Scarecrow ss-3
Page 17
'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, ail-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.'
Aly
ssa 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.
We live in a double world: carnival on Hie 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
LA GRANDE RUE DE LA MER
BRITTANY-ATLANTIC COAST, FRANCE
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 that 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.
'Captain Knight,' he said formally. 'I was wondering if I might be seeing you.'
'Monsieur Delacroix,' Knight said. 'I had a feeling you'd be the assessor. I was just saying to my associates here what a charming fellow you were.'
'But of course you were,' Delacroix said drily. He eyed Schofield and Gant in their IG-88 gear. 'New helpers. I did not know you had been recruiting from Monsieur Larkham's fold.'
'Good help is hard to find,' Knight said.
'Isn't it just,' Delacroix said. 'Why don't you come inside.'
They passed through the castle's showroom-like garage, filled with its collection.of expensive cars: the Porsche GT-2, the Aston Martin, the Lamborghini, the turbo-charged Subaru WRX rally cars.
Delacroix walked in the lead, pushing a handcart with the three head boxes stacked on it.
'Nice castle,' Knight said.
'It is rather impressive,' Delacroix said.
'So who owns it?'
'A very wealthy individual.'
'Whose name is—'
'—something I am not authorised to divulge. I have instructions on this matter.'
'You always do,' Knight said. 'Guns?'
'You may keep your weapons,' Delacroix said, uninterested. 'They won't be of any use to you here.'
They descended some stairs at the rear of the garage, entered a round stone-walled anteroom that preceded a long narrow tunnel.
Delacroix stopped. 'Your associates will have to wait here, Captain Knight.'
Knight nodded to Schofield and Gant. 'It's okay. Just don't be shocked when the doors lock.'
Schofield and Gant took a seat on a leather couch by the wall.
Delacroix led Knight down the narrow torch-lit tunnel.
They came to the end of the forbidding passageway, to a well-appointed office. Delacroix entered the office ahead of Knight, then turned, holding a remote in his hand.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
The three steel doors in the tunnel whomped down into place, sealing Schofield and Gant in the ante-room and Knight in the tunnel.
Knight didn't even blink.
Delacroix set about examining the heads—heads that were originally captured by Demon Larkham in the caves of Afghanistan: the heads of Zawahiri, Khalif and Kingsgate. Laser scans, dental exams, DNA . . .
Knight stood inside the long stone tunnel, trapped, waiting.
He noticed the boiling oil gutters set into its walls. 'Hmmm,' he said aloud. 'Nasty.'
Through a small perspex window set into the steel door, he could see into Delacroix's office.
He saw Delacroix at work, saw the immense panoramic window behind the Swiss banker's desk revealing the glorious Atlantic Ocean.
It was then, however, that Knight noticed the ships outside.
On the distant horizon he saw a cluster of naval vessels: destroyers and frigates, all gathered around a mighty aircraft carrier that he instantly recognised as a brand-new, nuclear-powered Charles de Gaulle-class carrier.
It was a Carrier Battle Group.
A French Carrier Battle Group.
Schofield and Gant waited in the ante-room.
A whirring sound from up near the ceiling caught Schofield's attention.
He looked up—and saw six strange-looking antennas arrayed around the ceiling of the round ante-room, embedded in the stone walls. They looked like stereo speakers, but he recognised them as deadly microwave emitters.
He also saw the source of the whirring sound: a security camera.
'We're being watched,' he said.
In another room somewhere in the castle, someone was indeed watching Schofield and Gant on a black-and-white monitor.
The watcher was gazing intently at Schofield, as if he was peering right through Schofield's bandages and sunglasses.
Monsieur Delacroix finished his tests.
'Captain Knight,' Delacroix said over the intercom. 'Congratulations. Each of your heads has carded a perfect score. You are now $55.8 million richer.'
The Swiss banker pressed his remote and the three steel doors whizzed up into their slots.
Knight stepped into Delacroix's office just as the banker sat down behind his enormous desk and started tapping the keys on his standalone laptop computer.
'So,' Delacroix said, hands poised over the keyboard. 'To which account would you like me to wire the bounty? Am I to assume you are still banking with Alan Gemes in Geneva?'
Knight's eyes were glued to Delacroix's computer.
'Yes,' he said as he hit the 'transmit' button on the Palm Pilot in his pocket.
Instantly, the Pilot and Delacroix's computer began communicating.
In the stone-walled ante-room, Schofield saw his Palm Pilot spring to life.
Data whizzed up the screen at dizzying speed. Documents filled with names, numbers, diagrams:
Source
Delivery Sys•
lii-H
Origin
Target
Time
Talbot
Shahab-S
TN7t>
35702.10 5001.00
00001.bS 5231-10
1145
Shahab-S
TN7b
35702.TO 5001-00
00420-02 4100-25
1145
Shahab-S
TN7b
35702.10 5001.00
01312.15 53SA.75
1145
Ambrose
Shahab-S
TN7b
26743-05 4104-55
2fl?43.1fl 4104-b4
1200
Schofield saw the last document, recognised it.
The bounty list.
The Pilot continued to download other documents. Careful to keep it concealed, Schofield clicked on the list, opening it.
This list was slightly different to the one he had taken from the leader of Executive Solutions, Cedric Wexley, in Siberia.
Some of the names on it had been shaded in. The full document
The dead, Schofield thought with a chill. It's a list of the targets who have already been eliminated.
And verified as dead.