Текст книги "Endgame (2009)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Hansen checked his watch. It was nearly 1:00 P.M. They were heading up E411, near another small town, Thibessart, when the Zafira's engine sputtered and stalled. Hansen glided to the side of the road, stopped, and for the next few minutes tried to get the engine to turn over. They had a full tank of gas.

Groaning through four-letter words, they got out, raised the hood, and attempted to diagnose the problem.

"You know anything about cars?" asked Hansen.

Ames rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

BETWEENthe tow truck, and the drive out to deliver their replacement rental car, this one an upgraded Audi A8 like the one the others had rented, Hansen and Ames did not reach Bavigne until nearly three in the afternoon.

During the two hours they'd spent waiting, they'd coordinated with the rest of the team, who'd been scouring the hostels around Luxembourg and come up dry. There was another weapons cache in Birkenfeld, Germany, about eighty-seven kilometers away from the hotel, so Valentina said they would go check it out.

Hansen and Ames stopped at a restaurant, the Auberge du Lac, and ordered some sandwiches to go. The woman at the counter suggested they have some lobster soup, and Hansen agreed. Ames went off to use the restroom and returned in time to help carry the bags out to the car.

"So we're in the middle of a mission, and we're stopping for lunch," quipped Ames.

"Yeah, but we're eating in the car, if this one doesn't break down."

"Where's our sense of urgency?" asked Ames.

Hansen shrugged. "I left mine back at the hotel."

They ate quickly, though Hansen wished he'd had more time to savor the heavenly soup. They drove northeast, then turned south again, according to the map, weaving between farmers' fields and the banks of a narrow river. They passed through a covered bridge and into a clearing where rose a log cabin that might have been built a century before.

"This is it," said Ames, as they climbed out of the car.

Hansen nodded, started forward, then crouched down. "Footprints."

"And they look recent. He's sloppy, all right. He was here."

"You keep calling him sloppy. I find that hilarious. If he's sloppy, then what are you? Fisher didn't bother to clean up these tracks because he's confident we can't use them. He's deliberate. Always. Come on."

They mounted the porch, knocked, waited. No one was home. They crossed to the back of the house and found a locked door leading down into a basement. Ames picked the lock and they eased themselves into a damp, dark root cellar, the musty stench making Hansen crinkle his nose. Back in one corner lay some fruit boxes, and Hansen flicked on his penlight to reveal a small wooden hatch set into the dirt floor. The hatch had been recently uncovered. Hansen flipped open the lid and found the hole below empty.

If Fisher had not been there, Hansen and Ames would be staring at a DARPA-modified model 1650 Pelican case with an encrypted-keypad lock and a C-4 tampering system that went boom!Larger than a suitcase, the pack held a standard equipment loadout: SVT; OPSAT; Trident goggles equipped with night-vision, infrared, and electromagnetic settings; SC pistol; SC-20K modular assault rifle with all the accoutrements; Mark V tactical operations RhinoPlate suit; and six grenades, three flashbang, two fragmentation, and one White Smoke. Fisher, it seemed, had now gone from the old school of jury-rigged cell phones to the newer Splinter Cell school, though the equipment now in his possession was still from the previous generation. Delta Sly had the latest and greatest toys, and they sure as hell would need them against Fisher.

"All right, everyone, this is Hansen. We're at the cache, and Fisher's definitely been here. He's got the weapons, the suit, the Tridents, the whole nine."

Ames drew in a long breath. "I think I liked him better in that goofy red shirt."

WITHFisher's projected path into Luxembourg and up to Bavigne clearly evident, the team was now able to narrow the search for him, focusing on a grid northwest of Luxembourg and reaching up past Bavigne. Moreau kept close tabs on all the rental-car agencies in the area via Third Echelon's help, though it now seemed probable that Fisher had clean cards and ID (having secured them from Emmanuel Chenevier). Fisher had rented a car with impunity. He would be found on his terms. The other weapons cache in Germany had not been touched, and the rest of the team returned to the hotel, worn-out from the long drive and frustrated by the continued string of unknowns.

Hansen met alone with Moreau and asked what they were supposed to do now. The trail had ended at the weapons cache.

"Not exactly," said Moreau. "Those tire tracks you photographed before leaving are SUV tires. So I checked the rentals, and there was a little mom-and-pop agency that rented out a dark green 2001 Range Rover to Fisher. I went down there myself, and there was an old lady who recognized his picture."

"So he's in a Range Rover."

