Scarecrow

by Matthew Reilly

  Scott Moseley handed Book his cellphone.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Book said into it.

  ‘Sergeant Riley?’ a firm voice at the other end said. Book II recognised it instantly—and froze.

  He’d met the owner of that voice before, during the mayhem at Area 7.

  It was the voice of the President of the United States.

  This was real.

  ‘Sergeant Riley,’ the President said. ‘The full resources of the United States Government are entirely at your command. Anything you need, just tell Undersecretary Moseley. You have to keep Shane Schofield alive. Now I have to go.’

  Then he hung up.

  ‘Right,’ Book II whistled.

  ‘So,’ Scott Moseley said. ‘What do you need?’

  Mother and Book exchanged a look.

  ‘You go,’ Book said. ‘Save the Scarecrow. I’m going to find out what this is all about.’

  ‘Ten-four,’ Mother said.

  She turned quickly, pointing at Rufus, but addressing Moseley. ‘I need him. And his plane, fully fuelled. Plus free passage out of England. We know where the Scarecrow is and we have to get to him fast.’

  ‘I can arrange the fastest possible—’ Moseley said.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t trust you yet,’ Mother growled. ‘Rufus, I trust. And he’s just as fast as anyone else.’

  ‘Okay. Done.’ Scott Moseley nodded to one of his men. ‘Fuel the plane. Clear the skies.’

  Moseley turned to Book. ‘What about you?’

  But Book wasn’t finished with Mother. ‘Hey, Mother. Good luck. Save him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Mother said. Then she dashed off to join Rufus at the Sukhoi. After a few minutes, its tanks replenished, the Raven rose into the sky and blasted off into the distance, afterburners blazing.

  Only when it was gone did Book II turn to face Scott Moseley. ‘I need a video player,’ he said.

  1Even though some areas in France, including Brittany, are significantly west of London, the whole of France adheres to a single time zone, one hour ahead of England.

  Schofield’s rally car boomed along the coast of north-western France.

  The road leading away from the Forteresse de Valois was known as La Grande Rue de la Mer—the Great Ocean Road.

  Carved into the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, it was a spectacular coastal highway, a twisting turning blacktop that featured low concrete guard-fences perched over sheer 400-foot drops, treacherous blind corners and the occasional tunnel that carved through rocky outcroppings.

  In truth, since the fifteen miles of land surrounding the Forteresse de Valois belonged to Jonathan Killian, it was actually a private road. At two points along its length, side-roads branched off it—one headed upward, to Killian’s private airstrip, while a second by-road plunged steeply downward, plummeting to the water’s edge, providing access to an enormous boatshed.

  Schofield’s electric blue WRX ripped along the spectacular ocean road at 180 kilometres per hour. Its engine didn’t so much roar as whizz, its turbocharger engaged. With its powerful all-wheel-drive system, the rally car was perfect for the Great Ocean Road’s short tight bends.

  Behind it, moving equally fast, were the five super-cars of ExSol—the Porsche, the Ferrari and the three Peugeots—all in hot pursuit.

  ‘Knight!’ Schofield called into his throat-mike. ‘You out there? We’re . . . ah . . . in a little trouble here.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ came the calm reply.

  At that same moment, a mile behind Schofield’s WRX—and a long way behind the chase—one final car came shooting out of the Forteresse de Valois and whipped across its drawbridge.

  It was a Lamborghini Diablo.

  V-12. Rear spoiler. Super low. Supercool. Superfast.

  And painted black, of course.

  Schofield keyed his satellite radio system.

  ‘Book! Mother! Do you read me?’

  Mother’s voice answered him immediately. ‘I’m here, Scarecrow.’

  ‘We’re no longer at the castle,’ Schofield said. ‘We’re on the road leading away from it. Heading north.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Started out okay, but then just about every bad guy in the world arrived.’

  ‘Have you destroyed everything yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m thinking about it. Are you on the way?’

  ‘Almost there. I’m with Rufus in the Raven. Book stayed in London to find out more about this hunt. I’m about thirty minutes away from you.’

