Oliphant scrambled on his hands and knees into a supply room that branched off the corridor, bullet-sparks raking the ground at his toes.
Fairfax lay among the shattered janitorial supplies from the trolley he’d slammed into. He saw a bag of white powder that had been on the trolley: ‘ZEOLITE-CHLORINE—INDUSTRIAL-STRENGTH CLEANING AGENT—AVOID SKIN CONTACT’. He grabbed it.
Then he leapt to his feet and ran forward—while everyone else ran away from the action—and peered down into the staff-only corridor where he saw the Zulu stop in front of an open doorway and raise his Cz-25.
Fairfax hurled the bag of powdered chlorine through the air. It hit the Zulu square in the side of the head and exploded in a puff of white dust.
The Zulu screamed, staggering away from the doorway, swatting at his powder-covered head, trying desperately to remove the burning zeolite on his skin. His Elvis sunglasses now bore a layer of white powder on their lenses. His flesh had started bubbling.
Fairfax dashed forward, slid on the floor underneath the Zulu, peered in through the doorway—and saw Dr Thompson Oliphant cowering underneath some supply shelves, covering his face.
‘Dr Oliphant! Listen to me! My name is David Fairfax. I’m with the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’m not much of a hero, but I’m all you’ve got right now! If you want to get through this, you’d better come with me!’
Oliphant extended his hand and Fairfax grasped it, lifting the doctor to his feet. Then they ducked under the swatting Zulu and raced out past the reception counter into the early morning air.
The automatic sliding doors opened for them—just as the doors themselves shattered under Cz-25 bullet-fire.
The Zulu was moving again and coming after them with a vengeance.
An ambulance was parked right outside the Emergency Ward’s entrance.
‘Get in!’ Fairfax yelled, throwing open the driver’s side door. Oliphant jumped in the passenger side.
Fairfax fired her up and hit the gas. The ambulance peeled off the mark, but not before the two of them heard an ominous whump! from somewhere at the back of the vehicle.
‘Uh-oh . . .’ Fairfax said.
In his side mirror he saw the tall dark figure of the Zulu standing on the rear bumper, his hands clinging to the ambulance’s roof rails.
The Zulu was on the ambulance!
The ambulance’s tyres squealed as Fairfax gunned it out of the undercover turning bay and into the parking lot proper.
He bounced the white van over a gutter and a nature strip hoping to dislodge the Zulu from its bumper. The ambulance rocked wildly as it jounced down another gutter and Fairfax was certain that no-one could have held on after all that.
But then the rear doors of the ambulance were hurled open from the outside and the Zulu stepped into the rear compartment!
‘Shit!’ Fairfax yelled.
The Zulu no longer had his Cz-25, having discarded it in favour of holding onto the ambulance with both hands.
But now, safely inside the speeding ambulance, he withdrew a long-bladed machete from his trenchcoat and stared at Fairfax and Oliphant with blazing fury in his bloodshot eyes.
Fairfax eyed the machete. ‘Oh, man . . .’
The Zulu swept forward through the rear compartment, clambering quickly over a locked-down wheeled gurney.
Fairfax had to do something fast.
He saw the road up ahead divide—one lane heading left for the exit, the other sweeping to the right, up a curving concrete ramp that gave access to the hospital’s multi-storey parking lot.
He chose right, and yanked the steering wheel hard over, hitting the gas as they charged up the spiralling ramp—the centrifugal force of their high-speed turn causing the Zulu in the back to lose his balance and slam against the outer wall, his forward progress momentarily halted.
But they could only go up for so long, Fairfax thought. The parking structure was only six storeys high.
He had five floors to think of something else.
At the same time, someone else was watching the ambulance’s wild rise up the tightly curving ramp from across the street.
A strikingly beautiful woman with long legs, muscular shoulders and cool Japanese eyes.
Her real name was Alyssa Idei, but in the bounty hunting world she was known simply as the Ice Queen. She’d already collected the bounty on Damien Polanski and now she was after Oliphant.
