Текст книги "Endgame (2009)"
Автор книги: David Michaels
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They'd gone off in pairs for lunch, while the others kept watch. When Hansen and Valentina had been sharing a sandwich and some tea, Moreau had called to say the two men in the Range Rover had fin ally grown wise to the team's misdirection and had abandoned the Rover. Trouble was, Moreau lost them since they returned to another parking garage, and with many cars coming in and out, he couldn't be sure which vehicle they might have used or if they'd even left in the first place. He and the geeks back home would attempt to pick them up again.
Hansen was sitting on a bench across the street from Chenevier's apartment when he spotted the man's approach. It was about three fifteen. Imposing at more than six feet tall, and with a thick shock of white hair, Chenevier was the epitome of a distinguished gentleman and as leonine as they came. Of course, he was impeccably groomed and dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat. He carried an ornate cane that he used more for show or for security than to help him walk. His gait seemed true, if not a little slow.
"Monsieur Chenevier?" Hansen called.
Chenevier turned back and paused near the redwood lounger as Hansen hurried toward him. "May I have a word?"
"You're an American. And my English is pretty good. So let's dispense with that."
"How do you know I'm an American?"
The old man grinned, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes. "You've been waiting around all day for me. I went to see my grandchildren. They're getting so big."
"I just have a few questions."
"Of course, you do. Come inside, and I'll make us some tea."
"Just a few questions. It won't take long."
Chenevier lifted his cane, pointed at the door, and eyed Hansen. You don't turn down an offer for tea.
With a nod, Hansen followed the old man into the apartment and was led into a small living room. The sofa, bookcase, end tables, and even the TV stand were beautiful antiques, nothing short of elegant. The artwork on the walls appeared to be original and notably expensive, not that Hansen knew much about art, but he could tell the difference between a print and real canvas. This was class, hardly small-town Texas.
"Please." Chenevier gestured to the sofa.
Hansen took a seat, and the pillows felt hard, as though they'd barely been used.
While the old man prepared the teapot in the adjoining kitchen, he called out, "I suppose you're wondering why no one saw me leave."
"That had crossed my mind."
"Any man who lives in a place with only one door is a fool."
"There's a basement? Tunnels?"
"Of course. I suspect that on any given day there are a half dozen governments keeping an eye on me. A man needs his privacy once in a while."
"I see."
"Don't be coy. You know who I am. And you've come here looking for him."
"Will you help us?"
Chenevier returned to the living room and sat in a chair opposite Hansen. "Why do you need my help? Haven't they turned you into expert bloodhounds?"
Hansen smiled wanly. "He came to you after Boutin. We thought you might know where he's headed."
"And if I knew, why would I tell you?"
"Because we're all on the same side. He's in trouble. And we're here to help."
Chenevier chuckled under his breath. "Our friend is always in trouble . . . or he's taking a day off."
"Can you give us anything? Any indication of where he might be?"
"There is a mutual understanding between men like us. I would hope that someday you would make such a friend and reach such an understanding."
Hansen took a deep breath and stood. "Thank you for you time, monsieur."
"But I've just put on the water for the tea."
"I'm sorry."
Chenevier stepped up to Hansen. "He's just a man who's tired and wants to go home. And so he shook a tree, and you fell out. So young. Just be careful. He casts no shadow, and you won't see him until it is too late."
HANSENwas about to tell the team they had wasted an entire day, and then go on to lash out at Moreau, when the operations manager called to say they were getting on a private charter bound for a small town called Errouville, about seventy-five miles northeast of Verdun. Moreau wanted them on that plane immediately, since there wasn't time to lose. "Fisher was at a Sixt car-rental office in Villerupt. He used Louis Royer's driver's license to rent a car. You need to fly to Errouville, and then get up to Villerupt ASAP."
