Scarecrow Returns

THE OLD whaling village sat in a canyon that delved into the cliffs of the north-western coast of Dragon Island. There was only one way to get to it from the island’s main complex: a fenceless one-lane road that ran steeply down one wall of the triangular canyon.

The village itself was a cluster of 19th-century shacks, slaughterhouses, water tanks, gangways and jetties. Chains, hooks and pulleys hung everywhere. The dry cold of the Arctic had preserved it all perfectly, although every piece of wood was pale and faded and every surface was covered in an undisturbed layer of frost.

Schofield and Champion swam, SEAL-style, across the hundred yards of flat open sea from the ice field to the cliffs, careful not to cause ripples that a sentry might see; to assist the wounded Champion, Schofield had clipped his combat webbing to her weapons belt, so that he pulled her along as he swam.

They reached the base of the cliffs about two hundred yards west of the deserted village. From there, they clung to the base of the cliffs and came to the first jetty.

Of course, there would be sentries here, Schofield figured. It was one of only a few points of land-access to the island. The question was where they would be.

Neither Schofield nor Champion saw any such sentry and as they slid out of the water and up onto a frost-covered boat-ramp, they thought they had arrived undetected.

But that wasn’t the case. From the moment they had reached the base of the cliffs, they had been watched the entire time.

Only not by human eyes.

Unaware of this, Schofield and Champion crept through the snow-covered village, slipping quickly from corner to corner.

As they arrived at the inner edge of the village, Schofield saw the sentry team.

They’d taken the easy option.

They’d set themselves up as a roadblock a short way up the steep one-lane road that led out of the canyon. Someone might penetrate the village from the ocean side—and hide within its collection of structures—but if those intruders were to get onto the island proper, they had to negotiate the bottleneck that was the road.

Two jeeps and one motorcycle with a sidecar were parked across the road, blocking it. On them, six Army of Thieves men in bulky Marine parkas variously smoked, talked or paced, AK-47s slung loosely over their shoulders.

“Okay,” Champion whispered, “how do you propose to get past them?”

“You still got your smoke grenades?”

Champion did.

“Give me two.”

She pulled two grenades from her weapons belt and handed them to Schofield.

“Here’s the plan,” he said. “I get up close to their roadblock, toss these, and in the smoke that follows, you take down the men on the right, I take down the ones on the left.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan?”

“You got anything better?”

“I suppose not,” Champion said. “Wait. How are you going to get to the roadblock? There’s at least fifty yards of open ground between us and them, and those grenades won’t work over that distance.”

Schofield nodded. “I have a plan for that.”

“And that is?”

“Surrender.”

A moment later, Schofield emerged from cover, walking toward the roadblock across the short section of open ground, his hands held high.

The Army of Thieves team immediately whipped up their weapons, alert and wary.

Schofield’s heart was beating loudly in his head. He just needed to get close enough—maybe ten yards—and then grab and throw the two smoke grenades now clipped behind his shoulders, out of his enemies’ view.

He came closer. Thirty yards away.

“I want to give myself up!” he called as he walked.

They did not fire.

“Keep your hands where we can see ’em!” one of the Army men yelled nervously.

Closer still. Twenty yards . . . fifteen . . . ten . . .

Now, he thought as his hands tensed to reach back and grab the grenades—

“Freeze, Captain! And keep those fucking hands away from those grenades,” a deep voice said from down to Schofield’s right.

Schofield froze and shut his eyes.

He swore inwardly. He hadn’t seen the little corrugated-iron shed just below the edge of the roadway.

Nor had he seen the man who had been hiding behind it: a tall Army of Thieves man with a modern assault rifle held expertly in his hands and TYPHON stenciled in Magic Marker on his parka.

The man named Typhon stepped up onto the road, his gun trained on Schofield. He yanked the two grenades off Schofield’s webbing and tossed them to the roadway.

“Wouldn’t want you using those now, would we?” Typhon said. The other members of the roadblock team now surrounded Schofield. Typhon took his guns. “Hands behind your head, Captain Schofield.”

Schofield clasped his hands behind his head.

He thought of Champion and that maybe she could save him, but while she could manage simple tasks like swimming, she was in no state to launch a rescue. And right now, the only weapons she had were her Steyr TMP and her two pistols—the SIG-Sauer P-226 and her little Ruger—and they would be no match against this many men.

Typhon stepped in front of Schofield, stood nose-to-nose with him, filling his field of vision.

The man’s eyes were frightening. Black and hard, they were lifeless, pitiless. Schofield knew that kind of stare. The cold gaze of a sociopath.

“The boss thought you might come back,” Typhon said. “You have a reputation for it.”

Schofield said, “If you’re going to kill me, kill me. Cut the pompous speeches.”

“Oh, we plan to kill you, Captain, of that you can be certain. But the short life left to you still has some worth to us. The boss would like to speak with you.”

Schofield saw the nod Typhon gave to one of the men standing behind him and he turned in time to see the man’s rifle-butt come rushing at his face and Schofield’s world went black.