Scarecrow Returns

THE ANTONOV soared over Dragon Island.

Schofield checked the timer on his old Casio digital watch. As soon as he’d been told that the Russian nuke was nineteen minutes out, he’d started the watch’s timer. It was now at:

14:41 . . . 14:40 . . . 14:39 . . .

Schofield did the calculations in his head. Another minute to land—perhaps ten to find whoever of his team was still alive: Zack, Emma, Mother, Baba and Champion—and then four to get back on the Antonov and get to MSD, minimum safe distance from the blast.

The numbers didn’t look good. There wasn’t nearly enough time, nor did he have enough weaponry to take on the Army of Thieves. All he had was Bertie on his back—out of ammo—and a couple of pistols he’d found on the Antonov.

Either we all survive together or we all die together, he remembered his own words back in their camp.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He scanned the base as he came in for landing and saw men running every which way.

The Army of Thieves had lost not only its supreme leader but its whole command group. Now the thugs were looking for someone to tell them what was happening and what to do.

He keyed Bertie’s short-range radio: “Mother, Baba! Zack, Emma! Renard! Can any of you hear me—?”

A man’s voice came in. “I hear ya, buddy, although I sure ain’t your fucking mother.”

“I hear ya, too,” another reedy voice hissed. “Calling for your mommy, eh? I think I fucked her once and she loved every minute of it.”

There was no reply from Mother, Baba or any of the—

“Captain, it’s me,” a softer voice came in.

It was Zack.

“I’m alive and have E with me.” Knowing others were listening, he was obviously being careful not to mention Emma’s name.

“We gotta get everyone off this island. You’ve got nine minutes to meet me at the spot where Baba emptied out some diesel fuel.” Schofield didn’t want to broadcast their meeting point.

“Copy that. See you there.”

A few seconds later, a woman’s voice came in, her accent French:

“Scarecrow, this is”—a pained cough—“Renard. You”—cough—“came back?”

“Where are you now, Renard?”

“Where you left me. But I have”—Blam! a gunshot, loud and close—“a bit of a problem here.”

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

Blam! Another. “Hurry.”

“Ooh, aah! Yeah, stay there, Renard, we’re coming, too!” another voice mimicked Champion’s over the airwaves.

14:01 . . . 14:00 . . . 13:59 . . .

As he banked over Dragon Island, Schofield tried to reach Mother and Baba, but he only got more crude replies from snarling Thieves.

Nothing from Mother or Baba.

Damn . . . he thought sadly.

Schofield brought the Antonov in for landing, shooting past the mighty vents before sweeping low over the disc-shaped tower—with one of its spires now lying on its side—and touching down on the runway. The Antonov’s tires hit the tarmac and it taxied down the length of the runway, before pulling up fifty meters short of the western cliffs.

At least twenty members of the Army of Thieves had been gathered by the airstrip’s hangars when the plane had come roaring in and landed.

They immediately leapt into jeeps and charged after it, to see if their boss was on board.

Schofield leapt out of the Antonov—

13:10 . . . 13:09 . . . 13:08 . . .

—and saw it.

Saw the motorcycle-and-sidecar lying askew on the northern side of the runway, the one whose rider and gun-toting partner Bertie had shot earlier. Their dead bodies still lay beside it.

Schofield ran over to the bike-and-sidecar, lifted it upright and kick-started it. It roared to life.

He peeled out, kicking up a spray of dirt behind him.

12:30 . . . 12:29 . . . 12:28 . . .

He couldn’t believe what he was doing.

He was going back into Dragon Island—doomed Dragon Island, inhabited by a leaderless throng of Thieves—with only twelve minutes left to save his friends.