Louis Royer was one of Doucet's thugs, and Hansen was dubious as to why Fisher would take the chance of using that license when he must've known it'd tip off Third Echelon. No, Fisher wouldn't make that mistake. This was part of the game, and the more Hansen played, the more frustrated he became.
It was already late afternoon as they took the highway designated D903 down to the small executive airport southeast of Verdun and boarded a single-prop Cessna 207. The pilot was a terse Frenchman with a sun-weathered face and permanent scowl. He barely said ten words to them as they boarded.
"French hospitality," said Ames. "Can't wait to bring the entire family back here so we can all be treated like dogs."
"Shut up, Ames." Gillespie groaned.
As they took off, Valentina, who was seated beside him, leaned over and said, "Nice vacation."
"Yeah, right."
"I actually found some shoes while we were waiting for Chenevier."
"Are you kidding me? Shopping while on the job?"
"If you call this work. I feel like an actor."
"Something has to give. Something . . ."
They both leaned back and settled in for the short hop. The engine volume rose, so there'd be little talking inside the cabin. Hansen glanced up at Ames, two chairs ahead of him. The team's favorite operative was rolling a Zippo lighter through his fingers, a nervous habit Hansen had seem him indulge on more than one occasion. He was such a control freak that being forced to sit in a plane and not pilot it was already driving him crazy. The more Hansen thought about it, the more he realized that Ames's presence was actually a good thing. Finding new ways to despise him was a pleasant diversion from the half-truths of the mission.
THEairport just outside Errouville was little more than a dirt tract four miles southwest of Villerupt. As they landed, they left a long plume of dust in their wake. Their friendly pilot, who'd been silent, cursed as the plane bounced over ruts like a monster truck in the Arizona desert.
Gillespie announced that she was going to throw up. She didn't, but Valentina told her to aim at you know who. Ames smirked.
The billowing dust from their landing partially clouded the three outbuildings, but Hansen thought he saw the two SUVs that Moreau had mentioned. He'd rented them yet another pair of transports: Renault Koleoses–one black, the other silver. The SUVs were strikingly similar to the Nissan Murano, and Valentina called dibs on the silver one as they taxied up to the end of the strip, turned, and neared the buildings.
In the distance, Hansen spotted a lone car traveling down the narrow road, but it was too far off to see clearly. The pilot helped them unload their gear; then Hansen went inside the door marked BUREAU and caught the attention of a heavyset woman with red hair.
"Vous desirez?"she asked.
Hansen told her in French that he needed the keys to the rental cars that had been left there by the agency. She handed over the keys and said, "You just missed your friend."
"Excuse me?"
"There was a man here who said he was expecting five friends."
Hansen frowned deeply. "Was he a tall black man?"
Moreau had saidhe was still back in Reims, but Hansen was no longer ready to assume anything.
The woman shook her head. "He was a white man. He was clean shaven, crew cut, tall. Dressed like tourist: red polo shirt and green trousers."
And Hansen was already reaching for the photo of Sam Fisher he kept in his breast pocket. "Him?"
"That's him. Are you the police?"
"No..."
"But your friend is in trouble."
Hansen raised his chin. "Thanks for your help." He ran outside, shouting, "You're not going to believe this! Fisher was just here!"
MOREAUwas talking to Grim via the Trinity System. They floated over the airport in Errouville, watching as Hansen and his team rushed off toward Villerupt.
"The tail I placed on Stingray just reported in," said Moreau. "Guess where Stingray's headed?"
"Villerupt," said Grim. "And since I haven't issued my next report to Kovac yet, we have confirmation."
"Let me say it out loud so we're both clear on this: Stingray is a cutout for someone on our team. Someone on Delta Sly is a mole working for Kovac." Moreau took a deep breath. "That's the only way Kovac would've known I'm in France and the only way Stingray would know where the team is headed. Someone on the team is feeding the information back to him."
"So all our efforts to bypass him–meeting here, everything–have been for nothing."
"Don't pop the Prozac yet," sang Moreau. "This just makes the game more fun. First question: Do we notify the team?"