"Yes, that's a start. I'll run the tag, and we'll have the locals track it down."

Hansen took a deep breath. "Can I call you Marty?"

"No."

He moaned. "Mr. Moreau, you're stalling us."

"There's a difference between stalling and being very thorough. When you get older, you'll better appreciate that. You'll better appreciate the artistry of your work."

"Whatever. So what now? Should I just order the team to go driving around in the hopes that we happen to spot a Range Rover somewhere between here and Bavigne? You're not going to alert the authorities. You're just going to tell us you have."

"Watch your tone, cowboy. There are some traffic cameras we can patch into as well. I've already put in that request."

"Waste of time! Fisher could already be in Germany . . . or back in France. We could do a much better job if we knew more. You want us to play your game? Give us a few more rules."

"Where's the love, cowboy? Where's the trust? Where's the patience? Go relax. Go have a nice dinner. You deserve it."

"I'm still full from lunch."

"I heard about that. Lobster soup? Where's mine?"

Hansen stiffened. "When I went to Russia–that was being a Splinter Cell. I don't know what this is, but I hope, in the end, you make me believe it was worth it."

Moreau smiled, and a twinkle came into his eye. "I can't do that for you, cowboy. That's all up to you."

28

HANSENgathered the team in his room. "He's just putting us through the motions. He already knew the weapons cache in Bavigne would be empty. He sent you guys to Germany to keep you busy. Checking the hostels was a waste of time. He says Fisher's driving a rented Range Rover. He says he'll have the locals help find it. I don't believe him. He's just telling us what we need to hear."

"So what're you saying, cowboy?" asked Ames.

Hansen leveled an index finger on Ames. "Don't call me that. Ever."

"How 'bout Tex?"

Valentina cursed at Ames.

"We all want you to die, Ames," added Gillespie. "Doesn't that bother you? When the bullets fly, we'll use you as a human shield."

Ames opened his mouth, but Hansen shouted, "Enough! Now, we either sit here on our hands, or we try to figure out what the hell's going on."

"How do we do that without them knowing about it?" asked Valentina. "We can't use our network or our personnel. They'll want to know why we're querying."

"She's right," said Ames. "We'd need someone outside of 3E but maybe still inside the NSA."

"Or the CIA," said Hansen, lifting his brows. "I have a friend. I owe him a favor, but maybe he'll make it one more for me, and I'll pay him back triple."

"What do you have in mind?" asked Noboru.

"If Grim and Fisher are talking, it must be through a cutout, and there's a chance that my CIA contact can drop a few names. Some of these guys in Europe work for more than one three-letter agency. If we can get the name of this cutout, maybe we can pay him or her a visit. . . ."

"That's a long shot," said Valentina. "It'll be like going to talk to Chenevier. The cutout won't hand over Fisher."

Hansen snorted. "Maybe, maybe not. But apparently, we have nothing else to do–until Moreau calls with a sudden and miraculous update."

"I'm all for it," said Ames. "Best idea you've had in, like, forever."

"You don't want to complain?" asked Hansen, dumbfounded.

"Hell, no. Call your buddy right now. But you can't use any of our cell phones. We need to get you one without Uncle Marty finding out."

Valentina opened her purse and tossed a cell phone to Hansen. "Try this."

"Yours?"

She cocked a brow. "Don't ask too many questions. And by the way, our Tridents should be here in an hour or so."

"How'd you pull off that?" asked Hansen.

She hardened her tone. "Like I said, don't ask too many questions."

AMESwas very enthusiastic about finding Fisher because earlier in the day, when they'd stopped to buy lunch, he'd gone into the restroom and contacted Stingray.

Word from Kovac was that Ames could not allow Fisher to get anywhere near Vianden, Luxembourg. Fisher must be stopped before he got there.

The whywas none of Ames's business. Kovac somehow knew that was where Fisher was headed. But more important, these orders placed Ames in a ridiculously complicated situation.

He couldn't tell the team that he knew where Fisher was going because he'd be unable to explain how he knew, which, in turn, would threaten his cover and his security as a mole.

But this . . . this was unexpected and quite beautiful. He would fuel Hansen's frustration and goad him into learning the truth about Sam Fisher's real mission–and Ames felt certain that Fisher's mission directly involved Kovac, which raised the stakes to the highest level of their organization.

