Текст книги "Endgame (2009)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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With eyes beginning to burn, he shifted around the truck to get a better view. The giant in the funny little hat set Hansen's body down near one of the cars; then, as Bratus shouted, the gaint hurried over to the Anvil case. They carried the case to Bratus's car and were able to open the pass-through so they could load it between the trunk and backseat, along with Murdoch and Zhao. They transferred all the Chinese bodies from the helicopter into Murdoch's car, since Zhao had left his car at the pub and had ridden along with Bratus.

After that, the big guy picked up Hansen and headed toward one of the hangars. Meanwhile, Bratus stood by his car and made another phone call, waiting impatiently for an answer.

Sergei frowned. The fat man was taking Hansen inside the hangar. Why? To question him? That meant Hansen might still be alive. They'd knocked him out? How? And why would they remain here, at the scene of multiple murders, to question a spy they'd captured? Why not take him someplace else? Maybe they didn't feel rushed. Maybe this was all planned from the beginning.

Sergei waited a moment more; then he darted away from the fuel truck toward the back of the hangar. He found the rear service door locked, of course, but he always carried his picking tools, and within a few breaths the knob turned freely.

Wincing, he carefully opened the door and slipped, save for a slight gust of wind, soundlessly inside. He now crouched behind a pair of helicopters, small ones reserved mostly for business travel. Nearby was a wall of mechanics' stations with power and air tools cluttering the benches. A pair of rolling carts with stacks of drawers sat beside one bird, and Sergei took up a position behind the taller cart while the fat man switched on a light near another station on the opposite side of the hangar. Once more he set down Hansen's body. Then he went into a small adjoining office and returned with a wooden chair. He propped Hansen on the chair and proceeded to flex-cuff him to it. That the fat man walked around with flex-cuffs in his pocket said a lot about his line of work.

He grabbed Hansen by the hair, stared into his face, then grumbled something and let Hansen's head drop. He began searching Hansen's pockets and weapons belt, along with the pack, which he'd removed before setting him down. After the fat man moved the gear to a nearby table, he grabbed Hansen's wrist, studied the OPSAT, whose touch screen remained dark, then decided to remove the device and toss it down with the other stuff.

Just then Hansen began to stir, his head lolling from right to left, and suddenly the fat man smacked him across the face. "Wake up! Wake up!"

Slowly Hansen lifted his head, glancing vaguely, and that was when the fat man reared back and delivered a solid blow to the jaw. Sergei flinched and glanced away for a moment, even as the Russian let loose another fist.

Then the bastard went over to the table, took something, and returned.

A blade sprang to life in his hand.

Sergei wasn't sure he could watch any more of this. In his mind's eye, he saw Hansen's severed fingers dropping to the floor . . . then an ear . . . another ear . . . and shrieks of agony from his old friend.

"We know why you've come," growled the fat man. "Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live."

Like Sergei, Hansen had been trained on how to steel himself against torture, but you never really knew how you'd react until it was real. Would Hansen really hold it?

And then Sergei wondered why he was crouched there, just watching. Why hadn't he already reacted? Would he let the fat man kill Hansen? Why not? Wasn't it easier that way? But then, what about Victoria? He needed to ensure that she would not be harmed, and all he had left was the mission.

"You won't break me." Hansen gasped.

The fat man grinned and leaned over to stare directly into Hansen's eyes. "It's going to be a long night for both of us."

I don't think so,thought Sergei.

AMESwas at a precipice between sheer panic and utter violence. The bile was already gathering at the back of his throat, and he clutched his binoculars with a white-knuckled grip.

Then–as if watching Bratus kill everyone wasn't enough, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, one Allen Ames, Third Echelon operative and NSA mole–someone from somewhere took a shot at the Russian operative, who'd been standing by his car, on the phone.

Bratus's head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser, and he dropped out of sight behind his car.

Trembling and swearing aloud, Ames scanned the area. He searched the low-lying forest, the ditches, the hangar areas, and all along the service road.

It was as though the bullet had been fired by an apparition that had dematerialized into the night.

