Scarecrow ss-3

by Matthew Reilly

  'Now that just isn't fair,' Knight said, a moment before he was stabbed deep in the thigh by a second knife that had appeared from Delacroix's other cuff.

  Delacroix's knife-wielding hands moved like lightning, forcing the now-limping Knight to step back across the floor.

  The blades were the sharpest things Knight had ever seen. Or felt. One of them slashed across his face, carving a line of blood across his cheek.

  What had previously been all dapper-Swiss-banker was now a perfectly-balanced bladesman exhibiting the exquisite knife skills only associated with the—

  'Swiss Guards, hey, Delacroix?' Knight said as he moved. 'You never told me that. Nice. Very nice.'

  'In my trade,' Delacroix sneered, 'a man must know how to handle himself.'

  Schofield and Wexley traded blows by the doorway.

  Wexley was bigger and stronger than Schofield, skilful, too.

  Schofield, however, was quicker, his now-famous reflexes allowing him to evade Wexley's more lethal blows.

  But after the exertions of the previous twenty-four hours and the crash of the X-15 and the trip as a captive to France, his energy levels were low.

  As such, he over-extended with one punch.

  Wexley nailed him for the error—a withering blow to the nose that would have killed any other man—and Schofield staggered, but as he fell, he managed to unleash a ruthless blow of his own to Wexley's Adam's apple.

  Both men fell, dropping to the floor together—Wexley went sprawling across the open doorway, gasping, while Schofield slumped against the doorframe beside him.

  Wexley groaned, and rising to his knees, drew a Warlock hunting knife from his boot.

  'Too late, asshole,' Schofield said.

  The strange thing was, he had no weapon in his hands. He had something better. He had Killian's remote.

  'This is for McCabe and Farrell,' he said, hitting a button on the remote.

  Immediately, the steel door above Wexley came thundering down out of its recess, slamming into Wexley's head like a pile-driver, driving it down into the stone floor where—sprack!—it cracked Wexley's head in an instant, flattening it.

  With Wexley dead, Schofield turned to find the man he really wanted.

  He saw him standing behind the desk.

  Jonathan Killian.

  Knight was still fighting Delacroix when he saw Schofield approach Killian over by the desk.

  It wasn't that Knight was worried about Killian. Far from it. He was worried about what Schofield was going to do.

  But he couldn't get away from Delacroix . . .

  Schofield stopped in front of Killian.

  The contrast couldn't have been more marked. Schofield was covered in dirt and grime, bloodied and beaten and worn. Apart from his bullet-nicked ear and wounded hand Killian was relatively neat and tidy, his clothes perfectly pressed.

  The shattered floor-to-ceiling panoramic window overlooking the Atlantic yawned beside them.

  The thunderstorm outside raged. Lightning forks tore the sky. Rain lanced in through the broken window.

  Schofield gazed at Killian without emotion.

  When he didn't speak, Killian just smirked.

  'So, Captain Schofield. What are your intentions now? To kill me? I am a defenceless civilian. I have no military skills. I am unarmed.' Killian's eyes narrowed. 'But then, I don't think you could kill me. Because if you killed me now in rank cold blood, it would be my final victory, and perhaps my greatest achievement. For it would only prove one thing: that I broke you. I turned the last good man in the world into a cold-hearted murderer. And all I did was kill your.girl.'

  Schofield's eyes never wavered.

  His whole appearance was unnaturally still.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous.

  'You once told me that Westerners don't understand suicide bombers,' he said slowly. 'Because suicide bombers don't fight fair. That the battle is meaningless to a suicide bomber, because he wants to win a far more important war: a psychological war in which the man who dies in a state of terror or fear—the man who dies against his will—loses.' Schofield paused. 'While the man who dies when he is emotionally ready, wins.'

  Killian frowned.

  Schofield never flinched, not even when a totally fatalistic, nihilistic smile washed across his face.

  Then he grabbed Killian roughly by the throat and brought the billionaire right up close to his face and growled, 'You're not emotionally ready to die, Killian. But I am. Which means I win.'

  'Jesus Christ, no . . .' Killian stammered, realising what was about to happen. 'No!!!'

  And with those words, hauling the screaming Jonathan Killian with him, Shane Schofield stepped out through the shattered panoramic window beside them, out into the storm, and the two of them—hero and villain—fell together through 400 feet of sky down to the jagged rocks below.

