But still he saw no Schofield.
He readied his weapons, and made to land on the roof of a nearby building.
• • •
The Yak-141 landed lightly on the roof of one of Krask-8's smaller buildings, its downward-pointed rear thruster blasting the rooftop clear of any debris.
No sooner was it down than the fighter's canopy opened and the Hungarian climbed out, his body as heavy as his face, carrying an AMD assault rifle—the crude but effective Hungarian variant of the AK-47, notable for its extra forward handgrip.
He was four steps away from the plane when—
'Drop the gun, mister.'
The Hungarian turned . . .
... to see Shane Schofield emerge from the underside of the Yak-141, an MP-7 held in his hand and pointed right at the Hungarian's nose.
While the glass tower had smashed down into the earth, Schofield and Book II had launched themselves into the air above it, falling in matching arcs underneath the bow of the hovering Yak-141.
Before they'd started their run, Schofield had drawn his signature weapon—his Maghook—from his back-holster. Then as he had fallen through the air, he had aimed it at the underbelly of the Yak and fired. Book II had done the same.
Their Maghooks had shot into the air, unspooling wobbling tails of rope behind their hooks. With a pair of dull clunks, the two powerful magnetic heads had slammed into the underside of the Yak—and Schofield's and Book's respective falls had abruptly ceased as they were yanked up by their Maghooks' ropes.
As the Yak had made its way toward the nearest rooftop, they had initiated the internal spoolers on their Maghooks which had reeled them upwards, toward the safe forward underbelly of the hovering fighter jet—while at the same time they were hidden from the eyes of the mercenary force on the ground by the billowing dustcloud below.
The landing had been a little hairy, what with all the flying debris and the deflected heat-blast from the Yak's downward thruster, but they'd made it.
The Yak-141 had touched down, and Schofield and Book II had dropped down to the roof underneath it and rolled away. Now Schofield had one simple plan for the Yak-141. To steal it.
Schofield and Book II faced off against the Hungarian on the roof of the low building.
The Hungarian dropped his assault rifle. It clattered to the ground. Schofield scooped up the ugly gun.
'You another bounty hunter?' he demanded, yelling above the roar of the idling fighter.
'Da,' the Hungarian grunted.
'What's your name?'
'I am the Hungarian.'
'Hungarian, huh? Well, you're too late. The mercenaries beat you here. They got McCabe and Farrell.'
'But they did not get you.' The Hungarian's voice was entirely
devoid of emotion.
Schofield's eyes narrowed. 'They told me that you have to bring my head to a castle in France to claim the money. Which castle?'
The Hungarian eyed Schofield's gun warily. 'Valois. The Forteresse de Valois.'
'The Forteresse de Valois,' Schofield said. Then he asked the money question. 'And who is paying for all this? Who wants me
dead?'
The Hungarian held his gaze.
'I do not know,' he growled.
'You sure about that?'
'I said I do not know.'
There was something in his simple directness that made Schofield believe him. 'Right . . .'
Schofield headed for the Yak, walking backwards, his guns still up, but as he did so, he felt a twinge of pity for this chunky bounty hunter in front of him. 'I'm taking your plane, Hungarian, but I'm
also going to tell you something that I don't have to. Don't be here in eleven minutes.'
Schofield and Book II ascended the cockpit ladder of the Yak-141, their guns trained on the Hungarian.
'You know,' Book II said. 'One day your Maghook isn't going to work . . .'
'Shut up,' Schofield said.
They climbed in.
A former Harrier pilot, Schofield had little difficulty figuring out the Yak's controls.
He keyed the vertical take-off thruster and the Yak-141 lifted into the air above the rooftop.
Then he charged up the plane's afterburners and blasted off over the barren Siberian hills, leaving the lone figure of the Hungarian staring dumbly and helplessly after him.
Schofield and Book II left Krask-8 disappearing in their wake.
As he sat at the controls of the Yak-141, Schofield contemplated his next move.
Sitting in the back, Book II said, 'What are you thinking? We go to that castle?'
'The castle is important,' Schofield said. 'But it's not the key.'
He pulled Wexley's bounty list from his pocket.
'This is the key,' he said.
He looked at the names on the crumpled sheet and wondered what they all had in common.
In short, the list was a Who's Who of international warriors: crack commandos like McCabe and Farrell; British spies from MI-6; an Israeli Air Force pilot. Even Ronson Weitzman was on it—Major General Ronson Weitzman from the United States Marine Corps, one of the highest-ranking Marines in America.
And that wasn't even mentioning the Middle-Eastern terrorists on the list: Khalif, Nazzar and Hassan Zawahiri.
Hassan Zawahiri. . .
The name leapt out at Schofield.
He was the second-in-command of Al-Qaeda, Osama bin Laden's right-hand man.
And a man being hunted right now in the mountains of northern Afghanistan by the United States, by Schofield's Marine Corps friends: Elizabeth Gant and Mother Newman.
Wexley's voice invaded Schofield's thoughts: 'Bounty hunters do so have a proclivity to hold friends and loved ones as bait to draw out a target
Schofield pursed his lips.
His friends, plus at least one target on the list—Zawahiri—were in the same place. It was the perfect starting point for any bounty hunter.
And so he made the decision.
He set the Yak's autopilot for south-south-west, destination: northern Afghanistan.
Eleven minutes after Schofield left Krask-8, a finger of white smoke blasted out of the clouds above the base—led by the point of the submarine-launched SS-N-20 missile that had been launched twenty minutes earlier.
It descended like a lightning bolt towards the remains of Krask-8, ready to do whatever damage it could.
The missile rushed downward at supersonic speed.
5,000 feet. . .
2,000 feet. . .
1,000 feet. . .
And then in a fleeting shocking instant. . .
... it exploded . . .
... a clear 800 feet off the ground.
The descending missile blasted out into a million fragments, bursting like a firecracker as it was hit by a smaller laser-guided missile from the side.
Glittering fragments of the submarine-launched missile rained down on Krask-8 harmlessly.
And when the smoke cleared, there, hovering in the sky above the mini-city, was the second fighter jet to arrive at Krask-8 that morning.
This one was far sleeker than the Hungarian's Yak-141, longer too, and it was painted almost entirely black. The only trace of another colour could be found in its white-painted nose cone. It was also possessed of rare forward-swept wings and a two-man cockpit.
It was a Sukhoi S-37—a Russian-made hover-capable fighter that was far more advanced than the old Yak-141.
The sleek S-37 hovered like a hawk above the destroyed Siberian base, surveying the scene. The streets were deserted. The members of ExSol were nowhere to be seen.
After a few minutes of aerial surveillance, the Sukhoi landed on a stretch of open ground not far from the enormous dry-dock
warehouse.
Two men climbed out of its cockpit.
One was exceedingly tall, at least seven feet, and armed with a massive G-36 rifle.