the Spetsnaz major’s chest with its blue targeting laser, the other gun just roved randomly among the Russian troops.
Whoever this man was, he was dressed entirely in black.
Black fatigues.
Black body armour, scratched with battle scars.
Black hockey helmet.
And on his face—a rugged face, weathered and hard, unshaven—he wore a pair of wraparound anti-flash glasses with yellow lenses.
Schofield caught a glimpse of a thick rope hanging vertically from the air vent above the man, before—whoosh—it whiplashed up into the vent, disappearing like a spooked snake.
‘Why hello, Dmitri,’ the man in black said. ‘Gone AWOL again have you?’
The Spetsnaz major didn’t look at all pleased to see the man in black. Nor was he thrilled at the blue laser dot now lighting up his own chest.
The Russian major snarled. ‘It is always easier to disappear on these international missions. As I’m sure you of all people would know, Aloysius.’ He pronounced the name: allo-wishus.
The man in black—Aloysius—stepped forward, walking casually in amongst the heavily-armed Spetsnaz unit.
Schofield noticed his black utility vest. It was equipped with a bizarre array of non-military devices: handcuffs, mountain-climbing pitons, a small hand-held scuba tank called a Pony Bottle, even a miniature welding torch—
The man in black strode past a Russian trooper, and suddenly the trooper whipped his gun up.
Muzzle flash. Gunfire.
The trooper was riddled with bullets, nailed.
The roving robot machine-gun whizzed back to pin its laser sights on the other Spetsnaz troops.
Unperturbed, the man in black stopped before Schofield and the Spetsnaz major.
‘Captain Schofield, I presume?’ he said as he lifted Schofield to his feet. ‘The Scarecrow.’
‘That’s right . . .’ Schofield said guardedly.
The man in black smiled. ‘Knight. Aloysius Knight. Bounty hunter. I see you’ve met the Skorpions. You’ll have to excuse Major Zamanov. He has this really bad habit of cutting off people’s heads as soon as he meets them. I saw the laser signal from the air—when is the bomb due?’
Schofield glanced at Mother.
‘Four minutes, thirty seconds,’ she said, eyeing her watch.
‘If you take his head, Knight,’ the Russian major hissed, ‘we will hunt you down to the ends of the earth, and we will kill you.’
‘Dmitri,’ the man named Knight said, ‘you couldn’t do that if you tried.’
‘I could kill you right now.’
‘But then you’d die, too,’ Knight said, nodding at the blue dot on Major Dmitri Zamanov’s chest.
‘It would be worth it,’ Zamanov spat.
‘I’m sorry, Dmitri,’ Knight laughed. ‘You’re a good soldier, and let’s be honest, a fucking psychotic asshole. But I know you too well. You don’t want to die. Death scares the shit out of you. Me, on the other hand . . . well, I couldn’t give a fuck about dying.’
Zamanov froze.
This Knight character, Schofield saw, had called Zamanov’s bluff.
‘Come on, Captain,’ Knight said, handing Schofield his MP-7 from the ground. ‘Grab your boys and girls and follow me.’
With that, Knight led Schofield and the other Marines through the ranks of Spetsnaz troops without another shot being fired.
‘Who are you?’ Schofield asked as they walked.
‘Never mind,’ Knight said. ‘The only thing you need to know right now, Captain, is that you have a guardian angel. Someone who doesn’t want to see you killed.’
They reached the eastern end of the Al-Qaeda barricade, a short distance from the tunnel in the corner of the cavern.
Knight yanked open the door to a wide-bodied Driftrunner truck that formed the end section of the Al-Qaeda barricade.
‘Get in,’ he said.
Schofield and the others climbed inside—under the baleful glares of the Skorpions.
Aloysius Knight jumped into the front seat of the Driftrunner, keyed the ignition.
‘Now,’ he turned to Schofield, ‘are you ready to run? Because as soon as we leave the cover of my remote guns, those cocksuckers are gonna be really pissed.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Good.’
Then Knight gunned the accelerator and the Driftrunner shot off the mark, disappearing into the small tunnel in the corner of the cavern.
No sooner was it out of sight than the 20-odd members of Zamanov’s Spetsnaz team were moving, jumping into other Driftrunners, three men even leaping into Schofield’s abandoned Light Strike Vehicle.
Their engines roared and the chase began.
Headlights in darkness.
Bouncing, jouncing, carving sabre-like beams through the dust-filled air.
The Black Knight’s Driftrunner roared down the narrow tunnel.
The Driftrunner was about the size of a Humvee and essentially just an oversized pick-up truck, with a long rear tray and a partially-enclosed driver’s compartment. There was, however, no dividing wall or window between the driver’s com
partment and the rear personnel tray: one could traverse between the two simply by climbing over the seats.
The tunnel around it was almost perfectly square, with sheer granite walls and a flat hardstone ceiling held up by wooden support beams. It was also practically dead straight, stretching away into darkness like an arrow.
And it was tightly—tightly—fitted around the Driftrunner. There were only about 12 inches to spare on either side of the speeding truck. Above the vehicle’s roof the gap was about four feet.
The Skorpions were close behind them.
The three Russian commandos who had commandeered Schofield’s LSV were now speeding along the tunnel right behind the Driftrunner—the smaller, more nimble little vehicle catching up to it easily. The driver drove hard while his partners fired at the Driftrunner with their VZ-61 machine pistols.
Bathed in the glare of the LSV’s bouncing headlights, Mother and Book and Pokey and Freddy returned fire.
Behind the speeding LSV came three other Driftrunners, packed with the other seventeen members of Zamanov’s rogue Spetsnaz unit.
A mini-convoy, racing at dangerously high speed through the tight stone passageway.
‘Mother! Time!’ Schofield yelled from the passenger seat of the front-running truck.
‘Three minutes!’
‘How long is this tunnel?’ he asked Knight.
‘About four miles.’
‘This is going to be close.’
Book and Mother and Pokey and Freddy’s guns blazed, firing at the speeding LSV behind their truck. They alternated their fire, so that while two of them fired, the other two were reloading.
Following this pattern, Mother and Book ducked to reload; Pokey and Freddy took their places—and were hit by a shocking wave of gunfire. Freddy’s face disappeared, transformed to pulp. Pokey was hit in the throat and he fell, teeth clenched. Book II dived forward to stop him falling off the back of the truck, caught him—
—but that was all the Skorpions needed.
Still reloading, Mother spun to see what was happening. She turned in time to see the two passengers from the LSV leaping off the front of the Light Strike Vehicle up onto the rear tray of the Driftrunner!
Book had his hands full with Pokey.
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