Scarecrow by Matthew Reilly Read Free Book Online

to erase all evidence of a sham mission against some terrorists in Siberia, enough to ensure that your reinforcements, a company of Rangers out of Fort Lewis, never even left the ground . You’re on your own, Captain Schofield. You’re here . . . alone . . . with us . . . until we kill you and cut off your fucking head.’
    Schofield’s mind raced.
    He’d never expected this. Something so targeted, so individual, so personal .
    Then abruptly, he saw Wexley do something odd: he saw him look away again, only this time the South African was glancing out over Schofield’s shoulder.
    Schofield turned—and his eyes widened in horror.
    Like the ominous precursor to an underwater volcanic eruption, a roiling mass of bubbles appeared in the ice-covered ‘lake’ that now extended out from the dry-dock pit. The thin layer of ice covering this body of water cracked loudly.
    And then from out of the middle of the bubbling froth, like a gigantic whale breaching the surface, came the dark steel body of a Soviet Akula-class attack submarine.
    While it could never attain the international sales of the smaller Kilo-class submarines, the Akula was rapidly gaining popularity on international arms markets—markets which the new Russian government was keen to exploit. Obviously, Executive Solutions was one of Russia’s customers.
    The Akula in the icy lake moved quickly. No sooner was it up than armed men were swarming out of its hatchways, extending exit gangways to the shore, and running across those gangways onto the floor of the dry-dock hall.
    Schofield blanched.
    It was at least thirty more mercenaries .
    Wexley smiled wickedly.
    â€˜Keep smiling, asshole,’ Schofield said. He looked at his watch. ‘Because you don’t have forever to catch me. In exactly sixteen minutes that missile from the Typhoon is going to return to this base. Till then, smile at this.’
    Thwack!
    Schofield punched Wexley in the nose with his Desert Eagle, knocking him out.
    Then he hustled over to Book II and started helping him with Clark. ‘Grab his other shoulder . . .’
    They helped the young corporal up. Clark strained to get to his feet. ‘I can do it—’ he said just as his chest exploded in a sickening gout of blood. An involuntary bloody gob shot out from his mouth—direct from the lungs—and splashed all over Schofield’s chestplate.
    Clark just stared at Schofield, aghast, the life fading quickly from his eyes. He dropped to the balcony’s grilled catwalk, dead—shot from behind—by the force of mercenaries now charging out of the newly-arrived sub and swarming down the length of the hall.
    Schofield just looked down at his dead companion in horror.
    He couldn’t believe it.
    Apart from Book II, his whole team was gone, dead, murdered.
    And so here he was, stranded at a deserted Siberian base with close to forty mercenaries on his tail, one man by his side, no reinforcements on the way and no means of escape at all.

    Â 
    Schofield and Book II ran.
    Ran for their lives as bullet-holes shredded the thin plasterboard walls all around them.
    The new collection of ExSol mercenaries from the Akula had entered the battle with frightening intensity. Now they were climbing every rung-ladder they could find and sprinting down the dry-dock hall, with only one purpose: to get Schofield’s head .
    The mercs who had entered the Typhoon earlier were now also aware that Schofield had got away, and they re-emerged, guns blazing.
    Schofield and Book II dashed westward, entering the concrete overpass bridge that connected the dry-dock hall with Krask-8’s office tower.
    As they had approached the bridge, Schofield had seen the movements of the Executive Solutions forces—some of them were scaling the balcony level, while others were paralleling his and Book’s movements down on ground level, running along