Schofield could have added Ashcroft and Weitzman to that list— Ashcroft had been beheaded in Afghanistan by the Spetsnaz bounty hunters, the Skorpions, and Weitzman had been killed on the cargo plane.
Which meant that, at the very best, only five of the original 15 names remained alive: Christie, Oliphant, Rosenthal, Zemir and Schofield himself.
Schofield frowned.
Something bothered him about this list, something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . .
Then he glimpsed the word 'ASSESSOR' on one of the other documents.
He retrieved it.
It was an email:
SUBJECT: PAYMENT OF ASSESSOR'S COMMISSION
PAYMENT OF THE ASSESSOR'S COMMISSION WILL BE MADE BY INTERNAL ELECTRONIC FUNDS TRANSFER WITHIN AGM-SUISSE FROM ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD'S PRIVATE ACCOUNT (NO. 437-666-21) IN THE AMOUNT OF US$3.2 MILLION (THREE POINT TWO MILLION US DOLLARS) PER ASSESSMENT.
THE ASSESSOR IS TO BE M. JEAN-PIERRE DELACROIX OF AGM-SUISSE.
Schofield gazed at the words.
'ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD.'
That was where the money was coming from. Whatever it was, Astral-66 was paying for this bounty hunt—
'Good afternoon,' a pleasant voice said.
Schofield and Gant looked up.
A very handsome young man stood at the base of the stone stairs that led up to the garage. He was in his late thirties and clad in designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt which he wore open over a T-shirt in the manner of the very wealthy. Schofield immediately noticed his eyes: one blue, one brown.
'Welcome to my castle,' the handsome young man smiled. His smile seemed somehow dangerous. 'And who might you be?'
'Colton. Tom Colton,' Schofield lied. 'This is Jane Watson. We're with Aloysius Knight, seeing Monsieur Delacroix.'
'Oh, I see . . .' the handsome man said.
He extended his hand.
'Killian. Jonathan Killian. You both look like you've seen a fair
amount of action today. May I get you a drink, or something to eat? Or perhaps my personal physician could give you some clean bandages for your wounds.'
Schofield shot a glance down the tunnel, searching for Knight.
'Please . . .' Killian guided them up the stairs. Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention, they followed him.
'I've seen you before,' Schofield said as they walked up the stone stairway. 'On TV . . .'
'I do make the odd appearance from time to time.'
'Africa,' Schofield said. 'You were in Africa. Last year. Opening factories. Food factories. In Nigeria . . .'
This was all true. Schofield recalled the images from the news— footage of this Killian fellow shaking hands with smiling African leaders amid crowds of happy workers.
They came up into the classic car garage.
'You've a good memory,' Killian said. 'I also went to Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya, opening new food processing plants. Although many don't know it yet, the future of the world lies in Africa.'
'I like your car collection,' Gant said.
'Toys,' Killian replied. 'Mere toys.'
He guided them into a corridor branching off the garage. It had dark polished floorboards and pristine white walls.
'But then I enjoy playing with toys,' Killian said. 'Much as I enjoy playing with people. I like to see their reactions to stressful situations.'
He stopped in front of a large wooden door. Schofield heard laughter coming from behind it. Raucous male laughter. It sounded like a party was going on in there.
'Stressful situations?' Schofield said. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Well,' Killian said, 'take for instance the average Westerner's inability to comprehend the Islamic suicide bomber. Westerners are taught since birth to fight "fair": the French duel at ten paces, English knights jousting, American gunslingers facing off on a Wild
West street. In the Western world, fighting is fair because it is presumed that both parties actually want to win a given battle.'
'But the suicide bomber doesn't think that way,' Schofield said.
'That's right,' Killian said. 'He doesn't want to win the battle, because the battle to a suicide bomber is meaningless. He wants to win a far grander war, a psychological war in which the man who dies against his will—in a state of distress and terror and fear— loses, while he who dies when he is spiritually and emotionally ready, wins.
'As such, a Westerner faced with a suicide bomber goes to pieces. Believe me, I have seen this. Just as I have seen people's reactions to other stressful situations: criminals in the electric chair, a person in water confronted by sharks. Oh, to be sure, I love to observe the look of pure horror that crosses a man's face when he realises that he is, without doubt, going to die.'
With that, Killian pushed open the door—
—at the same moment that something dawned on Schofield:
His problem with the master list.
On the master bounty list, McCabe and Farrell's names had been shaded in.
McCabe and Farrell, who had died in Siberia that morning, had been officially listed as dead.
And paid for.
Which meant. . .
The great door swung open—
—and Schofield and Gant were" met with the sight of a dining room filled with the members of Executive Solutions, twenty of them, eating and drinking and smoking. At the head of the table, his broken nose wrapped in a fresh dressing, sat Cedric Wexley.
Schofield's face fell.
'And that,' Killian said, 'is the look I'm talking about.' The billionaire offered Schofield a thin, joyless smile. 'Welcome to my castle . . . Captain Schofield.'
Schofield and Gant ran.
Ran for all they were worth.
They bolted away from the dining room, dashed down the splendid corridor, Jonathan Killian's scornful laughter chasing them all the way.
The ExSol men were out of their seats in seconds, grabbing their weapons, the sight of another $18.6 million too good to resist.
Killian let them hustle past him, enjoying the show.
Schofield and Gant burst into the classic car garage.
'Damn. So many choices,' Schofield said, ripping off his bandages and gazing at the multi-million-dollar selection of cars before him.