She wore only black leather—tight hipster pants, biker jacket and killer boots. Her long black hair was tied back. Under her jacket, tucked into a pair of shoulder holsters, were two high-tech Steyr SPP machine pistols.
She started up her Honda NSX and pulled out from the kerb, and headed for the multi-storey parking lot.
Tyres squealing, Fairfax’s ambulance wound its way up the curving ramp, its open rear doors flailing wildly.
They hit Level 3.
Three floors to go before they reached the roof—before the Zulu in the back would be able to move freely again.
But now Fairfax knew what he was going to do.
He was going to drive the ambulance off the top level of the parking structure—leaping out of it at the last moment with Oliphant, leaving the Zulu inside.
‘Dr Oliphant!’ he yelled, glancing back at the Zulu. ‘Listen up and listen fast because I don’t know if we’ll get another chance to talk about this! You’re a target in an international bounty hunt!’
‘What!’
‘You have an eighteen-million-dollar price on your head! I think it has something to do with a NATO study that you did back in 1996 with a guy named Nicholson at USAMRMC! The MNRR Study. What was that study about?’
Oliphant frowned. He was still in shock, and trying to assimilate this line of questioning with the ongoing attempt on his life was hard.
‘MNRR? Well, it was . . . it was . . .’
The ambulance continued its dizzying ascent.
Level 4 and rising.
‘It was . . . it was like the Soviet Cobra tests, a test of—’
As Oliphant spoke, Fairfax stole a glance back at the Zulu—and suddenly saw that the demonic figure of the bounty hunter was far closer than he had expected him to be and was now swinging his machete right at Fairfax’s head!
No defence.
No escape.
The machete whistled forward.
And slammed into the headrest of Fairfax’s seat, its steel blade stopping—dead—a millimetre from Fairfax’s right ear.
Jesus!
But now the Zulu was on them. Somehow, he had managed to manoeuvre his way forward, despite the powerful inertia of the turning-and-rising ambulance.
Level 5 . . .
And now Fairfax’s eyes narrowed, focused.
He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
The ambulance responded, increased its speed.
They hit the top of the curving ramp doing 40, the ambulance almost tipping over sideways, all-but travelling on two wheels.
Then they raced out onto the rooftop—at this hour, it was completely empty—and Fairfax straightened the steering wheel and the ambulance, coming out of its hard turn, bounced back down onto all four wheels, the abrupt change of direction causing the Zulu to fly to the other side of the rear compartment and bang into the wall . . . leaving his machete wedged in Fairfax’s headrest.
Fairfax gunned the ambulance, aimed it directly at the edge of the deserted rooftop parking area.
‘Dr Oliphant! Get ready to jump!’ he yelled.
They rocketed toward the edge of the roof, toward the pathetic little fence erected there.
Fairfax shifted in his seat. ‘Get ready . . . on three. One . . . two . . . thr—’
The Zulu lunged into the driver’s seat from behind and grabbed both Fairfax and Oliphant!
Fairfax was stunned.
Now none of them could get out!
He saw the edge of the rooftop rushing at him at phenomenal unavoidable speed, so in desperation he yanked the steering wheel hard
over and for what it was worth, slammed on the brakes.
The ambulance fishtailed, skidded wildly.
And so rather than hitting the fence head-on as Fairfax had intended it to, it did a screeching four-wheel skid, spinning a full 180 degrees so that instead, it slammed into the rooftop’s fence rear-end first.
The ass end of the ambulance blasted through the fence and with Fairfax, Oliphant and the Zulu inside it, the whole ambulance went shooting off the edge of the roof, six storeys above the world, and fell—
—only about ten feet.
As the backward-travelling ambulance passed over the edge of the roof and blasted through the little fence, its front bumper bar caught hold of a surviving fence post and anchored the ambulance to the roof.
As such, the ambulance’s fall was cut dramatically short. No sooner was most of its bulk over the edge than the whole vehicle jolted to a sudden halt.