Now everyone–save Bratus's fat driver, Hansen, and Sergei–was dead. Ames thought of that Anvil case inside Bratus's car. If he could recover it . . . But there was a shooter out there.

As much as he hated the decision, Ames knew what he had to do. Nothing. Except watch.

SERGEIslid from behind the tool cart, took aim at the fat man, and fired a single suppressed round into the back of the man's head.

As the Russian fell forward, Sergei sighed and shrank behind the cart, just breathing and wondering if he could go through with the rest.

And then, for just a few seconds, his hackles rose and he sensed that someone else was inside the hangar.

He craned his neck, shot glances toward the big doors, the office, and all along the workstations. The shadows seemed to come alive as his paranoia grew, and he imagined a man dressed all in black and wearing trifocal goggles. He leapt down from an impossibly high rafter, stood before Sergei, and tore off his goggles.

It was Hansen, who took a deep breath and said, "Don't kill me."

Sergei ground his teeth, shuddered off the image, then reached into his breast pocket and dug out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, stood, and moved around the cart.

Hansen had dug himself out from beneath the fat Russian and was lying there, asking questions.

Sergei barely heard the man. He grabbed his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.

They talked, and it was a like dream, the words floating on currents of blood that wound their way through a dark forest at the end of which lay Victoria, on a stone altar, her hands folded over her chest, her skin alabaster white to match her diaphanous dress, which fell in great waves across the mossy earth.

Sergei took a deep breath and stared through the image and finally saw Hansen. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, but he feared that if he turned his apology into a speech, by the time he finished, his pistol would be back on his belt and he'd be helping Hansen off the floor.

All Sergei really wanted to do was thank Hansen for what he'd done in the past, for his unconditional friendship, for his belief that Sergei, despite his failures, could still make something of his life. Even Sergei's own father did not believe in him the way Hansen had.

Hansen deserved the truth. At the very least. Sergei apologized and added, "They sent me to kill you."

That was all he wanted to say.

But Hansen demanded the details, so without hesitation he supplied them. And again, he wanted to say so much more, to somehow justify what he was doing, but there were no words that could ever do that. All he could say was, "I didn't want to see you suffer."

When he showed Hansen the camera, his old friend cursed at him, and that was all right. That was natural. And that helped, didn't it? It was better if the man hated him.

Sergei had been thinking about how they'd been trained to deal with torture, and now he would use the same methods to steel himself against the killing of a friend.

He was now a being of cold flesh and function.

Action. Reaction.

There was the camera, the tiny screen with its crystal-clear image of Hansen lying on the floor, glowering at him, but there were no emotions now, just the camera in one hand, the gun in the other, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

"You see, he is alive," Sergei began for his audience of NSA thugs. "And now–"

A sharp pain woke deep inside his head, and for a heartbeat he thought he was falling forward, the world tipping on its side and framed in darkness.

He didn't feel the concrete, but he sensed he was on it and realized with a curious resignation that he'd been shot, that he wouldn't have to worry about forgiveness or about them killing Victoria or about a career or about anything else except what lay out there, waiting for him. . . .

11

HANSENhad braced himself for death. He'd always imagined that if he were captured, he would use his last breath to curse his enemy and never, ever be broken. It was one of those grand dramatic moments in his mind's eye, brought fully to life by his inflated ego and his arrogance.

And, yes, at that second when he knew Sergei would not change his mind, that his buddy from the CIA would not only kill him but record the act for his bosses, Hansen had fulfilled that promise and taken the starring role in the climax of his life. He had cursed at Sergei, yes, but his thoughts had not focused with rage on what was happening. He could only ask two questions: Was it going to hurt? And was there something more beyond this life?

The questions hung before him even as he faced the ugly truth that his own runner had been blackmailed into turning against him, and that his death wasn't going to be glorious or noble or memorable . . . just pathetic.

Then came another improbable turn of events as Sergei himself was taken out by a shooter so stealthy that Hansen had wondered if the shot had come from some higher power. His father would attribute the miracle to the "visitors" who'd always been here among us. No, a little green man or a "gray" had not saved Hansen. The bullet and the blood had been real, and while the shooter was seemingly incorporeal and godlike, those facts remained.