"No, we don't. That'll heighten the paranoia, interfere with the mission, and tip off Kovac that we're on to him. We've already got Noboru's mercs to deal with. We need to handle the mole problem from our end."
"All right. How about this: If we can identify the mole, then we feed that information to Fisher. He'll need to remove the problem and the team can be left out of it."
"Excellent. I could pass this on to Fisher's cutout, though I'm not sure when they'll be able to link up again. I'll have to risk contacting him to see."
"Any thoughts on who the mole might be?"
"I'd love to rule out Hansen, but there's no ruling out anyone at this point. He could've been working for Kovac before I recruited him. And I confided in him, even picked him for the mission to Russia. That could've been a grave error."
"What about Ames? I hate that little bastard."
"Who doesn't? That's why I like him. He's a thorn in everyone's side–including our enemies. And you've read his fitness report. He's scored higher than anyone else on the team, across the board. Fisher told me he doesn't have the temperament for this line of work, and I agree, but temperament isn't everything. I think he's too loud, too noisy, too obvious to be our mole."
"Or he's overplaying it so he becomes too obvious."
"Maybe."
Moreau squinted into a thought. "What about one of the women?"
"I don't know. I'll do some more probing. Noboru could be our man. Maybe Kovac promised him something we couldn't."
"Maybe I'm the mole," said Moreau.
"Don't even go there, Marty."
"You know if I am the mole, the entire NSA had better watch out, because I'm so wired into the intelligence community that it wouldn't take long to bring the walls tumbling down."
"But instead we got Kovac, who wants to line his pockets and arm our enemies."
"I'm sure he thinks he's saving America. As long as our enemies are armed and dangerous, we're all gainfully employed. No war on terror, no threats, and the NSA downsizes us onto the streets. They'll say, Let the CIA do the field work. We're here to cut government spending and lower taxes!So Kovac's boosting the American economy by making sure the bad guys remain very, very bad."
Grim smirked. "Our enemies don't need hishelp."
21
SIXT RENTAL-CAR OFFICE VILLERUPT, FRANCE
VALENTINAdrove while Noboru rode shotgun, and it took the team a good forty minutes to get from the airstrip at Errouville to the Sixt rental-car office on place Jeanne d'Arc in Villerupt. Valentina ran inside and cried out breathlessly to the man at the counter, "My father was here earlier and rented a car." She showed him a picture of Fisher. "He had on a red shirt."
"Yes, that man was here. Is something wrong?"
"He told me he was going to pick me up, but I can't find him. He was telling me what color the car was, but the signal dropped on the phone, and now he's not picking up."
"I think he took one of our Aveos. A yellow one."
"Really? Thank you! I'll go see if he's waiting for me!" She ran back outside, where Hansen confirmed that the car he'd seen leaving the airport was light colored, probably yellow, though it had been pretty far off.
"I don't get it. Why would he rent a car, and then come back to the airport just before we arrived?" asked Valentina.
Hansen's tone darkened. "The target has gone asymmetrical on us, and so have our superiors."
"Now what?"
Hansen flipped on his OPSAT, pulled up the map, and scrolled around. Valentina read the map over his shoulder.
"He could be anywhere now. He could've gone west to Sainte-Claire or south down to Cantebonne. Or maybe he just went straight out to Audun-le-Tiche, right here." Hansen tapped his finger on the screen. "I'll be surprised if he's not heading to Luxembourg."
"So has he stopped dropping bread crumbs?" Valentina asked.
Hansen shrugged. "I'm calling Moreau. We need eyes in the sky to find that car."
Valentina raised her brows. "Why don't you let me talk to him?"
"You?"
"Yeah, I've been dying to give him a piece of my mind."
He grinned. "Be my guest."
She activated her OPSAT and called Moreau on one of the secure tactical channels. He answered after a four-second delay. "What is it, Maya?"