And when you played a game that important, you'd be a fool not to have an insurance policy. Ames had already made certain that if Mr. Kovac decided to make him the fall guy, then together they'd take an express train straight into hell. Now all Ames needed to do was find a way to reveal the Vianden link via Hansen's desire for the team to investigate on its own. Or maybe Hansen wasn't the key. . . . Maybe someone else was. . . .

HANSENused Valentina's phone to call his buddy back at Langley to see if the good old CIA could bail out the good old NSA–not, ahem, that there was any rivalry between those organizations. Hansen had to leave a message. Valentina and Gillespie went to their room to change. They were going down to the restaurant for dinner.

Ames ordered a T-bone from room service, and he raided the liquor, finishing off a couple of small bottles of whiskey before he realized how drunk he was getting.

Moreau came down and rattled off a list of possible leads on Fisher's whereabouts, and he reported that there was nothing yet from local police on the Range Rover. Hansen, Noboru, and Ames barely paid any attention to him. Moreau asked why they weren't following up on the leads immediately, and Hansen answered him with two words: "Just chill."

Mr. Moreau's gaze grew harder. He nodded, then left the room. Ames checked his OPSAT simply for the time, but the screen was blurry. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight," answered Noboru.

"Are we doing anything else tonight except waiting around for your buddy to call?" asked Ames.

Hansen shook his head.

"That's good. I want to rent some porn."

Noboru glanced to Hansen. "Do we have to?"

"No, we don't."

"Aw, come on. You guys are going to sit there and tell me you don't like porn?"

Hansen lifted a brow. "Not as much as you."

VALENTINAordered the vegetable plate and Gillespie decided that sounded good and ordered the same. They sat there, drinking sparkling water, staring at their vegetables, and wondering what the hell they were doing.

"I'm thinking about going back to being an analyst," Gillespie said out of nowhere.

"Maybe I'll join you."

"I thought we'd be doing something . . . I don't know . . . more dangerous."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," answered Valentina.

"And I sure as hell didn't think I'd be working on a team. No way."

"I hate your guts," Valentina said abruptly, then flashed a grin.

Gillespie smiled. "I hate you, too–because you're smart and pretty."

"And you're not?"

"You think I'm a slut."

"You're not a slut. I can understand how you feel."

Gillespie frowned deeply. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

For a moment, Gillespie's thoughts raced, and then she finally built up the courage to ask, "You slept with Fisher, too?"

Valentina began chuckling. "No. No!"

"Then, what?"

"I'm just saying I know what it's like to have feelings for a teacher or a coworker."

Gillespie bit her lip. "I wish I could take it back. Had I known it would come to this . . ."

"Don't have regrets. Just move on."

Gillespie nodded. "You know, I don't hate you as much anymore."

"Yeah, but I'm sure the boys would love a good cat fight."

"At least Ames helped us out. We both hate him more than we hate each other," she said through a chuckle.

"That's right. So, let me ask you, if Ben decides to follow up on this without Moreau and Grim, are you going along?"

"You mean break off from them and go find Fisher ourselves?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds crazy, but, you know what? I'm in. I think we'll call Grim's bluff and she'll be forced to turn over what she knows."

"That could happen."

Valentina thought a moment, then said, "So did Ben ask how Fisher got away?"

She nodded. "I told him the truth."

"Which is?"

"That he got out of there before I had time to take a shot. And that isthe truth."

"I believe you. Did Ben?"

"He says he did, but I'm pretty sure he's still wondering and hoping that I'm not the one who'll have to make that decision. If I were him, I'd feel the same way."

"But do you trust yourself to take the shot if it comes to that? If I were you, I don't think I could do it."

Gillespie eyed her plate. "I can say, yeah, I'd shoot him because, really, in the end, he was a bastard. But I really don't know."

THEphone rang sometime after 4:00 A.M., and Ames thought he was dreaming. He barely heard Hansen speaking on the phone, and it seemed the room was still spinning. . . . Finally, the fool shut his mouth, and the world seemed to balance itself on its axis. Ames settled back into the cool darkness. . . .

NOBORUwas down in the hotel lobby lounge by 6:00 A.M., sipping a cup of coffee and thumbing through a local newspaper, which he could not read, but the pictures were interesting. He observed the comings and goings of a few early-morning risers, and then, through the lobby's glass doors, he thought he saw a familiar face seated in a car parked across the street.

Gothwhiler.

No.

He rose, crossed over to the doors, but even as he squinted, to get a better look, the car pulled away from the curb and was gone.

It was just his paranoia. Again.