And so now it hung vertically from the top floor of the parking structure, hanging by its nose, its rear doors flailing open beneath it.
Inside the ambulance, everything that should have been horizontal was now vertical.
Oliphant still sat in the passenger seat, only now facing upwards, his back pressing into his seat.
Fairfax hadn’t been so lucky.
As they had hit the fence, he had been yanked from his seat by the Zulu and hurled into the rear section of the ambulance.
But then the ambulance had gone vertical, sending both of them tumbling ass over head.
And with its rear doors swinging open beneath them—revealing the six-storey drop—Fairfax and the Zulu had clutched at anything they could find.
The big Zulu had grabbed the locked-down gurney. Fairfax had clutched a shelf on the wall.
And so they hung there, inside the vertical ambulance, with a clear drop through the vehicle’s rear doors yawning beneath them.
But the Zulu wasn’t finished.
He still wanted to get to Oliphant.
He stretched upward, reaching for his machete, still wedged in the headrest of the driver’s seat.
‘No!’ Fairfax yelled, lunging forward.
But he was too late.
Hanging onto the wheeled gurney with one hand, the Zulu lashed his fingers around the machete’s grip and yanked it free.
He turned his bloodshot eyes on Fairfax, and his mouth widened into a sinister yellow-toothed grin.
‘Bye-bye!’ he said, drawing the machete back for the final blow.
‘Whatever you say, asshole,’ Fairfax said, seeing it.
The Zulu swung.
The blade whistled towards Fairfax’s head.
Just as Fairfax lashed out with his foot and kicked open the locks that held the gurney in place.
The response was instantaneous.
The wheeled gurney dropped like a stone, out through the open doors at the bottom of the vertical ambulance . . .
. . . with the Zulu on it!
Fairfax watched as the big man fell with the gurney, his wide eyes receding to specks as he fell and fell and fell.
The gurney flipped on the way down, causing the Zulu to hit the ground first. He impacted against the concrete with a sickening thud, his internal organs shattering. But he was still alive.
Not for long. A second later, the leading edge of the gurney came slamming down against his head, crushing it like a nut.
It took a few minutes for Fairfax and Oliphant to negotiate their way out of the vertical ambulance, but they made it by climbing out through the front windshield and hauling themselves up over the bonnet.
The two of them slumped on the roof of the parking structure, breathless.
Fairfax peered down at the ambulance still hanging from the edge of the rooftop.
For his part, Oliphant was jabbering, overwhelmed with shock:
‘It stood for . . . Motor Neuron . . . Motor Neuron Rapidity of Response . . . we were testing American and British soldiers for response times, response times to certain stimuli . . . all kinds of stimuli: visual, aural, touch . . . reflexes . . . it was all about reflexes.
‘Christ, we must have tested over three hundred soldiers, and they all had different response times . . . some were super fast, others clumsy and slow.
‘But our superiors never told us what the study was for . . . of course, we all had a theory. Most of us thought it was for commando-team selection, but some of the techs said it was for a new security system, some amazing new security system for ballistic missiles called CincLock . . . and then all of a sudden, the study was cancelled, the official reason being that the Department of Defense had canned the primary project, but we all thought it was because they’d got the information they needed—’
Shwat!
Still looking down at the ambulance, Fairfax heard the noise behind him.
He turned.
To see the now-headless body of Dr Oliphant kneeling beside him, swaying in position before—whump—it dropped to the concrete floor.
Standing over the corpse, holding a glistening short-bladed samurai sword in one tight fist, was a young leather-clad Japanese woman.
Alyssa Idei.
Bounty hunter.
She grabbed Oliphant’s head by the hair and held it casually by her side. Then in one fluid movement, she sheathed her sword and drew one of her Steyr machine pistols and pointed it at Fairfax.
She gazed at him over the gun. Eyes unblinking. Ice cold.
But then, strangely, a confused frown creased her perfect features, and she jerked her chin at Fairfax.
When it came her voice was as smooth as honey. ‘You are not a bounty hunter, are you?’