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ Schofield said grimly. ‘I’m not sure we’re gonna last that long.’

  ‘You have to, Scarecrow, because I’ve got a lot to tell you.’

  ‘Executive summary. Twenty-five words or less,’ Schofield said.

  ‘The US Government knows about the bounty hunt and they’re throwing everything behind keeping you alive. You just became an endangered species. So get your ass to US soil. An embassy, a consulate. Anything.’

  Schofield threw the WRX round a tight bend—and was suddenly presented with a vista of the road ahead of him.

  The Great Ocean Road stretched away into the distance, twisting and turning like a flat black ribbon, hugging the coastal cliffs for miles.

  ‘The US Government wants to help me?’ Schofield said. ‘In my experience, the US Government only looks after the US Government.’

  ‘Uh, Scarecrow . . .’ Gant said, interrupting. ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘What?’ Schofield snapped to look forward. ‘Damn. ExSol must have called ahead . . .’

  Half a mile in front of them the Ocean Road forked, with a side-road branching off it to the right, heading up the cliff-face. It was the side-road that led up to the airstrip, and right now two big semi-trailer rigs—minus their long trailers—were rushing down its steep slope at considerable speed, rumbling toward Schofield and Gant’s fleeing car.

  Hovering in the air above the two rigs was a sleek Bell Jet Ranger helicopter with ‘AXON CORP’ written on its flanks, also coming from the direction of the airfield.

  ExSol has radioed ahead, Schofield thought, and sent everyone they could from the airfield.

  ‘Those rigs are coming straight for us!’ Gant said.

  ‘No,’ Schofield said. ‘They’re not going to ram us. They’re going to block the road.’

  Sure enough, the two semi-trailer rigs arrived at the junction of the airstrip road and the Great Ocean Road and promptly turned sideways, skidding to simultaneous halts, splaying their combined bulk across the road.

  Blocking it completely.

  ‘Mother,’ Schofield said into his radio. ‘We have to go. Please get here as soon as you can.’

  The WRX whipped along the winding cliff-side road, rapidly approaching the two semi-trailer rigs.

  Then, two hundred yards short of the road block, Schofield hit the brakes and the WRX squealed to a stop in the middle of the road.

  A stand-off.

  Two rigs. One rally car.

  Schofield checked his rear-view mirror—the gang of five ExSol supercars was shooting along the Ocean Road behind him.

  Beyond the ExSol cars loomed the giant stone castle, dark and sombre, before suddenly two helicopters dropped in front of the fortress, blasting through the air in pursuit as well.

  Zamanov’s two Skorpion Mi-34 choppers.

  ‘Between a rock and a hard place,’ Schofield said.

  ‘A very hard place,’ Gant said.

  Schofield whirled back to face the road in front of him.

  His eyes swept the scene—two rigs, the Axon helicopter, sheer rock wall to the right, 400-foot drop to the left, protected by a low concrete fence.

  The fence, he thought.

  ‘Pursuit cars are almost on us . . .’ Gant warned.

  But Schofield was still gazing at the concrete guardrail fence. The Axon chopper hovered just out from it, almost at road level.

  ‘We can do that,’ he said aloud, his eyes narrowing.


  ‘Do what?’ Gant turned, alarmed.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Schofield slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

  The WRX roared off the mark, racing toward the rigs.

  The rally car picked up speed fast, all four of its wheels giving power, its turbocharger screaming—tzzzzzzzzz!

  60 kilometres an hour became 80 . . .

  100 . . .

  120 . . .

  The WRX rushed toward the road block.

  The two drivers of the rigs—ExSol men who had been waiting up at the airfield—swapped looks. What was this guy doing?

  And then, very suddenly, Schofield cut left . . . bringing the rally car close to the concrete guard-rail fence.

  Screeeeeeech!

  The WRX hit the fence, its left-side wheels scraping against the concrete barrier, pressing against it, pinching against it, causing the whole left-hand side of the car to lift a little off the road . . .

  . . . before abruptly—ka-whump!—the WRX mounted the fence!