Gant looked over her shoulder, saw the Executive Solutions mercenaries thundering down the hallway in pursuit. 'You've got about ten seconds to choose the fastest one, buster.'
Schofield eyed the Porsche GT-2. Silver and low, with an open targa top, it was an absolute beast of a car.
'Nah, it just isn't me,' he said, leaping instead toward the equally-fast rally car beside it—an electric blue turbo-charged Subaru WRX.
Nine seconds later, the men of ExSol burst into the garage.
They got there just in time to see the WRX blasting down the length of the showroom, already doing sixty.
At the far end of the showroom, the garage's external door was opening—thanks to Libby Gant standing at the controls.
The ExSol men opened fire.
Schofield stopped the rally car on a dime, right next to Gant.
'Get in!'
'What about Knight?'
'I'm sure he'll understand!'
Gant dived in through the Subaru's passenger window, just as the garage door opened fully to reveal the castle's sundrenched internal courtyard . . .
. . . and the surprised face of Major Dmitri Zamanov.
Accompanied by six of his Skorpions, and holding a medical transport box in his hands.
A pair of Russian Mi-34 high-manoeuvre helicopters stood in the gravel courtyard behind the Spetsnaz commandos, their rotor blades still turning.
'Oh, man,' Schofield breathed. 'Could this get any worse?'
Down in Monsieur Delacroix's office, Aloysius Knight spun at the sound of gunfire up in the garage.
He looked for Schofield in the ante-room at the other end of the tunnel.
Not there.
'Damn it,' he growled, 'can't this gu
y stay out of trouble for more than five minutes?'
He bolted out of the office.
Monsieur Delacroix didn't even bother to look up.
Schofield's turbo-charged WRX stood before Zamanov in the entry to the garage.
The two men locked eyes.
The look of surprise on Zamanov's face quickly transformed into one of sheer hatred.
'Floor it!' Gant yelled, breaking the spell.
Bam. Schofield hit the gas pedal.
The rally car shot off the mark, exploding through the doorway, scattering the Skorpions as they dived out of the way.
The WRX zoomed across the castle's courtyard, kicking up gravel, before it shot like a rocket out through the giant portcullis and sped across the drawbridge, heading for the mainland.
Dmitri Zamanov clambered to his feet just as shoom.'-shoom!-shooml-shoom.'-shoom! five more cars whipped past him, blasting out of the garage after the WRX. There was a red Ferrari, a silver Porsche GT-2, and three yellow Peugeot rally cars with 'axon' sponsorship logos on their sides.
ExSol.
In hot pursuit.
'Fuck!' Zamanov yelled. 'It's him! It's Schofield! Go! Go, go, go! Catch him and bring him to me! Before Delacroix gets his head, I am going to skin him alive!'
Four of the Skorpions immediately leapt to their feet and dashed for their two choppers, leaving Zamanov and two others at the castle with their head.
The chase was on.
WHITMORE AIRFIELD (ABANDONED) 40 MILES WEST OF LONDON 1230 HOURS LOCAL TIME (1330 HOURS IN FRANCE')
Thirty minutes earlier—at the time Schofield, Gant and Knight had been arriving at the Forteresse de Valois—Book II and Mother had been landing their stolen Lynx helicopter at the abandoned airfield where Rufus had dropped them off.
They didn't expect to find Rufus still there. He'd said that after unloading them, he would head to France to catch up with Knight.
But when they landed, they saw the Black Raven parked inside an old hangar, surrounded by undercover police cars with strobe lights on their roofs.
Rufus stood sadly by his plane, helpless, covered by six trenchcoat-wearing undercover types and a platoon of heavily-armed Royal Marines.
Mother and Book were grabbed as soon as they landed.
One of the trenchcoat-wearing men approached them. He was young, clean-cut, and he held a cellphone in his hand as if he was halfway through a call.
When he spoke his accent was American.
'Sergeants Newman and Riley? My name is Scott Moseley, US State Department, London Office. We understand you're helping
'Even 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.
Captain Shane M. Schofield of the United States Marine Corps in his efforts to avoid liquidation in an international bounty hunt. Is that correct?'
Book and Mother blanched.
'Uh, yeah . . . that's right,' Book II said.
'The United States Government has become aware of the existence of this bounty hunt. From the information available to us at this time, we have assessed the presumed reason for it and have come to the conclusion that the issue of keeping Captain Schofield alive is one of supreme national importance. Do you know where he is?'
'We might,' Mother said.
'So what's this all about then?' Book II asked. 'Tell us the grand conspiracy.'
Scott Moseley's face reddened. 'I don't personally know the details,' he said.
'Oh, come on,' Book II groaned, 'you've gotta give us more than that.'
'Please,' Moseley said. 'I'm just the messenger here. I don't have the clearance to know the full story. But believe me, I'm not here to hinder your efforts. All I have been told is this: the person or persons behind this bounty hunt have the capacity and perhaps the desire to destroy the United States of America. That is all I've been told. Beyond that, I know nothing.
'What I do know is this: I am here at the direct orders of the President of the United States and my orders are these: to help you. In any way I can. Anywhere you want to go. Anything you need to help Captain Schofield stay alive, I am authorised to give you. If you want weapons, they're yours. If you need money, I have it. Hell, if you want Air Force One to take you anywhere in the world, it is at your disposal.'
'Cool . . .' Mother breathed.
'How do we know we can trust you?' Book II said.
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.'
'1 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.
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 supercars 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.'
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