Rufus fought heroically with his stick and by doing so managed one single thing: to avoid crashing into any of the inhabited parts of Mecca.
But that was all he achieved. For a bare second later, the X-15 slammed into the desert like a meteor from outer space, smashing vertically into the sandy landscape in a thumping, slamming, earth-shuddering impact that could be heard more than fifty miles away.
And for a moment its fiery explosion lit up the dark desert sky as if it were midday.
The X-15 hit the desert floor doing Mach 3.
It hit the ground hard and in a single flashing, blinding instant, the rocket plane transformed into a ball of fire.
Nothing could have survived the crash.
A split second before the impact, however, two ejection seats could be seen catapulting clear of the crashing plane's cockpit, shooting diagonally out into the sky—seats that contained Schofield and Rufus.
The two flight seats floated back down to earth on their parachutes, landing a mile away from the flaming crater that marked the final resting place of the X-15.
The two seats hit the dusty ground, rocked onto their sides.
There was no movement in them.
For there, lying slumped against their seatbacks, sat Shane Schofield and Rufus, both unconscious, both knocked out by the colossal G-forces of their supersonic ejection.
After a time, Schofield awoke—to the sound of voices.
His vision was blurry, blood seeped down his face, and his head throbbed with a terrible ache. Bruises were forming around his eyes—the natural by-product of ejecting.
He saw shadows surrounding his flight seat. Some men were trying to unbuckle his seatbelts.
He heard their voices again.
'Crazy sons of bitches, ejecting at that speed.'
'Come on, man, hurry up, before the fucking boy scouts from the Marines arrive.'
At the edge of his consciousness, Schofield noted that they were speaking English.
With American accents.
He sighed with relief. It was over. /
Then, with the whistling cut of a knife, his seatbelt came free and Schofield tumbled out of his seat onto the sand.
A man appeared at the rim of his vision. A Westerner, wearing military gear. Through the haze of his mind, Schofield recognised the man's uniform: the customised battle outfit of the US Special Forces' Delta Detachment.
'Captain Schofield . . .' the man said gently, his voice blurry to Schofield's slow mind. 'Captain Schofield. It's okay. You're safe now. We're from Delta. We're on your side. We've also picked up your friend, Captain Knight, a few miles from here.'
'Who—' Schofield stammered. 'Who are you?'
The Delta man smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile. 'My name is Wade Brandeis. From Delta. We've come from Aden. Don't worry, Captain Schofield. You're perfectly safe with me.'
Schofield dreamed.
Dreamed of being lifted out of his crashed flight seat. . . and flex-cuffed . . . then being loaded into the back of a private Lear jet . . . and the jet taking off . . .
Voices in the haze.
Brandeis saying, 'I heard it first from a couple of guys in the 'Stan. They said he turned up at a cave-hunting site and bolted inside. Said it had something to do with a bounty hunt.
'Then I get a call a few hours ago from a guy I know in ISS—he's one of those background guys, real old-school CIA, knows everything about everyone, so he's fucking untouchable. He's also ex-ICG. Good man. Ugly fuck, though. Looks like a goddamned rat. Name's Noonan, Cal Noonan, but everyone I know just calls him the Rat.
'As always, the Rat knows everything. For instance, he knows I'm working out of Aden. He confirms that there's a price on Schofield's head: eighteen million bucks. He also says that Schofield is on his way to Yemen. If I'm interested, he says, he can arrange leave for me and a few trusted men.
'He also says, wait for it, that Aloysius Knight is with Schofield, and that there's a price on Knight's head, too: two million dollars. Hell, I'd bring Knight in for fucking free. But if someone wants to give me two million bucks to do it, that's even better.'
• • •
The plane flew on. Schofield slept.
He woke briefly, uncomfortable. He was still wearing his utility flak vest, but all the weapons on it had been removed. The only thing they hadn't taken was the tightly-rolled Soviet chemical body bag. Not much of a weapon.
He shifted—and caught a glimpse of Knight and Rufus, also flex-cuffed, sitting a few rows back, covered by armed Delta operators. Rufus was asleep, but Knight was wide awake. He seemed to see Schofield rouse, but Schofield couldn't keep his eyes open.
He dropped back to sleep.
Another waking moment.
The sky outside the window next to him had changed from black to pale blue.
Dawn.
And then the voices came again.
'So where are we taking them?'
'Some castle,' Brandeis said. 'Some castle in France.'
FORTERESSE DE VALOIS
BRITTANY, FRANCE
27 OCTOBER, 0700 HOURS
It was raining heavily when Schofield's jet landed at Jonathan Killian's private airstrip on the coast of Brittany.
A quick transfer to a covered truck and soon—under the watchful eye of Brandeis and his five-man Delta team—Schofield, Knight and Rufus were taken down a steep cliff-side road, heading toward the familiar castle built on its rocky mount just off the coastal cliffs.
The mighty Forteresse de Valois.
The lone truck crossed the massive drawbridge connecting the castle to the mainland, shrouded by rain and lightning.
During the short trip, Knight told Schofield about his history with Wade Brandeis: about that night in Sudan and Brandeis's treacherous ICG links.
'Believe me, I know about the ICG,' Schofield said.
'I've been meaning to catch up with Brandeis for a long time,' Knight said.
As he spoke, Schofield saw the two tattoos on Knight's arm again: 'SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN' and 'BRANDEIS' and suddenly realised that they were in truth a single tattoo: 'SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN BRANDEIS'.
'The thing is,' Knight said, 'Brandeis isn't a bounty hunter, and it shows.'
'How?'
'He's just broken the first rule of bounty hunting.'
'Which is?'
'If you have a choice between bringing someone in dead or alive,' Knight said, 'dead is better.'
At that moment, the truck entered the gravel courtyard inside the castle and crunched to a halt.
Schofield, Knight and Rufus were all shoved out of it, covered by Brandeis and his Delta men.
Monsieur Delacroix was waiting for them.
The Swiss banker stood at the entrance to the classic-car garage, prim and proper as ever.
He was flanked by Cedric Wexley and ten mercenaries from Executive Solutions, Jonathan Killian's private security force.
'Major Brandeis,' Delacroix said. 'Welcome to the Forteresse de Valois. We've been expecting you. Come this way, please.'
Delacroix guided them into the garage and then down some stone stairs to the ante-room that Schofield had seen before—but instead of turning left toward the long forbidding tunnel that took you to the verification office, he turned right, through a small stone doorway that opened onto a tight medieval stairwell that spiralled downwards.
Lit by flaming torches, the stairwell went down and down, round and round, descending deep into the bowels of the castle.
It ended at a thick steel door set into a solid stone frame.
Delacroix hit a switch and with an ominous rumble the steel door rose into the ceiling. Then the dapper Swiss banker stood aside, allowing Brandeis and his prisoners to enter first.