  Its left-hand wheels lifted clear off the asphalt, now riding along the top of the fence, so that the car was travelling at a 45-degree angle.

  Schofield and Gant’s world tilted sideways.

  ‘There’s still not enough room!’ Gant yelled, pointing at the rig parked closest to the fence.

  She was right.

  ‘I’m not done yet!’ Schofield yelled.

  And with that he yanked the steering wheel hard to the right.

  The response was instantaneous.

  The WRX lurched sideways, its front half going right, its tail section going left—swinging dangerously out toward the ocean until finally its tail section slid . . .

  . . . off the edge of the concrete guard-rail.

  The WRX’s rear wheels now hung 400 feet above the ocean!

  But the rally car was still moving fast, still skidding wildly forward, its underside sliding along the top of the guard-rail fence—its front tyres hanging over the landward side of the fence, its rear wheels hanging above the ocean—so that now none of its wheels was touching the ground.

  ‘Ahhhhhhh!’ Gant yelled.

  The WRX slid laterally along the guard-rail, its weight almost perfectly balanced, its underside scraping and shrieking and kicking up a firestorm of sparks until, to the amazement of the rig drivers, it slid right past their road block, squeezing through the gap between the outermost rig and the fence, a gap that until now had been too narrow for a car to pass through.

  But then the inevitable happened.

  With a fraction more of its weight hanging over the ocean side of the fence, the car—despite its forward momentum—began to tilt backwards.

  ‘We’re going to drop!’ Gant shouted.

  ‘No we’re not,’ Schofield said calmly.

  He was right.

  For just at that moment, the tail of the sliding car smacked at tremendous speed against the nose of the Axon chopper hovering just out from the fence.

  The rear section of the car bounced off the chopper’s nose at speed—ricocheting off it like a pinball—the impact powerful enough to punch the sliding WRX back over the fence and back onto the road . . . on the other side of the road block.

  Just as Schofield had planned.

  The WRX’s tyres caught bitumen again, regained their traction, and the rally car shot off down the road once more.

  Not a moment too soon.

  Because a second later, the two rigs backed up, allowing the five ExSol pursuit cars to shoot between them like bullets out of a gun and catch up to Schofield’s car.

  The ExSol cars were all over them.

  The two European sports cars that ExSol had ‘borrowed’ from Jonathan Killian—the red Ferrari and the silver Porsche, both low and sleek and brutally fast—were right on Schofield’s tail.

  The two mercenaries inside the Porsche made full use of its open-air targa roof—it allowed one man to stand up and fire at Schofield’s WRX. The gunman in the Ferrari had to lean out of its passenger window.

  As the rear window of the WRX shattered under a hail of gunfire, Gant turned to Schofield.

  ‘Can I ask you a question!’ she yelled.

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Is there, like, some secret school where they teach you stuff like that? Death-defying driving school?’

  ‘Actually, they call it “Offensive Driving”,’ Schofield said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘It was a special course at Quantico given by a retired Gunnery Sergeant named Kris Hankison. Hank left the Marines in ’91 and became a stunt driver in Hollywood. Makes a bundle. But every second year, as a kind of payback to the Corps, he offers the course to Marines assigned to Marine Security Guard Battalion. I got invited last year. You think that was good, you wouldn’t believe what Hank can do on four wheels—’

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  A line of bullets razed the road beside Schofield’s WRX, chewing up the bitumen, smacking against his driver’s door. A split-second later one of the nimble Skorpion Mi-34 choppers roared by overhead.

  But then the road bent right, hugging the cliff-face—and the chopper continued straight while the WRX whipped out of its line of fire just as—

  SLAM!

  —a colossal gout of earth exploded out from the rock wall on the right-hand side of the road, sending a star-burst of dirt spraying out spectacularly behind the speeding rally car.

  ‘What the—?’ Schofield spun, searching for the source of the massive explosion.

  And he found it.

  ‘Oh, this cannot be happening . . .’ he breathed.

  He saw a warship powering in toward the coast, separating itself from a larger group of naval vessels on the horizon.