"We're done here."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. We're done playing. Fisher shows up at our airport. Now you got us running around. You already know where Fisher is. Maybe you want us to eventually bring him in, but maybe you want us to do that at a certain time or at a certain place, so just tell us; otherwise I'm done."
"Young lady, you're not anything until I say so."
"Adios, Moreau. I just can't do this anymore. I won't let myself be used by you people. This operation is a joke. I thought I was being hired and trained as a professional operative. I'm not an actor."
"The hell you're not."
"You know what I mean."
"You walk away, you'll regret it."
"No, I won't." She smiled at Hansen. "Nice working with you, Ben. Maybe one day you'll wise up, too. They'll probably get you all killed–because of their pathetic little games." She turned, strutted down the sidewalk.
All right, so she was calling Moreau's bluff and was waiting for him to chime in. But the bastard kept silent.
Thank God for Hansen, who came running after her and said, "Maya, don't be like this. You know we're part of something bigger. If they told us everything, they could compromise whatever else they have planned."
"I guess I'm more of a straight-up fighter. I'm really sick of this."
Hansen suddenly looked away, and Valentina realized he was being contacted through his own subdermal. He turned back, eyes wide.
"What?" she asked.
"Car accident at a McDonald's on rue du Luxembourg in Audun-le-Tiche. Yellow Aveo. It's just a couple of minutes away!" He went storming back toward the SUVs.
Valentina fell in behind him. She really wasgetting tired of all the lies. If there was a certain artifice to their chase, then Grim and Moreau should come clean about it. But maybe they couldn't, and maybe whatever Fisher was up to was so important that, as Hansen has implied, they needed to engage valuable human resources like themselves in order to get the job done. That was an eloquent way of kidding herself and continuing to live in denial about what she really was: a Barbie doll on a fake spy mission.
She could only hope that Fisher didn't see it that way, and if they stayed close to him, she would definitely see some action. The real stuff, no doubt.
He was, after all, a magnet for mayhem.
THEsun was already on the horizon, the sky fading from light blue to deep saffron as they reached the McDonald's parking lot. There they found several police cars, along with a few gendarmes talking to witnesses in front of the restaurant.
Fisher's yellow Aveo was smashed into the rear bumper of another subcompact. The Aveo's door was still hanging open. The vehicles' positions made it difficult to see who had been at fault. Fisher could have been in some sort of frenzy, perhaps pursued by someone else–and had hit this other car. Or this could be another bread crumb,Valentina thought. He slammed his car into the other to bring the team here.
She spun around, studied the area, saw a train station in the distance and some kind of commotion up there. The side streets were blocked off by a few barricades. Some kind of party?
Hansen approached after having questioned one of the witnesses. "They say a guy in a red shirt. They weren't sure which way he ran."
"Nathan and I will go up there, toward the train station," Valentina said.
"Good. We'll spread out south toward that greenbelt. Everybody open a channel and put on your SVTs."
Valentina applied the flesh-colored transmitter to her throat and took off running, with Noboru at her side.
They headed up rue du Luxembourg, then turned northwest toward what her map called the Audun-le-Tiche station, where a train had just come in from its run to Esch-sur-Alzette on the other side of the border in Luxembourg. Valentina did a double take because the train was a nineteenth-century locomotive pulling three carriage cars and seemingly transported right out of Disney's Magic Kingdom.
If Fisher's plan was to cross the border, then he had picked an excellent avenue of approach. There was so much traffic moving between France and Luxembourg, so many connections between the inhabitants of each country and the sister cities of Russange and Esch-sur-Alzette, that it was quite routine for a French family to spend as much time in Luxembourg as it did in its own country, crossing the border dozens of times each week. As a result, border standards were loose and fast, and Fisher could very well exploit them.