‘No . . .’ Fairfax said tentatively. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘And yet you battle with the Zulu. Why?’
‘I . . . I’ve a friend on your bounty list. I want to help him.’
Alyssa Idei seemed to have trouble grasping this. ‘This man was your friend?’
‘Well, not this guy. One of the other guys on the list.’
‘And you do battle with the Zulu to help your friend?’
‘Yes,’ Fairfax said. ‘I do.’
Her frown vanished, replaced by genuine curiosity. ‘What is your name, friend-helper?’
‘Er, David Fairfax.’
‘Fair Fax. David Fair Fax,’ she said slowly, rolling his name around in her mouth. ‘I do not see such displays of loyalty often, Mr Fair Fax.’
‘No?’ Fairfax said.
She eyed him sexily. ‘No. Your friend must be quite a man to inspire this bravery in you. Such bravery, Mr Fair Fax, is rare. It is also alluring. Intoxicating.’
Fairfax gulped. ‘Oh.’
Alyssa said, ‘And so I shall let you live. So that you may further help your friend—and so that we might meet again in fairer circumstances. But understand this, David Fair Fax, if we find ourselves together again, in a situation where you are protecting your friend, you will receive no such favour again.’
Then she holstered her gun and spun on the spot, sliding her lithe body into her low-slung sports car.
And she was gone.
Fairfax just watched the high-speed Honda whiz out of sight, shooting down the ramp, the headless body of Thompson Oliphant lying on the concrete beside him, the sun rising in the distance, and the sound of police sirens cutting through the dawn.
FOURTH ATTACK
FRANCE—ENGLAND
26 OCTOBER 1400 HOURS (FRANCE)
E.S.T. (NEW YORK, USA) 0800 HOURS
We live in a double world: carnival on the surface, consolidation underneath, where it counts.
From: No Logo by Naomi Klein
(HARPER COLLINS, LONDON, 2000)
Bread and circuses. That is all the people desire.
—Juvenal, Roman satirist
FORTERESSE DE VALOIS
BRITTANY, FRANCE
26 OCTOBER, 1400 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(0800 HOURS E.S.T. USA)
The three tiny figures crossed the mighty stone bridge th
at connected the Forteresse de Valois to mainland France.
Shane Schofield.
Libby Gant.
Aloysius Knight.
They each carried a white medical transport box.
Three boxes. Three heads.
Owing to the fact that Schofield was one of the most wanted men in the world—and the fact that they were about to enter the inner sanctum of this bounty hunt—Schofield and Gant were partially disguised.
They now wore the charcoal battle uniforms and helmets of IG-88, taken from the men on the Hercules. In addition to their own weapons—now cleaned of chaff—they also carried MetalStorm rifles. For extra effect, Schofield wore several bloodstained bandages across his jaw and normal sunglasses over his eyes, just enough to cover his features.
In his thigh pocket, however, he also carried one of Knight’s chunky modified Palm Pilots.
Knight pressed the doorbell to the castle. ‘Okay, since I’m the only one of us who’s done this before, I’ll take the heads in to the assessor. You’ll be asked to wait behind, in a secure area of some sort.’
‘A secure area?’
‘Assessors don’t take kindly to bounty hunters who try to storm their offices and steal their money. It’s happened before. As such, assessors usually have rather nasty protective systems. And if this assessor is who I think he is, then he’s not a very nice person.
‘In any case, just keep your eye on your Pilot. I’m not sure how much information I’ll be able to syphon out of his computer, but hopefully I can pull enough so that we can find out who’s paying for this hunt.’
Knight had an identical Palm Pilot in his own pocket. Like many such devices, it came with an infra-red data transfer feature, so you could send documents from your computer to your Palm Pilot wirelessly.
Knight’s modifications to his Pilot, however, included a search program that allowed his device to access—wirelessly—any computer that he could get within ten feet of.
Which meant he could do something very special indeed: he could hack into standalone computers. If he could get close enough.
The castle’s gates opened.
Monsieur Delacroix appeared, dapper as always.
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