Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [99]
Snake was down on E-deck with Mother.
It made sense. Snake had already killed Samurai, the weakest member of Schofield’s team. Mother – with one leg, and heavily dosed up on methadone – would be another easy target.
Schofield hit the B-deck catwalk on the fly. He ran for the rung-ladder, and slid down it fast. C-deck. He slid down the next rung-ladder – D-deck – and then the next.
He was on E-deck now. Schofield ran across the pool deck, past the lapping waves of the pool, and headed for the south tunnel.
He entered the south tunnel and saw the door to Mother’s storeroom.
Schofield approached the open doorway to the storeroom cautiously. He unholstered his Maghook – he still couldn’t use his pistol in the gaseous environment of the station – and held it out in front of him like a gun.
He approached the open doorway, came to it. Then he took one, last, deep breath and then . . .
. . . Schofield turned fast into the doorway, his Maghook up and ready.
He saw the scene inside.
And his jaw dropped.
‘Holy shit,’ he breathed.
They were on the floor of the storeroom.
Mother and Snake.
At first, Schofield just stared at them, stared at the scene.
Mother was stretched out on the floor, with her back up against one of the walls. She had her good leg extended across the room, pressed up against Snake’s throat, pinning him to a thick wooden shelf filled with scuba tanks. Her boot was pressed hard against his throat, pushing his chin upwards, squeezing his face back against the sturdy wooden shelf. She also held her Colt automatic pistol cupped in her hands, extended in the perfect shooting position. Pointed right at Snake’s face.
The gaseous environment of the station obviously didn’t bother her.
Mother glared at Snake down the barrel of her gun. Blood dripped freely from two deep gashes above her left eye. It dripped down off her eyebrow, smacking down onto her left cheek like droplets of water from a leaking tap. Mother didn’t notice the blood – she just stared right through it – into the eyes of the man who had tried to kill her.
For his part, Snake was pinned to the wooden shelf. Every now and then he would attempt to struggle, but Mother had all the leverage. Whenever he tried to wriggle out of her hold, she would press down hard on his Adam’s apple with her big Size 12. Mother was choking him with her foot.
The room around them looked like a bomb had hit it.
Wooden shelves lay twisted on the floor, splintered and shattered. Scuba tanks rolled aimlessly across the floor. A knife – Snake’s – lay on the floor. Blood dripped off its blade.
Slowly, Mother turned her head and looked over at Schofield who was still just standing in the doorway, stunned.
Her chest heaved up and down. She was still breathing hard from the fight.
‘Well, Scarecrow,’ she said, taking another breath, ‘are you just gonna fucking stand there, or what?’
Pete Cameron pulled his Toyota to a stop outside 14 Newbury St, Lake Arthur, New Mexico.
14 Newbury was a pleasant-looking, white weatherboard cottage. Its front garden was immaculate – perfectly cut grass, a rock garden, even a small pond. It looked like the home of a retiree – the home of someone who had the time, and the inclination, to take loving care of it.
Cameron looked at the business card again. ‘All right, Andrew Wilcox, let’s see what you’ve got to say.’
Cameron stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.
Thirty seconds later, the inner door opened and a man of about thirty-five appeared behind the screen. He looked young and fit, cleanshaven. He smiled pleasantly.
‘Mornin’,’ the young man said. ‘How can I help you?’ He had a broad Southern drawl. When he said ‘I’ it sounded like ‘Ah’ – How can ah help you.
Cameron said, ‘Yes, hi, I’m looking for a Mr Andrew Wilcox,’ Cameron held up the business card. ‘My name is Peter Cameron. I’m a writer for The Washington Post. Mr Wilcox sent me his card.’
The smile on the young man’s face vanished instantly.
His eyes swept Cameron’s body, as if evaluating him. Then they swept the street outside,