Hansen did a quick search of the hangar but came up empty. His savior must've had a very good reason for concealing his identity, and that was already driving him mad with curiosity. As he frantically gathered up his gear, his neck felt warm, and he swung around and screamed again, "Who are you?"

His voice echoed off the metal walls.

It occurred to him only then–and he would later attribute the oversight to the pummeling he'd received from Rugar–that he hadn't checked outside to be fully aware of his current situation. He rushed to the front door, eased it open, and peered out.

He saw the cars, and then . . . there was Bratus's body lying supine and draped in snow.

Hansen ducked back inside and glanced at Sergei, whose head was turned to one side, his eyes as vacant as a mannequin's. Swallowing back the bile creeping up his throat, Hansen rifled through his old friend's pockets and found Sergei's satellite phone, but, of course, it was password protected. He pocketed it anyway. He removed Sergei's OPSAT, pressed the dead man's thumb to the screen, and saw that it was still being jammed like his own. He then went to Rugar and took the fat man's wallet and smart phone. Curiously, when he opened the Russian's phone and tried to pull up numbers, the address book and call logs had been erased.

Outside, a car engine sputtered, and Hansen darted to the door, cracked it open, and watched as Bratus's sedan took off, the tires spinning out and kicking up rooster tails of snow.

Hansen thought of his SC pistol, but he knew by the time he loaded another V-TRAC round, the driver would already be gone. He whirled back toward the bodies, to Sergei. Time to go.

AMESwas still crouched along the tree line, shuddering with indecision as he stared through his binoculars. From his angle, he'd been unable to see who'd climbed behind the wheel of Bratus's car. With a start, he burst from his position and ran through the snow, back toward Sergei's car. He jumped in, turned the key, and nothing. Not a sound.

He popped the hood, climbed out, and saw that the battery cables, the spark plug wires, and a half dozen other hoses had been cut. He'd been careful to lock all the car doors. The saboteur was a chillingly efficient professional. Ames wasn't going anywhere . . . but the man in Bratus's car sure as hell was on his way.

Ames rushed back through the woods. Other than the fuel truck, there was one car left at the airport: Murdoch's. Never mind that it was loaded with murdered Chinese pilots and crewmen, a dead Russian chauffeur, and that its driver's-side window had been shot out; it was still the best ride in town.

Still wearing his balaclava, he was about to sprint toward the airport when he spotted a side door on the hangar swinging open. He dropped down, lifted his binoculars, and zoomed in to full power. It was Hansen, who ran to Murdoch's car, stuck his head inside through the shattered window, then returned to the hangar.

HANSENhad thrown Sergei's body over his shoulder and was ready to get going in Murdoch's car. That the keys were still in the ignition was the night's second miracle–if anyone was keeping score. Still, he'd glanced longingly at the chopper, which could whisk him out of there in mere seconds.

While Hansen had his fixed-wing pilot's license, he'd not yet added the helicopter category and class to his certificate–which at the moment was just Murphy's Law kneeing him in the groin.

He set down Sergei near the car and, wearing his gloves, began dragging the bodies of the Chinese guys out onto the tarmac. Next was Murdoch's driver, who'd bled all over the front seat.

Hansen gritted his teeth as he slid the man out; then he opened the back door, lifted Sergei, and set him down on the seat. He'd wrapped Sergei's head in an oily rag so he wouldn't have to see the gaping wound.

He was about to hop into the front seat when something thudded on one of the hangar's tall main doors. He saw it there, in the snow . . . his spy plane. It had been forced down, either by the wind or by Grim, who might've somehow regained control of it. At any rate, the little COM-BAT was there and Hansen ran over and fetched it, then returned to the car. The only other loose end was the dart that Rugar must have pulled from his neck, and Hansen had not seen it inside the hangar.

Leaving piles of bodies in his wake–the antithesis of what a Splinter Cell ought to be doing–he took off.

