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Hair was clipped so short it was practically invisible, especially at the back of the skull, for that was where sweat formed in moments of heat and stress. A minor physical irritant, but an irritant nevertheless, and the Peregrine forces could not afford it.
A fourth man appeared out of the forest, obviously in an arranged meeting with the other three.
"By shouting that I was 'in pursuit," said the ersatz Gamma leader, laughing quietly, "I sent the Boy Scouts over to Sector Seven, the farthest area in the compound. Our targets are inside this fancy place here.. .. Waste them! Let's go!"
Scofield raised his automatic and fired twice, bringing down two of the deadly intruders. As he did so, he lurched through the underbrush, scrambling roughly ten yards from where he had pulled the trigger of the Colt. A fusillade of bullets filled the night air, hissing on Bray's right, shattering clumps of forest garbage, and thumping into trees with terrible finality.
"Where is the bastard?" yelled the leader hysterically.
"I don't know!" roared the other man, "but he just dropped Greg and Willie!"
"Shut up! No names! .. . He's somewhere over there-" "Where? " "Around or behind that cluster of bushes, I think."
"He hasn't fired again .. . maybe he took off."
"Maybe he didn't. Let's blast!"
"If he's there, we'll get the bastard!"
Like crazed animals, the two killers rushed forward, their weapons on automatic fire. After several prolonged bursts, they stopped. Silence. And during that silence, Scofield hurled a heavy rock far to the left of the invaders. The firing instantly began again, and Bray waited for what he knew would happen.
It did. Through the filtered mist he could see that one of the men upturned his weapon; he had stopped shooting for the simple reason that he had run out of rounds and had to insert a second magazine.
So Scofield shot the second man, breaking through the woods as he fell.
"Drop the iron!" ordered Bray, confronting the killer who held his weapon in his right hand, a full magazine of shells in his left.
"Drop it!" repeated Brandon, clicking the hammer of his automatic into the firing position.
"Jesus Christ, you're him, aren't you?"
"Your grammar notwithstanding, yes, I'm he. But then, I'm a Harvard man, although nobody wants to believe it."
"Son of a bitch!"
"That would be you, I assume. Or should we put it another way? A son of the Matarese." The man slowly, half inch by half inch in the forest mist, moved the magazine toward the automatic weapon.
Suddenly, he shook his right leg, lifting it slightly off the ground.
"Easy," said Scofield, "you're less than a breath away from being history."
"It's my leg, goddamn it! I've got cramps from all this running."
"I'm not going to say it again, scum. Drop the gun."
"I will, I will!" The killer pressed the automatic rifle against his upper right leg, wincing as he did so.
"I gotta separate these muscles, they're climbing all over each other."
"Well, I'll agree with you there, scum bucket Cramps can be-" The Matarese assassin suddenly whipped around, plunging the loaded magazine into his weapon's chamber and literally spinning in midair, ready to blow Scofield away. Bray fired. The killer collapsed, his body a tangled heap of dead flesh.
"Damn, " cried Beowulf Agate.
"I wanted you alive, you slime."
An hour later, Peregrine View had been stabilized, the few dead mourned, their parents soon to be notified; no one with a wife or children had been assigned. Scofield sat in a chair, exhausted.
"You could have been killed!" shouted Frank Shields.
"Goes with the territory, Squinty. I'm here, aren't I?"
"One day you may not be, you gray-haired old fool," exclaimed Antonia, standing beside Bray, holding his tired head.
"So what else is new, Frank?"
"We've heard from Wichita, Brandon. The entire contents of McDowell's and Karastos's offices were shipped on KLM Airlines.
Destination, Amsterdam."
Amsterdam.
The sleek Citroen limousine rolled slowly through the furious night downpour on the Marseilles waterfront, the swirling mists and the drenching rain reducing visibility to no more than forty haze like feet.
The headlights were almost useless as their beams were swallowed up by the fog rolling off the Mediterranean, the illumination refracted into walls of billowing white. Julian Guiderone peered out the left rear window.
"This is the row of warehouses!" he yelled to the driver over the pounding rain on the vehicle's roof.
"Have you a flashlight-a torch?"
"Oui, Monsieur Paravacini. Always."
"Shine it over there, on the left. We're looking for number forty one
"This is thirty-seven. It cannot be much farther, monsieur."
It wasn't. A small, dim, wire-meshed bulb glowed, barely seen through the mist.
"Stop!" ordered the son of the Shepherd Boy, now using the ominous name of Paravacini.
"Press your horn, two short blasts."
The driver did so and immediately a large loading door was raised, somewhat brighter lights revealed inside.
"Shall I drive in?"
"Only briefly," replied Guiderone, "just long enough for me to get out. Then back up and wait in the street. When the door opens again, come in for me."
"An honor, monsieur."
Julian Guiderone climbed out, standing on the deserted concrete floor, and nodded to his chauffeur. The limousine backed out into the downpour; the loading door slowly descended. Guiderone stood alone, knowing it would not be for long. It wasn't. Out of the shadows walked Jan van der Meer Matareisen, his slender figure and square pale face seemingly d
warfed by the cavernous warehouse.
"Welcome, my superior in all things."
"Mother of Christ, man!" exclaimed the son of the Shepherd Boy.
"I
trust you can justify dragging me here at this hour. It's nearly four o'clock in the morning, and I've had an exhausting two days!"
"It was unavoidable, sir. My information is such that it can only be delivered in person, for we must discuss immediate strategies."
"Here, in this cold, damp, cement mausoleum?"
"Please accompany me to my office. Actually, I have offices in every building, for I own all the warehouses on ihis street. Also six piers, which I frequently lease out. They cover all of my expenses."
"Am I to be impressed?" asked Guiderone, following Matareisen toward a glass-enclosed office thirty feet away.
"Forgive my boastfulness, Mr. Guiderone. It seems I constantly seek approval from you, for you are the guiding star of our movement."
"I was, Jan, now you should look upon me as merely a consultant."
They entered the office with its abundance of electronic equipment.
Guiderone chose a black leather couch; Matareisen sat behind his desk.
"Let's discuss this strategy you speak of. I'd like to get back to my hotel as soon as possible."
"I think you should know, sir, that three and a half hours ago I was comfortably asleep in my house on the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam. I felt it necessary to get up, alert my pilot, and fly to Marseilles."
"Now I am impressed. Why?"
"We must move up our schedule-" "What? We're not ready-you're not ready!"
"Hear me out, please. Events have taken place that we could not have envisioned. There are serious problems."
"Beowulf Agate," whispered Guiderone in a monotone.
"Tell me he's dead!" roared the son of the Shepherd Boy.
"He did not die. As near as we can determine, the mercenary unit failed, losing their lives in the attempt."
"What are you saying?" Julian, his voice chilling, his erect posture in the chair immobile, stared at the younger man.
"I'm saying it as calmly as I can, although I feel the rage you feel.
Apparently, Scofield's talents in the field have not deserted him. The word from Eagle is that he took out the entire unit himself."