  At the very same moment that Schofield pulled Killian right up close to his face, Aloysius Knight had got the jump on Delacroix.

  A quick sidestep to the left had caused Delacroix to stab one of his knives deep into the wood-panelled wall of the office—and allowed Knight to whip his blowtorch out from his utility vest and jam it into Delacroix's mouth and pull the trigger.

  The blue flame from the blowtorch blasted out the back of Delacroix's head, spiking right through his skull, sending burnt brains flying across the room. The Swiss banker slumped instantly, dead, a char-rimmed hole driven right through his head.

  Knight emerged from behind the fallen Delacroix just in time to see Shane Schofield step out into the storm, taking the screaming Killian with him.

  Schofield fell through the rain with Jonathan Killian at his side.

  The rocky mount rushed past them, while directly below them, Schofield saw the rocks, assaulted by the waves of the Atlantic, that would end his life.

  And as he fell, a strange peace came over him. This was the end, and he was ready for it.

  Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, something struck him hard in the back and he jolted sickeningly and without warning . . .

  . . . stopped falling.

  Jonathan Killian shrank away from him—falling, falling, falling—disappearing with the rain, before slamming into the rocks at the base of the mount where he bent at an obscene angle and

  then vanished in a foul explosion of his own blood. He screamed all the way down.

  And yet Schofield did not fall.

  He just hung from the panoramic window at the end of a Maghook rope—from the Maghook that had just been fired by Aloysius Knight, the Maghook he had taken from Mother before— a desperate last-gasp shot that he had fired as he leaned out the window a second after Schofield had jumped—the bulbous magnetic head of the Maghook having attached itself to the metal plate inside the back section of Schofield's borrowed flak vest.

  Schofield allowed himself to be reeled back up to the office like a fish on a line. When he got there, Knight hauled him back inside.

  'I'm sorry, buddy,' Knight said. 'But I just couldn't let you go like that. That said, I still think you made your point to Killian.'

  Ten minutes later, as the sun appeared on the horizon, a lone Aston Martin sped away from the Forteresse de Valois with Aloysius Knight at the wheel and Shane Schofield, Mother and Rufus inside it. The car took the side-road leading up to the castle's airfield. There, after a very one-sided gunbattle, its occupants stole an Axon helicopter and flew off toward the rising sun.

  Over the next few months, a strange variety of incidents took place around the world.

  Just a week later, in Milan, Italy, it was claimed that there had been a break-in at the Aerostadia Italia Airshow, and that an aircraft had been stolen from one of the airshow's outlying hangars.

  After the disappointing non-appearance of the fabled US X-15 rocket planes already, this was not the kind of publicity that the air-show needed.

  Witnesses claimed that the aircraft taken was a sleek, black fighter which—so they s
aid—took off vertically. While this description matched the description of the experimental Russian Sukhoi S-37, airshow and Italian Air Force officials were quick to point out that no such plane had been slated to appear at the show.

  In the lead-up to Christmas, there was also a spate of unfortunate deaths among some of the world's richest families.

  Randolph Loch disappeared while on safari in southern Africa. His entire private hunting party was never found.

  In March, the Greek shipping magnate Cornelius Kopassus suffered a fatal heart attack in his sleep.

  Arthur Quandt was found dead with his mistress in the spa of his Aspen lodge.

  Warren Shusett was murdered in his isolated country mansion.

  J. D. Cairnton, the pharmaceutical tycoon, was hit and killed by a speeding truck.outside his company's New York headquarters. The driver of the truck was never found.

  Heirs took over their empires. The world kept turning. The only connection made to their deaths was in a confidential memo to the President of the United States.

  It read simply: 'sir, it is over, majestic-12 is no more.'

  MAJORCA, SPAIN

  9 NOVEMBER, 1100 HOURS

  The hired Volkswagen circled the charming cobblestoned piazza on the Spanish island of Majorca, the famed luxury hideaway for the rich and reclusive.

  'So where are we going again?' Rufus asked.

  'We're going to meet our employer,' Knight said. 'The person who engaged us to keep Captain Schofield alive.'

  Knight parked the car outside a streetside cafe.

  Their employer was already there.

  She sat at one of the sidewalk tables, smoking a cigarette, her eyes hidden behind a pair of opaque Dior sunglasses.

  She was a very distinguished-looking woman—late forties, dark hair, high cheekbones, porcelain skin, her posture all at once refined and cultured and confident.

  Her name was Lillian Mattencourt.