  It was a French Tourville-class destroyer and its powerful 3.9-inch forward-mounted guns were firing, each shot accompanied by a belch of smoke and a noise so loud that it reverberated right through one’s chest: Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Then a second later . . .

  SLAM!

  SLAM!

  SLAM!

  The shells rammed into the cliff-side roadway, raining dirt all around Schofield’s speeding car. Explosions of asphalt and dirt flew high into the air, leaving lethal craters in their wake—craters that took up nearly half the roadway.

  After the first shellburst hit, Schofield’s WRX screamed over the edge of its crater, blasting through the dustcloud above it and, looking down, Schofield saw that the shell had gouged a semi-circular hole in the Ocean Road that led all the way down to the sea.

  The other shells rained down on the Great Ocean Road, striking it left and right. Schofield responded by flinging the rally car right and left, avoiding the newly-created craters by centimetres.

  The Axon helicopter behind him banked and swayed, also trying to avoid the destroyer’s deadly rain.

  But the two more nimble Skorpion Mi-34 choppers didn’t care, they just continued to pursue Schofield with a vengeance, their side-mounted cannons shredding the road.

  And then Schofield’s WRX rounded a bend and zoomed into a cliff-side tunnel and the two Russian choppers rose quickly, swooping over the jagged cliffs, and suddenly Schofield and Gant were enveloped by silence.

  Not for long.

  Into the tunnel behind them rushed the two ExSol sports cars—the Ferrari and the Porsche—their engines roaring, each car’s gunner firing at the fleeing WRX.

  Schofield swung left, toward the ocean side of the tunnel and abruptly discovered that this tunnel wasn’t technically a tunnel—precisely because its entire seaward wall wasn’t a wall at all. It was a series of thin columns that rushed by in a fluttering blur, allowing drivers to take in the view as they passed through the tunnel.

  Schofield caught this information just as he saw a Skorpion chopper appear outside the blurring line of pillars and start firing into the exposed tunnel!

  Bullets slammed into the road, his car, and against the far wall.

  Schofield weaved right, away from the barrage, pressed his WRX up against
the right-hand wall of the curving tunnel, losing speed . . .

  . . . and in a second the pursuit cars were on him, the Porsche ramming into his rear bumper, the Ferrari boxing him in on the left, their two ExSol shooter-passengers letting fly.

  Automatic gunfire ripped into the WRX.

  Schofield’s side window shattered—

  —just as a deadly shape appeared at the end of the tunnel.

  The second Skorpion Mi-34 chopper, rising above the roadway, its side-mounted missile pods poised and ready to fire.

  ‘We’re dead,’ Schofield said matter-of-factly.

  A flare of yellow backblast issued out from the back of one of the chopper’s missile pods just as without warning the chopper itself exploded in mid-air—hit by a shell from the French destroyer off the coast. The Mi-34’s missile exploded too, having never cleared its pod.

  The massive naval shell hit the Skorpion helicopter so hard that the chopper was hurled against the edge of the roadway, where it crumpled like an aluminium can before falling 400 feet straight down. It hadn’t been a deliberate strike, Schofield felt. The chopper had just got in the way.

  ‘Close,’ Gant said.

  ‘Just a little,’ he said as their car blasted out of the tunnel, racing past the spot where the Mi-34 had fallen, still boxed in against the rock wall by the two ExSol cars.

  The three cars whipped along a short stretch of road. But then Schofield saw another tunnel yawning before them, 200 yards awa—

  Bang!

  The Ferrari rammed into the WRX’s left side, forcing it closer to the rock wall.

  Schofield grappled with his steering wheel.

  The Porsche, meanwhile, pushed up against his rear bumper.

  At first Schofield didn’t know why they had done this, then he looked forward and saw that the arched entrance to the upcoming tunnel was not flush against the rock wall—it jutted out about six feet.

  And so long as the Ferrari and the Porsche kept Schofield and Gant’s car pressed up against the rock wall and travelling forward, the WRX would slam right into the protruding archway.

  Schofield guessed they had about five seconds.

  ‘This is very bad . . .’ Gant said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Schofield said.