Scarecrow ss-3

by Matthew Reilly

  She hammered the 'door OPEN' button.

  It was like standing in a fishbowl and Mother knew that the Lynx helicopter that had terrorised her before would come searching for her soon and she didn't want to be a sitting duck when it di—

  Thump-thump-thump-thump-tbump-tbump . . .

  The Lynx.

  Mother turned.

  It was right there!

  Hovering just out from her glass elevator, off to the western side, seemingly staring at her.

  Mother kept hitting door open. 'Damn it, fuck! Is this button actually wired to anything?'

  And then she saw the puff of smoke from one of the Lynx's side-mounted missile pods.

  They were firing a missile at her!

  A TOW missile blasted out of the pod, carving a horizontal line straight at Mother's glass elevator.

  The elevator doors started to open.

  The missile roared toward Mother's eyes.

  Mother squeezed through the doors and dived out of the lift just as the TOW missile pierced her elevator's shattered western wall, entering it from the side, its superhot tail-flame charring the whole interior of the elevator before—clash!—it shot out the other side and rocketed into the next glass elevator beside it.

  The sight was truly amazing.

  The TOW missile shot across the southern face of the King's Tower, blasting through all four of the glass elevators parked there—clash'.-clash'.-clash'.-clash!—causing sequential explosions of glass as it penetrated each lift's walls, one after the other—before in a final glorious shower of glass, it shot out of the last elevator and peeled off into the Thames where it exploded in a gigantic geyser of spray.

  For her part, Mother landed in a clumsy heap inside the reception area on the 38th floor, the door of her glass elevator open behind her.

  Lying flat on the floor, she looked up.

  And saw four IG-88 bounty hunters standing in the destroyed reception area, right in front of her. They looked just as shocked to see her as she was to see them.

  'Talk about out of the frying pan . . .' Mother breathed.

  The IG-88 men whipped up their MetalStorm rifles.

  Mother pounced to her feet and leapt in the only direction she could: back out onto her elevator.

  Into the elevator, ducking behind its control panel just as a wave of hypermachinegun fire rushed in through the open doorway.

  Rain and wind whipped all around Mother, the semi-destroyed elevator now little more than an open-air viewing platform that looked out over London.

  Mother looked across the southern face of the tower.

  The three other glass elevators faced her, lined up in a row, their glass walls all shattered by the TOW.

  'Live or die, Mother,' she said aloud. 'Fuck it. Die.'

  And so she ran.

  Thirty-eight floors up, charging hard, across the southern face of the building, leaping across the three-foot gaps between the semi-destroyed elevators.

  As soon as she landed on the second elevator, the Lynx helicopter returned, swooping in fast, now firing with its mini-gun, razing the side of the building with a storm of bullets.

  But Mother kept running, outstripping the chopper's brutal rain of fire by centimetres, hurdling over onto the third elevator platform.

  The gap where Elevator Number 4 should have been yawned before her.

  Mother didn't miss a step.

  The gap was wide—twelve feet—but she jumped anyway, diving forward, arms outstretched, 38 storeys up, hoping to catch the floor of the fifth and final elevator with her hands.

  No dice.

  She knew as soon as she jumped that she wasn't going to make it.

  Her hands missed the floor of the fifth elevator by inches and Mother dropped below it.

  But the clawed grappling hook of the Maghook in her hand didn't miss the edge of the elevator.

  The damn Maghook might not have been working anymore, but by holding its hook in her outstretched hand, Mother had added another twelve inches to her reach.

  Which was just what she needed.

  The steel claws of the hook caught the floor of the elevator and Mother swung to a halt beneath it. She had just started climbing up into it when—

  Thump-thump-tbump-tbump-tbump-thump-tkump . . .

  The Lynx.

  It was back. Hovering menacingly in front of her as she hung from the destroyed elevator's floor. A second IG-88 Lynx chopper swooped in behind it, checking out the action.

  This time the Lynx was so close that Mother could see the pilot's smiling face.

  He waved at her, then gripped his gun trigger.

  Hanging from the elevator platform, dead for all money, Mother just shook her head.

  'No . . .'

  The Lynx's gunbarrels began to roll, just as another glimpse of movement caught Mother's eye—a grey smoketrail shooting through the air behind the Lynx—a missile smoketrail that seemed to come from . . .

  The second Lynx helicopter.

  The missile slammed into the Lynx that had been threatening Mother.

  A colossal explosion rocked the air, and in the blink of an eye the Lynx was gone. In the face of the blast wave, it was all Mother could do to hold on.

  The wreckage of the first Lynx tumbled down the side of the tower—flaming, smoking.

  It landed on a grassy strip at the base of the tower with a massive metal-crushing whutnp!

  Mother looked over at the second Lynx helicopter, the one that had shot its buddy out of the sky . . . and saw its pilot.

  Book II.

  His voice came over her earpiece. 'Hey there. I picked this baby up on the roof. Unfortunately, the pilot was a reluctant seller. I was wondering where you'd got to.'1

  'Ha-de-fucking-ha, Book,' Mother said, hauling herself up into the fifth elevator. 'How about getting me off this damn tower.'

  'Be happy to. But can you get something for me first?

  Mother charged through a corridor on the 39th floor, leading with her Colt.

  The place was a mess. Bullet holes lined the walls. Anything made of glass had been shattered.

  If the IG-88 team was still here, they weren't showing themselves.

  'It's back near that internal staircase,' Book's voice said in her ear. 'The room where we found Rosenthal. It must be some kind of interrogation facility.'

  'Got it,' Mother said.

  She could see the doorway near the top of the curving stairs, hurried into it.