  Billionaire owner of the Mattencourt cosmetics empire.

  The richest woman in the world.

  'Why if it isn't my knight in shining armour,' she said as they approached her table. 'Aloysius, my dear. Do sit down.'

  Over tea, Mattencourt smiled warmly.

  'Oh, Aloysius, you have done well. And you shall be rewarded handsomely.'

  'Why?' Knight said. 'Why didn't you want him killed?'

  'Oh, my dashing young knight,' Lillian Mattencourt said. 'Is it not obvious?'

  Knight had thought about this. 'Majestic-12 wanted to start a new Cold War. And Jonathan Killian wanted global anarchy. But your fortune is based on the opposite of that. You want people to feel safe, secure, to be happy little consumers. Your fortune rests on the maintenance of global peace and prosperity. And nobody buys make-up during wartime. Warfare would ruin you.'

  Mattencourt waved his answer away. 'My dear boy, are you always so cynical? Of course, what you say is absolutely true. But it was only one small part of my reasoning.'

  'What was it then?'

  Mattencourt smiled. Then her tone became deadly. 'Aloysius. Despite the fact that I have a greater net wealth than all but a few of them, and despite the fact that my father was once a member of their little club, for many years now, for the sole and single reason that I am a woman, Randolph Loch and his friends have consistently refused to let me join their Council.

  'Put simply, after years of suffering their various innuendos and sexual taunts, I decided that I'd had enough. So when I learned of their bounty hunt through sources of my own within the French government, I decided that the time was right to teach them a lesson. I decided, Aloysius, to hurt them.

  'And the best way to achieve that was to take from them that which they desired most—their precious plan. If they wanted certain people dead, then I wanted them alive. If they wanted to destroy the existing global order, then I did not.

  'I had heard of Captain Schofield. His reputation is well known. Like yourself, he is a rather resilient young man. If anyone could defeat Majestic-12 it was him, with you by his side. As such, he became the man you would protect.'

  Lillian Mattencourt raised her nose and inhaled the fresh Mediterranean air, a sign that this meeting was over.

  'Now, run along my brave little foot soldier. Run along. You

  have done your job and done it well. By tonight, your money will be in your account. All $130.2 million of it, the equivalent I believe of seven heads.'

  And with that she stood, donned her hat, and left the cafe, making for her 500 Series Mercedes Benz on the far side of the piazza.

  She was inside the car and about to start it when Knight saw the shadowy figure standing in an alleyway not far from it.

  'Oh, you cunning bastard,' Knight said a split second before Lillian Mattencourt keyed the ignition.

  The explosion rocked the piazza.

  Potted plants were thrown across the cobblestones. Table umbrellas were blown inside-out. Bystanders started running toward the flaming ruins of Lillian Mattencourt's Mercedes.

  And the man who had been standing in the alleyway walked casually over to Knight's table and sat down beside him.

  His flame-scarred face and bald head were covered by sunglasses and a cap.

  'Well, if it isn't the Demon,' Knight said flatly.

  'Hello, Captain Knight,' Demon Larkham said. 'Two weeks ago, you stole something from me. From a cargo plane travelling between Afghanistan and France. Three heads, if I recall. $55.8 million worth of bounty.'

  Knight saw three other members of IG-88 standing nearby, guns under their jackets, flanking him and Rufus.

  No escape.

  'Oh yeah, that.'

  Demon Larkham's voice was low. 'Others would kill you for what you did, but I'm not like that. The way I see it, things like this happen in our profession. It is the nature of the game and I enjoy that game. Ultimately, however, I believe that what happens on the field, stays on the field. That said, considering this unfortunate incident'—Demon waved at the smoking remains of Lillian Mattencourt's car—'and the amount of money that you have just seen go up in smoke, what do you say we consider the debt settled.'

  'I'd say that would be a good idea,' Knight said evenly, his lips tight.

  'Until we meet again then, Captain,' the Demon said, standing. 'See you on the next safari.'

  And with that, Demon Larkham and his men were gone, and all Aloysius Knight could do was gaze after them ruefully and shake his head.

  MOTHER'S HOUSE RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, USA 1 MARCH, 1200 NOON FOUR MONTHS LATER

  The sun shone brightly over the BBQ underway in Mother's backyard.

  It was a Sunday and a small but very close crowd had gathered for a casual get-together.

  Mother's trucker husband Ralph was there—tending to the sausages with an oversized spatula. Their nieces were inside, miming to Britney Spears's latest hit.

