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.
Schofield could have added Ashcroft and Weitzman to that list— Ashcroft had been beheaded in Afghanistan by the Spetsnaz bounty hunters, the Skorpions, and Weitzman had been killed on the cargo plane.
Which meant that, at the very best, only five of the original 15 names remained alive: Christie, Oliphant, Rosenthal, Zemir and Schofield himself.
Schofield frowned.
Something bothered him about this list, something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . .
Then he glimpsed the word 'ASSESSOR' on one of the other documents.
He retrieved it.
It was an emaiclass="underline"
SUBJECT: PAYMENT OF ASSESSOR'S COMMISSION
PAYMENT OF THE ASSESSOR'S COMMISSION WILL BE MADE BY INTERNAL ELECTRONIC FUNDS TRANSFER WITHIN AGM-SUISSE FROM ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD'S PRIVATE ACCOUNT (NO. 437-666-21) IN THE AMOUNT OF US$3.2 MILLION (THREE POINT TWO MILLION US DOLLARS) PER ASSESSMENT.
THE ASSESSOR IS TO BE M. JEAN-PIERRE DELACROIX OF AGM-SUISSE.
Schofield gazed at the words.
'ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD.'
That was where the money was coming from. Whatever it was, Astral-66 was paying for this bounty hunt—
'Good afternoon,' a pleasant voice said.
Schofield and Gant looked up.
A very handsome young man stood at the base of the stone stairs that led up to the garage. He was in his late thirties and clad in designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt which he wore open over a T-shirt in the manner of the very wealthy. Schofield immediately noticed his eyes: one blue, one brown.
'Welcome to my castle,' the handsome young man smiled. His smile seemed somehow dangerous. 'And who might you be?'
'Colton. Tom Colton,' Schofield lied. 'This is Jane Watson. We're with Aloysius Knight, seeing Monsieur Delacroix.'
'Oh, I see . . .' the handsome man said.
He extended his hand.
'Killian. Jonathan Killian. You both look like you've seen a fair
amount of action today. May I get you a drink, or something to eat? Or perhaps my personal physician could give you some clean bandages for your wounds.'
Schofield shot a glance down the tunnel, searching for Knight.
'Please . . .' Killian guided them up the stairs. Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention, they followed him.
'I've seen you before,' Schofield said as they walked up the stone stairway. 'On TV . . .'
'I do make the odd appearance from time to time.'
'Africa,' Schofield said. 'You were in Africa. Last year. Opening factories. Food factories. In Nigeria . . .'
This was all true. Schofield recalled the images from the news— footage of this Killian fellow shaking hands with smiling African leaders amid crowds of happy workers.
They came up into the classic car garage.
'You've a good memory,' Killian said. 'I also went to Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya, opening new food processing plants. Although many don't know it yet, the future of the world lies in Africa.'
'I like your car collection,' Gant said.
'Toys,' Killian replied. 'Mere toys.'
He guided them into a corridor branching off the garage. It had dark polished floorboards and pristine white walls.
'But then I enjoy playing with toys,' Killian said. 'Much as I enjoy playing with people. I like to see their reactions to stressful situations.'
He stopped in front of a large wooden door. Schofield heard laughter coming from behind it. Raucous male laughter. It sounded like a party was going on in there.
'Stressful situations?' Schofield said. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Well,' Killian said, 'take for instance the average Westerner's inability to comprehend the Islamic suicide bomber. Westerners are taught since birth to fight "fair": the French duel at ten paces, English knights jousting, American gunslingers facing off on a Wild
West street. In the Western world, fighting is fair because it is presumed that both parties actually want to win a given battle.'
'But the suicide bomber doesn't think that way,' Schofield said.
'That's right,' Killian said. 'He doesn't want to win the battle, because the battle to a suicide bomber is meaningless. He wants to win a far grander war, a psychological war in which the man who dies against his will—in a state of distress and terror and fear— loses, while he who dies when he is spiritually and emotionally ready, wins.
'As such, a Westerner faced with a suicide bomber goes to pieces. Believe me, I have seen this. Just as I have seen people's reactions to other stressful situations: criminals in the electric chair, a person in water confronted by sharks. Oh, to be sure, I love to observe the look of pure horror that crosses a man's face when he realises that he is, without doubt, going to die.'
With that, Killian pushed open the door—
—at the same moment that something dawned on Schofield:
His problem with the master list.
On the master bounty list, McCabe and Farrell's names had been shaded in.
McCabe and Farrell, who had died in Siberia that morning, had been officially listed as dead.
And paid for.
Which meant. . .
The great door swung open—
—and Schofield and Gant were" met with the sight of a dining room filled with the members of Executive Solutions, twenty of them, eating and drinking and smoking. At the head of the table, his broken nose wrapped in a fresh dressing, sat Cedric Wexley.
Schofield's face fell.
'And that,' Killian said, 'is the look I'm talking about.' The billionaire offered Schofield a thin, joyless smile. 'Welcome to my castle . . . Captain Schofield.'
Schofield and Gant ran.
Ran for all they were worth.
They bolted away from the dining room, dashed down the splendid corridor, Jonathan Killian's scornful laughter chasing them all the way.
The ExSol men were out of their seats in seconds, grabbing their weapons, the sight of another $18.6 million too good to resist.
Killian let them hustle past him, enjoying the show.
Schofield and Gant burst into the classic car garage.
'Damn. So many choices,' Schofield said, ripping off his bandages and gazing at the multi-million-dollar selection of cars before him.
Gant looked over her shoulder, saw the Executive Solutions mercenaries thundering down the hallway in pursuit. 'You've got about ten seconds to choose the fastest one, buster.'
Schofield eyed the Porsche GT-2. Silver and low, with an open targa top, it was an absolute beast of a car.
'Nah, it just isn't me,' he said, leaping instead toward the equally-fast rally car beside it—an electric blue turbo-charged Subaru WRX.
Nine seconds later, the men of ExSol burst into the garage.
They got there just in time to see the WRX blasting down the length of the showroom, already doing sixty.
At the far end of the showroom, the garage's external door was opening—thanks to Libby Gant standing at the controls.
The ExSol men opened fire.
Schofield stopped the rally car on a dime, right next to Gant.
'Get in!'
'What about Knight?'
'I'm sure he'll understand!'
Gant dived in through the Subaru's passenger window, just as the garage door opened fully to reveal the castle's sundrenched internal courtyard . . .
. . . and the surprised face of Major Dmitri Zamanov.
Accompanied by six of his Skorpions, and holding a medical transport box in his hands.