One of the bodies caught Schofield's attention.
He froze.
He hadn't seen it at first, because the body's upper half had been hanging over the edge of the dry-dock pit, but now he saw it clearly.
Alone among the six dead bodies, this man's head had been cut off
Schofield grimaced at the sight.
It was absolutely disgusting.
Ragged threads of flesh hung from the corpse's open neck; the twin pipes of the oesophagus and the windpipe lay exposed to the open air.
'Mother of God,' Book II breathed, coming up alongside Schofield. 'What the hell happened here?'
As the four tiny figures of Schofield and his Marines examined the death scene down on the floor of the dry-dock hall, no fewer than twenty pairs of eyes watched them.
The watchers were arrayed around the hall, at key strategic points—men dressed in identical snow fatigues but carrying a variety of weapons.
They watched in tense silence, waiting for their commander to give the kill signal.
Schofield crouched beside the headless body and examined it.
D-boys didn't wear ID tags or patches, but he didn't need to see a tag or a patch to know who this was. He could tell by the physique alone.
It was Specialist Dean McCabe, one of the Delta team leaders.
Schofield glanced around the immediate area. McCabe's head was nowhere in sight. Schofield frowned at that. The Delta man's head had not only been cut off, it had been taken—
'ScarecrowV a voice exploded in his earpiece. 'This is Bull. We're over in the office tower. You're not going to believe this.'
'Try me.'
'They're all dead, all the Delta guys. And Scarecrow . . . Farrell's head has been fucking cut off
An ice-cold charge zoomed up Schofield's spine.
His mind raced. His eyes scanned the hall all around him—its cracked glass windows and ice-faded walls blurring in a kaleidoscope of motion.
Krask-8. Deserted and isolated . . .
No sign of any Chechen terrorists since they'd got here . . .
Radio contact with Alaska lost. . .
And all the D-boys dead . . . plus the bizarre extra feature of McCabe's and Farrell's missing heads.
And it all crystallised in Schofield's mind.
'Bull!' he hissed into his throat-mike. 'Get over here right now! We've been set up! We've just walked into a trap!'
And at that moment, as he spoke, Schofield's searching eyes settled on a small mound of snow in a corner of the immense dry-dock hall—and suddenly a shape huddled behind the snow-mound came into sharp focus, revealing itself to be a carefully-camouflaged man dressed in snow-fatigues and pointing a Colt Commando assault rifle directly at Schofield's face.
Damn.
And with that the twenty assassins arrayed around the hall opened fire on Schofield and his men and the dry-dock facility became a battlefield.
Schofield ducked reflexively just as two bullets swooshed low over his head.
Book II and Clark did the same, diving in amongst the Delta bodies on the ground as a rain of bullets sparked against the floor all around them.
The fourth Marine, Rooster, wasn't so lucky. Perhaps it was the reflective glasses he wore—making him look like Schofield—or perhaps he was just unlucky. Nevertheless, a hailstorm of rounds pummelled his body, cut it to ribbons, making him dance even though he was dead.
'Into the pit! Now!' Schofield yelled, practically crash-tackling Clark and Book II out of the line of fire and rolling the three of them off the edge of the dry-dock pit just as it was assaulted by a thousand bullet sparks.
As Schofield and the others dropped down into the dry-dock pit, they did so under the watchful eye of the commander of the heavily-armed force surrounding them.
The commander's name was Wexley—Cedric K. Wexley—and in a previous life he had been a major in the elite South African Reconnaissance Commandos.
So this is the famous Scarecrow, Wexley thought, watching Schofield move. The man who defeated Gunther Botha in Utah. Well, if nothing else, his reflexes are good.
Before his own fall from grace, Wexley had been a shining star in the Reccondos, chiefly because he had been a devoted follower
of apartheid. Somehow, he had survived the transition to democracy, his racist tendencies going unnoticed. And then he had killed a black soldier in boot camp, beat him to death during hand-to-hand training. He had done it before, but this time it was noticed.
And when soldiers like Cedric Wexley—psychopaths, sociopaths, thugs—were discharged from the legitimate armed forces, they invariably ended up in the illegitimate ones.
Which was how Wexley came to be in command of this unit: a Special Ops team belonging to one of the world's pre-eminent mercenary organisations—the highly corporate, South African-based 'Executive Solutions' or 'ExSoP.
While ExSol specialised in Third World security missions-like propping up African dictatorships in exchange for diamond-mining royalties—it also, when the logistics allowed, engaged in the more lucrative international bounty hunts that occasionally arose.
At nearly $19 million per head, this was the most lucrative bounty hunt ever, and thanks to a well-placed friend on the Council, Executive Solutions had been given the inside running to claim three of those heads.
Wexley's radio operator came up beside him. 'Sir. Blue Team has engaged the Marines in the office tower.'
Wexley nodded. 'Tell them to return to the dry-dock via the bridge when they're done.'
'Sir, there's another thing,' the radio man said.
'Yes?'
'Neidricht up on the roof says he's picked up two incoming signals on the external radar.' There was a pause. 'Judging by the signatures, he thinks it's the Hungarian and the Black Knight.'
'How far out are they?'
'The Hungarian's about fifteen minutes away. The Knight is further, maybe twenty-five.'
Wexley bit his lip.
Bounty hunters, he thought. Fucking bounty hunters.
Wexley hated bounty hunt missions precisely because he hated bounty hunters. If they didn't beat you to the target, the little fuckers would let you do all the dirty work, stalk you all the way back to the proof-station, steal the target out from under you and then claim the money for themselves.
In an up-front military exchange, the winner was the last man standing. Not so in a bounty hunt. In a bounty hunt, the winner was the one who presented the prize back at base—however he might have obtained it.
Wexley growled. 'The Hungarian I can handle, he's a brute. But the Black Knight. . . he'll almost certainly be a problem.'
The ExSol commander looked down at the submarine pit. 'Which means we'd better make this quick. Get this Schofield asshole, and bring me his fucking head.'
Schofield, Book II and Clark dropped down the wall of the dry-dock pit.
They fell for a full thirty feet, before—whump—they landed heavily on the two Delta bodies slumped at the bottom.
'Come on, move! Move! Move!' Schofield pulled the other two underneath the big black Typhoon sub, mounted on its blocks in the pit.
Each block was about the size of a small car and made of solid concrete. Four long rows of the blocks supported the massive submarine, creating a series of narrow right-angled alleyways underneath the Typhoon's black steel hull.
Schofield spoke into his throat-mike as he zig-zagged through the dark alleyways: 'Bull! Bull Simcox! Do you copy!'
Bull's voice, fast and desperate: 'Scarecrow, shit! We're under heavy fire over here! All of the others are down and I'm ... I'm hit bad! I can't—oh, fuck—no!—'