He turned around–and nearly knocked over Ames, who had glided up behind him.

"What's the matter, buddy? You look sick."

"Nothing. What're you doing down here so early? I thought you'd be hungover."

"I am. I came down for coffee. And now that you're here, I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"We need your help. Hansen's got a good plan. I come from a law-enforcement background, but you . . . you were special forces in Japan, and I know for a fact that your agency has cross-trained with international forces. Now, listen to me very carefully. If I had to bet on it, I'd say Fisher's here on a job–and he's either working for Grim or at the very least getting help from her. And I'm willing to bet you've got a contact or two within the special ops community that could help us find him. People talk. Favors are owed. Money is exchanged, and information leaks."

Noboru didn't like the short man's tone; it implied that he knew a whole lot more about Noboru's background, and that was deeply troubling–especially after Grim's promise.

"I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"Nathan, let me put it to you this way: If there's anyone you know that could help us, you owe it to the team. You owe it to us. Do you understand?"

Noboru studied the man for a long moment. "You could die in an accident, and no one would question it."

"Come on, Brucie, don't be like that."

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, I forgot, only the big boy upstairs is allowed."

"I can't help you."

"Don't you want to put an end to this? Don't you think we should get Moreau to talk?"

Noboru considered this. He knew that if Fisher had gone mercenary, there was one man who might know where the ex-operative was.

Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, lived in a village called Chinchon, southeast of Madrid, and Noboru had memorized his cell phone number and e-mail address. Spock had become a kind of "agent" and "packager" within the mercenary world, an old wizard of information who was once a formidable warrior himself and a dedicated collector of human ears, which he preserved and kept in glass trophy cases that he displayed on his office walls. His extensive collection had earned him his nickname, though he was hardly as even-tempered as that alien character. In the sixties and seventies, he had participated in more than a thousand operations, working for more than a dozen governments, and during that time he had formed alliances that now spanned the globe, alliances he had nurtured for nearly four decades.

Now in his early seventies, the once-muscular Aryan, with a jaw that appeared to have been hewn into shape by a hatchet, had grown fat, stoop shouldered, and hunched over, but he maintained the snow-white crew cut and narrow-eyed gaze that hinted at the menace of his past.

Indeed, Spock, the ear collector, always had his ear to the tracks, and maybe it was time to give him a call.

"I will give you a man's name and his number. But you cannot tell him where you got it, and you cannot mention my name," said Noboru.

"And you think this guy will know where Fisher is?"

"He might. . . ."

Noboru shifted in closer to Ames. "If you mention my name, it will be bad for you."

"I understand, Bruce. You're a badass. You'll kill me and all that. Now, give me the damned number."

29

AMEShad no intention of calling one Karlheinz "Spock" van der Putten, but he had every intention of telling Hansen, in confidence, that Noboru had given him Spock's name and that Noboru didn't want anyone else on the team to know about it.

Now Ames had his cover story.

He would tell Hansen that he had called Spock, who said he had heard about an American special– forces operator heading up to Vianden on some mercenary job, probably to take out some rich businessman. It'd all click. Vianden was a small city, with about fifteen hundred inhabitants, and one of Luxembourg's main tourist centers, with a restored castle converted into a museum rising up on the rocks above the city. Several lakefront areas included the mansions of some very wealthy people who might easily wind up on a merc's target list.

Nevertheless, Ames still did not have enough information about Fisher's exact target, and he would need to contact Stingray and demand more specifics before revealing anything to Hansen.

So for most of the day Ames volunteered to partner up with Noboru and check out the leads that Moreau had fed them, even as Hansen, Valentina, and Gillespie did the same but were simply going through the motions as Hansen waited for a callback from his CIA buddy, who'd said he would try to help out. Ames and Noboru inspected the other weapons caches (untouched) and followed up on Range Rover sightings that all turned up empty. "I'm shocked," Valentina had groaned.

But not all was bad. Valentina, quite surprisingly, had managed to secure five pairs of Trident goggles and have them delivered to her at the hotel. When pressed, she finally revealed that there were two geeks at the NSA, twin brothers, who had both tried to date her. She promised them a date if they did what she asked and did not notify anyone else within the agency. It was a matter of national security, she'd told them. While she openly loathed using her body to gain friends, power, and classified Splinter Cell equipment, there was no denying that her cleavage and smoky voice worked every time.