  David Fairfax sat in a deck chair under the clothesline, nursing a beer, swapping stories with Book II and Mother about their adventures the previous October: tales of chases in parking lots near the Pentagon, office towers in London, Zulu bounty hunters, British bounty hunters, and their mirror-image assaults on supertankers on either side of the United States.

  They also talked about Aloysius Knight.

  'I heard the government cleared his record, cancelled the bounty and took him off the Most Wanted List,' Fairfax said. 'They even said he could come back to Special Forces if he wanted to.'

  'So has he?' Book II asked.

  'I don't even think he's come back to the States,' Fairfax said. 'Mother? What do you know about Knight?'

  'He phones every now and then,' she said, 'but no, he hasn't come back to the States. If I were him, I don't know if I would

  either. As far as Special Forces is concerned, I don't think Knight is a soldier anymore. I think he's a bounty hunter now.'

  Thinking about Knight made Mother look over her shoulder.

  Over in a corner of the yard, by himself, sat Schofield—cleanshaven and
wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a pair of reflective Oakleys. He sipped on a Coke, staring up into the sky.

  He had hardly spoken to anyone since he had arrived, which was not unusual these days. Gant's death in France had hit him hard. He'd been on indefinite leave ever since, and didn't look like coming back to active duty any time soon.

  Everyone gave him a bit of space.

  But just then, as Ralph was sizzling the onions, the doorbell rang.

  Courier delivery. For the attention of Shane Schofield. Care of Mother's address.

  A large cardboard envelope.

  Mother took it to Schofield in the yard. He opened it. Inside the envelope was a lone gift-shop card with a cheesy cartoon of a cowboy that read: 'your new life begins today, buckaroo!'

  Inside it was a handwritten message:

  SCARECROW,

  I'M SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT TODAY, BUT A NEW JOB CAME UP.

  HAVING SPOKEN WITH MOTHER RECENTLY, I REALISED THAT THERE IS SOMETHING I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU FOUR MONTHS AGO.

  DID YOU KNOW THAT, STRICTLY SPEAKING, MY CONTRACTUAL COMMITMENT TO MY EMPLOYER TO KEEP YOU ALIVE EXPIRED WHEN YOU DISARMED THAT MISSILE OVER MECCA. MY TASK WAS TO KEEP YOU ALIVE 'UNTIL 12 NOON, 26 OCTOBER OR UNTIL SUCH TIME AS CAPTAIN SCHOFIELD'S REASON FOR ELIMINATION HAS BEEN UTILISED TO ITS FULLEST POTENTIAL.'

  I HAVE NEVER GONE BEYOND THE LETTER OF A CONTRACT

  BEFORE. TO BE HONEST, I ACTUALLY THOUGHT ABOUT LEAVING YOU IN THAT DUNGEON—AFTER ALL, BY THEN, YOUR REASON FOR ELIMINATION HAD INDEED BEEN UTILISED TO THE FULLEST.

  BUT AFTER WATCHING THE WAY YOUR MEN—AND YOUR WOMEN—STOOD BY YOU OVER THE COURSE OF THAT AWFUL DAY, AFTER OBSERVING THE LOYALTY THEY HAD TO YOU, I CHOSE TO STAY AND FIGHT BY YOUR SIDE.

  LOYALTY IS NOT SOMETHING THAT SIMPLY HAPPENS, CAPTAIN. IT IS ALWAYS PREDICATED BY AN INDEPENDENT SELFLESS ACT: A SUPPORTIVE WORD, A KINDLY GESTURE, AN UNPROVOKED ACT OF GOODNESS. YOUR MEN ARE LOYAL TO YOU, CAPTAIN, BECAUSE YOU ARE THAT RAREST OF MEN: A GOOD MAN.

  PLEASE LIVE AGAIN. IT WILL TAKE TIME. BELIEVE ME, I KNOW. BUT DO NOT ABANDON THE WORLD JUST YET—IT CAN BE A TERRIBLE PLACE, BUT IT CAN ALSO BE A BEAUTIFUL PLACE, AND NOW MORE THAN EVER IT NEEDS MEN LIKE YOU.

  AND KNOW THIS, SHANE 'SCARECROW' SCHOFIELD. YOU HAVE WON MY LOYALTY, A FEAT WHICH NO MAN HAS ACHIEVED FOR A VERY LONG TIME.