In the final analysis, the mission was a colossal failure. Sure, he had confirmed that Kovac was linked to Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, but now with all of them dead and a massacre at the airport, the people tied to them would sever those gossamers and shrink back into hiding. Whatever they'd been doing, whatever their deal was, might never be known . . . unless whoever had stolen Bratus's car was working for the NSA or another intelligence organization that would tip off Grim. But why would that operative's identity and operation be kept secret from Hansen? Had he been tailed and watched? Was all of this part of some elaborate test?

All he could do was shake his head and try to control his breathing. He caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror and wished he hadn't. His eye had become a plum, and he kept tonguing his loosened molar. Oh, sure, he'd be keeping a low profile now–the guy who looked as if he'd just come from a barroom brawl. He needed to get in touch with Grim. He needed an escape plan. With his OPSAT still jammed, he couldn't even transmit the code word "Skyfall" to tell her he was in escape-and-evasion mode. So here he was, driving through a blinding snowstorm with the body of his friend in the backseat. This was what he had wanted, what he had studied so hard for; here it all was, the glory and the excitement and the unending challenge of becoming one of the world's most elite field operatives.

His good eye welled with tears. And just as he was about to rage aloud, his OPSAT beeped.

< < SIGNAL REESTABLISHED > >

A slight crackle came through his subdermal, and then . . . "Ben, it's me. Are you there?"

"Here, Grim."

"You must be out of range of the jammer now."

"I guess so."

"Are you all right?"

"Sergei's dead. . . . Everyone's dead. Something happened. Bratus shot everyone. Then someone got to him."

"We know. Just glad you're all right. You did well, Ben. You got us what we need."

"If you say so. I need to get the hell out of here."

"Just hang in there. We'll help get you and Sergei's body out of the country. All we need right now is for you to stay on the road and get back to Vladivostok. I'll set up a rendezvous point for you."

"Roger that. Someone took off in Bratus's car."

"We know. We're tracking him now."

"There's an Anvil case in that car. I don't know what's inside. Zhao and Murdoch are in there, too."

"All right. You just concentrate on the road. That weather looks horrible."

"You saw the car leave?"

"We did."

"Even with this weather?"

"Ben, our birds in the sky are a lot more powerful than you know. Trust me."

But he didn't. She knew a hell of a lot more than she was telling him, but he was too intimidated to call her on it. He wanted to tell her about the phantom shooter, but he doubted she'd be surprised. Maybe she'd assigned someone to babysit him, someone who had driven off in that car, which was why all she cared about was getting him home with Sergei's body, tying up one final loose end. Maybe she'd known Sergei was a traitor all along.

Well, Anna Grimsdottir wasn't so sexy anymore. She was cool and cunning and made him feel insignificant, a pawn in her much larger game. But what had he expected? And now he knew firsthand why most operatives guard their emotions. To do otherwise would get you killed. There was only the immediacy of the mission, the task at hand, and your loyalty to your country. To think you were any more important than that was kidding yourself. He glanced back at Sergei and sighed in grief.

With the wipers thumping fast across the windshield, Hansen now leaned toward the wheel and squinted through the chutes of falling snow. He'd slipped on his trifocals, but even with night vision his visibility was down to just a few meters, and the snow kept on coming.

As he neared the petrol station, he slowed to get the tag number from a car parked under the awning; then he drove on.

AMESfigured he'd pick his way into the fuel truck and drive it back to the petrol station, where he'd switch to his rental car. As he got to work on the truck's door, he began to craft the elaborate lie he would feed to Kovac like a T-bone with all the trimmings. But once news of the massacre reached Kovac's desk, Ames had better be well into a mission for Third Echelon or far away from the man. He could already hear himself saying, "But it's not my fault. Either Third Echelon was on to us or someone else was. Maybe Zhao. Maybe Bratus. Maybe even that arrogant bastard Murdoch."

Wincing over these thoughts, Ames finally got the door open, but it took him nearly ten more minutes before he got the truck started. Oh, he was a hell of a lot better with a sniper's rifle, that was for sure, and the delay was pretty damned embarrassing, but only he would know about it. He threw the old heap in gear and lumbered through nearly a foot of snow that had fallen since they'd arrived.