By sundown, Ames was still awaiting his second update from Stingray, whom he had contacted earlier in the day. Ames, of course, had asked to know exactly where in Vianden Fisher might be, and he needed that information soon–because if Fisher was going to strike, he would more than likely do it at night, and the team needed to be up there and in position. It was only about a forty-minute drive from the hotel to Vianden, but forty minutes could be an eternity if they missed Fisher. Ames had considered the fact that they might have already lost Fisher, but if Kovac was as plugged in to the situation as he had suggested through Stingray, then they still had time. Fisher was a meticulous planner and was no doubt mapping every inch of his target, which might be why Moreau and Grim were so keen on stalling the team.

Finally, at about 1:20 in the morning, while watching porn with the sound turned off, Ames saw three flashes of light strike the nearby window. Hansen and Noboru were fast asleep. Ames told Hansen that he was going down to the exercise room, that he couldn't sleep and thought some cardio might help him out. Hansen groaned, muttered something, and drifted back into his faint snoring.

Ames changed, went down to the exercise room, used his key card to open the door, and found the cell phone planted under the first treadmill. There was a text message waiting on the screen:Lat 49deg56'36.27" N, long 6deg10'39.10" E.

Target: Yannick Ernsdorff.

Occupation: investment banker.

Move now!

Ames scribbled the numbers onto the back of an old business card taken from his wallet; then he erased the text message and dumped the phone in the trash on his way out.

MOREAUwas awakened from a sound sleep by a beeping from his OPSAT. He checked the screen and sighed heavily through a curse. "Where the hell are you boys and girls going?"

Uttering another string of epithets, he switched on a light and activated the Trinity System. Within two minutes he had Grim standing beside him, fresh and awake.

"How'd they find out about Vianden?" she asked.

"That's a very good question. And now it seems these youngsters have gone rogue."

"They're trying to force our hand."

"That might work."

She hesitated. "Sam can handle them."

"Don't be so certain. The cowboy is smarter than he looks."

HANSENdrove one of their two black Audis, and Ames took the lead with the other. They were hauling ass up to Vianden in the middle of the night, in the wind and rain, on information that may or may not be credible, but the way Hansen figured it, all they had to lose was a night's sleep–and he simply loved the idea of sticking it to Moreau. And speak of the dark-eyed devil himself:

"Cowboy, where the hell are you going?" asked the irritated voice in Hansen's subdermal.

"We got the munchies."

"I'm not playing games here."

Hansen burst into laughter. "Dude, you've turned into the puppet master, but we just cut the strings. You don't like that, do you?"

"Just tell us who tipped you off. That's all I need to know . . . and trust me . . . I need to know. . . . Your life could depend on it."

"Trust you? You're kidding me, old man. You tell me what's going on, and I'll tell you."

"All right, Fisher's in Vianden, but you cannot interfere with him right now."

"Maybe I'd like to talk to him myself. Maybe he's going to tell me that you and Grim are the bad guys."

"I'm warning you, Hansen."

"Marty, what are you going to do?"

Moreau raised his voice. "Who told you about Vianden?"

"Spock did. Beam me up, Scotty. Hansen out."

MOREAUturned to Grim as they floated over Vianden, watching the team's cars below. "I'm sorry. I guess they won't play nice anymore."

"He wasn't joking," Grim said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said Hansen wasn't joking. I've heard the name Spock before. It's the nickname of a mercenary with ties all over the world. He was linked to Gothos, meaning Noboru would know of him. Nathan must've given up the name, and Spock might've tipped them off."

"How come I've never heard of this guy?"

"I don't know. It seems like a rather gaping hole in your intelligence education."

Moreau flinched and sighed.

"If Spock knows where Fisher is, then one of our cutouts might've leaked it or be on Spock's payroll."

"You're probably right."

THEteam got into the city, then ventured northwest toward the outskirts and a bean-shaped lake. Up ahead lay an intersection, with the shoreline road curving toward the northwest, a second road heading west, and a third swinging down east, back toward the city. The rain had tapered off, but Hansen felt the wind continue to buffet the car.

Ames began to pull farther ahead of him, and Gillespie, who was riding shotgun, urged Hansen to accelerate. Ames's car vanished over the next hill.

"Wow, he's really flying. He'd better slow down."

"He knows more than he's saying."

"At this point, I don't care. I'm just glad he came up with something. I'm just glad we're not being played for fools anymore."

"How do you know that?" she asked. "How do you know this hasn't been all planned by them?"

"Kim, please. Just don't go there!"

AMESsaw the man coming out of the grass, the suit, the goggles. . . .

