Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

It didn’t take long.

Mako’s team moved with speed and precision. They sealed off the mine and then went in hard, leapfrogging one another in a coordinated rolling formation.

The mine system wasn’t that complicated—it was just a basic rock mine from which granite was extracted—and within a few minutes, they were fired upon from a shadowy corner.

Mother.

That standoff didn’t last long, either, maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Mother fought bravely, but she was woefully outnumbered and outgunned, and eventually, she ran dry, and Mako’s men steadily flanked her until she stopped firing and stood up, arms raised in surrender.

Mako’s team swarmed all over her position . . .

. . . to discover that she was alone.

Zack and Emma weren’t there, and neither was the all-important case.

Mother had done what Scarecrow would’ve done: she’d lured her pursuers into the mine and kept them occupied for as long as she could, giving Zack and Emma time to escape with the spheres.

Mother stepped out from her position, arms raised, her face illuminated by half a dozen barrel-mounted flashlights.

Mako keyed his radio: “Sir, this is Mako. We got one of the Marines, but she was a decoy. The other two are gone and they have the case. They’re somewhere else on the island.”

To Mako’s surprise, the voice that answered him was not Typhon but the Lord of Anarchy himself: “ One of the Marines, you say? Is it the woman, the big one? Newman? ”

Mako jabbed Mother with his gun. “Are you Newman?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, it’s her.”

“ Bring her to me, alive, ” the Lord of Anarchy said. “ Do not harm her. I intend to enjoy that pleasure myself. ”

Elsewhere, Zack and Emma hurried through scrub, icy branches lashing their faces, running as fast as they could, away from the quarry-mine.

They knew full well that Mother would eventually be caught—that her fake last stand was designed to give them valuable time to get away and hide—and they didn’t want her sacrifice to be in vain.

Staying on the south side of the island, however, was not an option. While mountainous, it was too barren and treeless, too exposed. There was nowhere to hide. Nor was there any way to get in touch with anyone back home—to tell them that the Army of Thieves was being prevented from effecting their plan.

That meant venturing back north into the sprawling main complex of Dragon Island—to both hide and find some communications gear, and maybe even link up with the Kid and Mario.

Zack and Emma dashed across a shallow rocky ford in the river and headed back north, toward the main complex.

A mile or so behind them, two Army of Thieves Strelas stopped on the road overlooking the quarry-mine. The tattooed men on it glared at Mother—and offered a few lewd obscenities—as she was led away by Mako and his men.

One man ambled a short distance away from the main group, where he crouched on one knee and peered at the muddy ground.

It was Bad Willy. His left ear was now bandaged, but the gauze had leaked and an ugly splotch of blood stained it.

Bad Willy gazed long and hard at the muddy ground . . .

. . . at the fresh shoe-prints in it, including one kind of print that was not often found on secret Soviet bases.

Nike hiking boot-prints.

“Oh, Zacky-boy . . .” Bad Willy said. “I told you I’d find you.”

Calling his men to follow—on foot, since it was quieter, better for hunting—Bad Willy set off after Zack and Emma.

ICE FIELD TO THE WEST OF DRAGON ISLAND 4 APRIL, 1155 HOURS

VERONIQUE CHAMPION woke with a start.

She coughed a few times, blinking back to her senses, and then looked around: to find herself sitting in an orange inflatable life raft, moving slowly through a tranquil Arctic lead, paddled by Shane Schofield. High walls of ice rose on either side of her.

A thick waterproof field dressing was wrapped tightly around her belly and lower back, staunching the flow of blood from her gunshot wound.

“What—how did we get here?” she asked. “The last thing I remember is . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she peered upward, in the direction of Dragon Island. She could just see the peaks of Dragon’s southern mountains over the top of the lead’s walls.

Schofield smiled grimly. “You passed out. I dressed your wound and gave you a shot of AP-6.” AP-6 was a field drug developed by SEAL Team Six; it was both a painkiller and a stimulant; it dulled any pain but also jacked up a wounded solider long enough to allow them to get to a field hospital.

“You won’t be doing any somersaults or jumps,” Schofield said, “but you’ll be mobile enough. I managed to dispose of four of the spheres, but there are still two out there: Zack and Emma have them, back on the island, and Mother’s with them. We’re going back in now.”

“Going back? How?”

“I’m taking us through these leads toward the north of Dragon Island, to the old whaling village. I figure the cable car and gantry elevators will be more closely watched now and the submarine station is way over on the other side of the island, so the village is our only choice, the only place where we can land.”

“That’ll take a while.” Champion tried to sit up in the life raft but fell back, grimacing. “Ah . . .”

Schofield glanced at her. “You’ll live but you won’t be doing any more fighting today. The bullet missed your spleen by millimeters and, luckily for you, went right through.”

Champion groaned, blinking away the pain, and lay back against the inflatable bow of the raft. It was unusually peaceful here: the air silent, the water perfectly calm and the ice walls white as snow. It was like floating among the clouds.

“I figure it’ll take us about ten more minutes,” Schofield said, paddling slowly but firmly.

“ Un moment, s’il vous plait . You saved me from that sinking plane?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why would you do this? I was sent to kill you. I even told you that when all this is over, I would have to carry out my original mission.”

Schofield stopped paddling for a moment. The boat drifted. He looked at Champion long and hard.

“I saved you because this situation is bigger than your country’s vendetta against me, and I think you’re smart enough to know that.”

Champion returned his gaze. “You . . . trust me? Why?”

“Because you didn’t come to kill me just for France. You came because of your cousin. You thought he was wronged, an innocent civilian murdered by a professional soldier: me. Your premise was wrong but the motive wasn’t. It shows you have a sense of justice, of right and wrong, and I figure if you have that, you’re a decent person, and decent people can be reasoned with. They also deserve to be saved if it’s possible and it was possible.”

Champion cast her eyes downward. She seemed to be looking deep within herself. But when she looked up again, her gaze was hard.

“You’re wrong. I once had a sense of justice. I was once decent. Now I am an assassin. When this is over, wounded or not, I must carry out my orders. I must make sure you are dead.”

Schofield didn’t flinch.

“But you weren’t always an assassin, were you?” he said. “Sorry, but you’re not the type. You’re too thoughtful. Most assassins are cold-blooded for two reasons: one, they can’t empathize, and two, they’re stupid and any idiot can pull a trigger and feel powerful that way. But you’re neither of those things. Something happened to you.”

“You want to psychoanalyze me?”

“Got nothing else to do right now.”

“All right.” Champion lay her head back and gazed skyward, gripping her stomach. “I shall tell you about me, but only if you tell me about you—in particular, how a Marine recovers from the execution of his girlfriend by a psychopath.”