With one broken wiper blade, he headed out to the petrol station, where he found that the locks on his rental car had also been picked, the wires cut. He raged aloud and got back in the truck.

He drove for about fifteen minutes before he realized that the fuel truck he was driving was about to run out of fuel. The truck sputtered to a halt halfway back to Vladivostok. Ames sat there and finally, reluctantly, got on his satellite phone and called the NSA for help.

12

VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

HANSENwas met at the rental car agency by a scholarly looking, leather-faced man who introduced himself as Fedosky. He took possession of the car and Sergei's body; then another man half Fedosky's age pulled up in a black Mercedes.

"Get in."

"Where am I going?" Hansen asked in Russian.

The young punker with a pierced nose raked his fingers through his spiked hair and answered, "The airport. Now shut up. No more questions."

Hansen climbed into the front seat, and the punk floored it. The international airport was about an hour's drive from the city, and the punk navigated through the snowstorm, scowling in silence. While Hansen sat there, knowing he'd probably have to wait till morning to fly out, the mission returned in vivid detail. He even flinched as Rugar's fist came down. The Blu-ray player in his head was caught in a loop, and shutting his eyes only made things worse.

Grim would want to know what happened after Hansen was taken inside the hangar. She would want to know how he'd escaped. He would either reveal the presence of the phantom shooter or not. If Grim already knew about the shooter and he failed to say anything, she'd know he was holding out.

But if she was ignorant in that regard, he could construct the story of his escape. Omitting details to further his career was not a morally sound choice, but maybe there was a way to avoid lying. He realized he would have to feel out Grim, learn exactly how much she knew, before he shared the details of his interrogation by Rugar. Perhaps he could get Grim to admit that another field operative had been assigned to the mission, that she hadn't really taken a chance on him, and then he could be honest with her.

Or . . . he could be entirely wrong about all of it. The shooter could be someone completely unexpected, a wildcard from another agency, who'd done Hansen a favor while still accomplishing his own mission to secure whatever was inside that Anvil case. If that was what had really happened, then Hansen was staring at the same fork in the road: Tell Grim he'd been saved . . . or tell her he'd saved himself.

NSA HEADQUARTERS FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

THREEdays later Hansen was sitting inside the situation room with Grim. He'd told her he was ready to talk the moment he'd stepped off the plane in Baltimore, but she'd insisted that he receive a complete physical exam and get a day's worth of bed rest. The X-rays revealed no permanent damage, and his eye, though still purple, was far less swollen.

"Before we begin, I assure you, Ben, that we're very happy with the work you did. No plan survives the first enemy contact, right? You were able to improvise. Now we know Kovac is watching us. We know he got to Sergei. And we know he had some kind of relationship with Bratus and Zhao and that there's a list of names."

"Who drove off in Bratus's car? You said you were tracking it."

"We were, but we lost it. And we don't know."

He stared at her. "You lost it?"

She returned his gaze. "That's right. The weather finally cut us off."

"Any leads? Speculation?"

"A few, but I can't comment at this time."

Hansen thought for a moment. "Can I ask you a question?"

She frowned. "Sure."

"Was I really working alone? I mean, just Sergei and me out there? No one else?"

Without hesitation she said, "I sent you out there myself. One agent, one runner. Why do you ask?"

He averted his gaze. She had not flinched, and her voice had not wavered. They could hook her up to a polygraph and the needle wouldn't budge. She was either the most proficient liar he'd ever met or she really didn't know.

He blurted out, "I was in the hangar. Rugar was going to torture me. I wouldn't have broken. I know that. But Sergei was there, and he shot Rugar. And then . . . he was going to shoot me."

She set down her cup of coffee. "But you took him out."

"I was lying on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back."

"What' re you saying?"

He closed his eyes and he was back there, squinting toward the shadows, the cold rafters, the long seams in the metal ceiling. "Someone shot Sergei and left me there. I think that same person took off in Bratus's car."

The tension in Hansen's chest began to loosen, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.

She'd removed her glasses, and her gaze had gone distant. "Oh, my God . . ." she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"And I'm going to sit here and let you tell me nothing?"