But just for an instant. Ames was driving too fast.

"I don't believe it!" he cried. "That's him!"

He jammed on the brakes and threw the Audi into reverse. "I got him! I got him!"

"HE'Son foot, running southeast." Ames's voice shot through Hansen's subdermal. "We need to get back!"

They'd donned their suits, and goggles, and were armed for hunting bear, a.k.a. Fisher, so Hansen immediately flipped down his visor and went to night vision as he swung the car around and found himself now in the lead, heading back down the road they'd just come up. The grainy green fields on either side of the car appeared much more distinct now, unrolling in long, lazy waves.

"SLOWdown," hollered Valentina. She was sitting in the driver's-side rear seat of Ames's car and rolled down her window. She directed a flashlight into the ditch and let it pan up toward the tree line. "Wait . . . there!"

Fisher, wearing a tac-suit and Tridents, appeared in the light, but in the blink of an eye he was lost in the trees beyond. Valentina's map told her the trees were simply a narrow stretch bordering two fields.

"Just keep going," she told Ames. "The road will curve around and we can flush him the next field over, behind the trees."

"I hear that, baby. I'm on it!" cried Ames.

"Baby? Shut up and drive!"

ONValentina's advice, Hansen had veered off and was now heading east toward a wooden bridge. His first instinct was to have Valentina and the others chase Fisher on foot, but there was a good chance Fisher would double back–he was an expert at that–so Hansen sent them to flush Fisher while he served as a blocking force. It was a classic pincer movement, and Fisher would no doubt recognize it, but it was better than a foot chase.

Hansen swung his head around and stole a look at the field, where he spotted Fisher running, but he wouldn't stop and would maintain observation for the flushing team. Trees abruptly cut off his view.

"I've lost him," said Ames.

"Me, too," answered Hansen, pulling up the map on his OPSAT. "All right, we'll search the ditches. You guys check out that wedge of trees. You see it on the map?"

"I see it," said Valentina.

They spent the next thirty minutes combing through the woods and the field and ditches, and the only conclusion they reached was that Fisher had reached the larger forest to the east, where there'd be thousands of acres to search.

Gillespie met up with Hansen back at their car. "Check the map. Anything in those woods?"

"Just a campground. And this little town, Scheuerof, over here," he said, tapping his OPSAT's screen.

"What if he left his car at the campground?" she asked. "To get out, he'd follow this road here through Scheuerof."

"But what if he heads south?"

"I think he'll keep heading east toward the German border. More rural, more cover. But you never know."

Hansen nodded. "Let's take a shot. I say we get up there and see if we can cut him off."

Hansen told Ames the plan, and they met on the road heading east toward Scheuerof. As they passed through the little down, they spotted a police car, lights flashing, heading in the opposite direction, and then, a few minutes later, another one.

Gillespie patched herself directly into the local police channel and reported, "There was some kind of incident up at the campground."

Hansen grinned to himself. "Fisher. We're close now."

"Why don't we just call Moreau? If Fisher's in his car, Moreau can see him right now."

"And he can lie to us about that," Hansen shot back. "No way. We're doing this on our own."

30

NEAR VIANDEN, LUXEMBOURG HEADING TOWARD THE GERMAN BORDER

HANSEN'Sdetermination to work alone and stay the course paid off. They spotted the Range Rover heading east about a mile ahead of them. Gillespie zoomed in with her night-vision binoculars and confirmed that Fisher was behind the wheel. She even saw him consulting an OPSAT, either Ames's or one he'd procured from the weapons cache in Bavigne.

They were racing down a winding road with a series of dips and bends that challenged Hansen's driving skills. Each time Fisher reached the crest of a hill, Hansen was better able to gauge his lead. Audi versus Range Rover? There was no competition, unless Fisher was actually driving Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and planned to fly over the treetops.

"I'm right behind you, Boss," said Ames through the subdermal.

Hansen had not asked the man for an update. "Uh, yeah, I can see you," he said sarcastically, stealing a look in his rearview mirror.

"Don't slow down."

"Ames, we'll catch up to him. Relax."

Fisher disappeared once again. The road grew dark. Hansen accelerated a bit more, rose up and over the next crest, and started down.

Lights appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road.

Reverselights.

Hansen's mouth fell open. Fisher had stopped dead, waited for them, and thrown the Rover into reverse. He was now barreling backward, directly toward them.

Назад к карточке книги "Endgame (2009)"