  She was confronted by a two-way mirror that looked into an adjacent interrogation room. Two video cameras peered through the mirror. Thick manila folders and two digital video tapes lay on a table nearby.

  'It's an interrogation centre, all right,' Mother said. 'I got files. I got DV tapes. What do you want?'

  'All of it. Everything you can carry. Plus anything with Majestic-12 or CincLock-VII on it. And grab the tapes, including any that are still in the cameras.''

  Mother grabbed a silver Samsonite suitcase lying on the floor and stuffed it with the files and digital video tapes. The two cameras also had tapes in them, so she grabbed them, too.

  And then she was out.

  Out the door and up the fire stairs to the roof.

  She hit the roof running, dashed out into the rain, just as Book landed his Lynx on it. She climbed inside and the chopper lifted off, leaving the smoking ruins of the King's Tower smouldering in its wake.

  OFFICES OF THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE

  AGENCY,

  SUB-LEVEL 3, THE PENTAGON

  26 OCTOBER, 0700 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1200 HOURS IN LONDON)

  Dave Fairfax's boss caught him as he was leaving his office to go to St John's Hospital and find Dr Thompson Oliphant.

  'And just where do you think you're going, Fairfax?' His name was Wendel Hogg and he was an asshole. A big guy, Hogg was ex-Army, a two-time veteran of wai in Iraq, a fact which he never failed to tell people about.

  The thing was, Hogg was stupid. And in the tradition of st
upid managers worldwide, he (a) clung rigidly and inflexibly to rules, and (b) despised talented people like David Fairfax.

  'I'm going out for coffee,' Fairfax said.

  'What's wrong with the coffee here?'

  'I've tasted hydrofluoric acid that was better than the coffee here.'

  Just then, a small waif-like young woman entered the office. She was the mail clerk, a quiet mousy girl named Audrey. Fairfax's eyes lit up at the sight of her—unfortunately, so did Hogg's.

  'Hey, Audrey,' Fairfax said, smiling.

  'Hi, Dave,' Audrey replied shyly. Others might have said she was plain, but Fairfax thought she was beautiful.

  Then Hogg said loudly, 'Thought you said you were leaving, Fairfax. Hey, while you're doing a Starbucks run, why don't you

  get us a couple of grande frappacinos. And make it snappy, will ya.'

  A million witty retorts passed through Fairfax's brain, but instead he just sighed. 'Whatever you say, Wendel.'

  'Hey,' Hogg barked. 'You will address me as Sergeant Hogg or Sergeant, young man. I didn't take a bullet in Eye-raq to be called Wendel by some spineless little keyboard-tapper like you, Fairfax. 'Cause when the time comes, boy, to stand up and stare into the enemy's eyeballs,'—he threw a cocksure grin at Audrey—'who would you want holding the gun, you or me?'

  Fairfax's face reddened. 'I'd have to say you, Wendel.'

  'Damn straight.'

  And with an embarrassed nod to Audrey, Fairfax left the office.

  EMERGENCY WARD, ST JOHN'S HOSPITAL,

  ARLINGTON, USA

  26 OCTOBER, 0715 HOURS

  Fairfax entered the ER of St John's, went over to the reception counter.

  It was quiet at this time of the morning. Five people sat slumped like zombies in the waiting area.

  'Hi, my name is David Fairfax. I'm here to see Dr Thompson Oliphant.'

  The desk nurse chewed bubble gum lazily. 'Just a second. Dr Oliphant! Someone here to see you!'

  A second nurse appeared from one of the curtained-off bed-bays. 'Glenda, shhh. He's out back catching some shut-eye. I'll go get him.'

  The second nurse disappeared down a back hallway.

  As she did so, an exceedingly tall black man stepped up to the reception counter beside Fairfax.

  He had deep dark skin and the high sloping forehead common to the inhabitants of southern Africa. He wore big fat Elvis sunglasses and a tan trenchcoat.

  The Zulu.

  'Good morning,' the Zulu said stiffly. 'I would like to see Dr Thompson Jeffrey Oliphant, please.'

  Fairfax tried not to look at the bounty hunter—tried not to betray the fact that his heart was now beating very very fast.

  Tall and lanky, the Zulu was gigantic—the size of a professional basketball player. The top of Fairfax's head was level with his chest.

  The desk nurse popped a bubble-gum bubble. 'Geez, old Tommy's popular this morning. He's out back, sleeping. Someone's just gone to get him.'

  At that moment, a bleary-eyed doctor appeared at the end of the long 'Authorized Personnel Only' corridor.

  He was an older guy: grey-haired, wrinkled face. He wore a white labcoat and he rubbed his eyes as he emerged from a side room putting on his glasses.

  'Dr Oliphant?' the Zulu called.

  'Yes?' the old doctor said as he came closer.

  Fairfax was the first to see the weapon appear from under the Zulu's tan trenchcoat.

  It was a Cz-25, one of the crudest submachine-guns in the world. It looked like an Uzi only meaner—the ugly twin brother—with a long 40-round magazine jutting out of its pistol grip.

  The Zulu whipped up the gun, levelled it at Oliphant, and oblivious to the presence of at least seven witnesses, pulled the trigger.

  Standing right next to the big assassin, Fairfax did the only thing he could think to do.

  He lashed out with his right hand, punching the gun sideways, causing its initial burst to strafe a line of bullet holes along the wall next to Oliphant's head.

  People ducked.

  Nurses screamed.

  Oliphant dived to the floor.

  The Zulu backhanded Fairfax, sending him crashing into a nearby janitor's trolley.

  Then the Zulu walked—just walked—around the reception desk and into the staff-only corridor, toward Oliphant, his Cz-25 extended.

  He fired ruthlessly.

  The nurses scattered out of the way.

  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.