She sighed. "I can't say much more."

"You know who it was."

"I can't confirm that."

Hansen leaned toward her. "But you have an idea. Did you send someone to babysit me? Yes or no?"

"I told you no. And you'd best watch that tone."

He huffed. "Sorry. And if I can still ask . . . Did we get anything from the phones or that tag number?"

"They've wiped clean any traces. You shouldn't expect anything less."

"I guess not."

She took a long breath, then said, "I'm putting together a squad."

"Squad?" He'd uttered the word as though he'd never heard it before.

"Five field operatives, all new recruits, and you've earned your place as the team lead."

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

"I'm not trying, Ben. This is my meeting."

He nodded. "Okay, but one more thing. About Sergei. His body got back here okay? He'll get a proper funeral? Family notified?"

"It's all been taken care of. Kovac used him, Ben. He knew Sergei was vulnerable, and he used him. I feel terrible about that, and even more concerned about our current operations."

"So . . . you've decided to build a team? Wouldn't a group pose a greater security risk?"

"Or would a team be even more proficient than a single operator?"

"Depends on the situation."

"Exactly. And, you know, you never work alone. You always have a runner, you have us, you have eyes in the sky, watching."

"It's a test, isn't it? A test to see if the new guys have what it takes. I just told you that someone bailed me out of my mission, and now you're giving me team lead."

"Someone helped you evacuate. That's all. You got the information. You earned the spot."

"I'm not sure I want it."

Her frown deepened. "Are you kidding me?"

"Who are these people? I don't even know them. We've been training alone. And now I'm supposed to trust my life to them?"

"You'll start training together."

"I've been out there alone. I'm ready."

"You are. But I still want you to play nice with others."

"Do we at least get a cool code name?"

"It was randomly generated."

Hansen rolled his eyes. "What is it? Lard Barrel? Cow Dung?"

She almost smiled. "Delta Sly."

Hansen repeated the name. "Not too bad. And there's no significance?"

She shook her head.

The door behind them suddenly opened and a rather short, clean-cut man with dark eyes and a deep tan that looked more manufactured than natural strode into the room.

"Hi, Grim. Sorry I'm late."

Hansen rose from the table and turned to their visitor.

"Ben, let me introduce you to one of your new teammates," Grim began. "This is Allen Ames."

Ames beamed at Hansen. "Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you."

13

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND PRESENT DAY

AFTERreturning from the mission in Houston, Hansen was accosted at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport by a pear-shaped man in his fifties wearing shorts, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with purple parrots and palm trees. The guy had a camera case strung around his neck and a thick beard encrusted with pieces of his lunch (a thick sandwich, probably). He squinted through a pair of Harry Potter glasses and asked, "Are you Matthew Pine?"

Hansen froze. That was his alias for the work in Texas. "Who's asking?"

"If you'll come with me, Mr. Pine?"

"You have to talk sexier than that."

The fat man sighed, then spoke in an agitated singsong. "I don't have time for this. I was told to pick you up. If you won't come, I'll have to call my boss."

"Let me call mine." Hansen tried to hail Grim on his OPSAT. No response. He whirled back to the man, who was speaking rapidly on a cell phone. "Who are you?"

The big guy flashed an ID: NSA. Then he ended his call.

"Great," Hansen said through a sigh. "Am I under arrest or something?"

"Not technically."

"But technically I have to go with you."

"Technically, yes."

"Do you think you can outrun me?"

"Dude, come on. I'm a fat bastard. Don't make my life miserable. Just come along and play nice."

"Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?"

"Someplace out in the 'burbs. That's all I know."

"How long's the drive?"

"Not long."

"Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?"

He snorted. "You sound like my wife."

"You got an iPod?"

"Yeah."

"You got any AC/DC?"

The fat man grinned.

THEYarrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.

"This is it," said Hansen's well-dressed NSA taxi driver.

Hansen shook his head. "What am I doing here?"

The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. "Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I'm sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up."

Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.

With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.

"Hey!" Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.

"Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard," came a voice from the front door.

Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.

He was about to open his mouth when she added, "Come on. They're waiting for you in the basement."

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