As they neared the station, Valentina spotted a large billboard that announced the decommissioning celebration and carnival of the Audun-le-Tiche rail line. Ah, there was the explanation for the old train; it was part of the festivities and making hourly runs across the border. She and Noboru were running smack-dab into a crowd of weekend revelers–yet another perfect situation for Fisher to exploit. Hundreds of colorful balloons had been tied to the platform, and rows of equally festive flags billowed above rows of vendors' portable stalls with awnings striped red, blue, and white. Valentina could smell the coffee and the pastries, and her stomach growled as she ran past the stalls. There were, she estimated, at least five hundred people at the station, perhaps more, and she and Noboru began cutting through them, trying their best not to shove people and draw attention.
A cry of "All aboard!" in French lifted above the din of the crowd, and with a clank, groan, and sudden hiss, the train broke forward, and those still standing on the platform raised their arms and waved to their friends seated in the carriages.
As Valentina neared the station doorway, she and Noboru strained to see past all those arms and spot a man with a red shirt on board the train. By the time they reached the edge of the platform, the train had already pulled away.
"He might be on the train," said Valentina. "We're just not sure. Moreau? Do you see it?"
"I'm on it. I'll let you know if I spot anything."
THEautomatic streetlights were beginning to switch on as Hansen called back Ames and Gillespie from the greenbelt area. They hadn't spotted anything, and Moreau had done a thorough scan of the area with the help of his satellite feeds. They rallied back at the SUVs, where Valentina and Noboru were already waiting for them.
"We searched the entire station," said Noboru. "Very crowded. But no red shirt."
"Did you know that on Star Trekthe guys who wear red shirts always die?" asked Ames. "I wonder if Fisher knows that. I wonder if, maybe, he's suicidal. But subconsciously, you know? That's why he picked a red shirt."
Nearly in unison Gillespie and Hansen told Ames to shut up; then Valentina said, "If I were him, I'd be on that train."
"Then let's go up there and have a look."
Hansen cocked his thumb back in the direction of his SUV, and Gillespie and Ames jumped in while Valentina and Noboru rushed back to theirs. They took off, heading up rue Napoleon 1er and veering off along a side street running parallel to a large, triangular-shaped reservoir in the distance.
Suddenly Hansen slowed to stop. Gillespie hopped out the back door.
"What's going on?" asked Valentina.
"I see something down there. Looks like a bike," said Hansen. "Moreau, can you get a fix on it for us?"
"No, I've got a signal issue right now. Give me a minute."
"Great timing," grunted Hansen.
"Take the wheel," Valentina ordered Noboru; then she grabbed her weapon and hopped out. She crossed to the black SUV and joined Gillespie, who'd donned a long trench coat, just like Valentina had. Ames climbed out as well, and all three started down the slope, toward the bike Hansen had spotted. They were shouldering their SC-20K rifles with long-range scopes and under-barrel attachments loaded with Cottonballs, LTL (less-than-lethal) projectiles that resembled shotgun shells but were, in fact, aerosol tranquilizers with stronger, faster-acting agents that began taking effect on impact. The round would strike the target, release its contents, and render the subject unconscious for about twenty minutes, depending upon the size of the dose, the target's body weight, and a host of other factors. Valentina thought it'd be a small miracle if they actually got to fire one of those rounds.
"Keep going. It's right there," came Hansen's voice through their subdermals. "Near the bottom of the slope."
"Wait a minute . . . wait a minute . . ." began Ames. "I got movement. Wait . . . red shirt! There he is! He's running!"
Ames sprinted off ahead of them, and Valentina cried out for him to wait up, but then she saw him, too, climbing up the opposite slope and heading toward the trees–and for a moment it was like a dream, utterly surreal–Sam Fisher dressed like a goofy tourist but Sam Fisher nonetheless, stealing looks over his shoulder as he bolted away from them and spirited into the dark cover of the woods.
Valentina's heels dug deeply into the soft earth, and she and Gillespie fought to catch up with Ames. They reached the top of the slope and once more spotted Fisher darting into the woods, heading east.
"You're about 120 feet from the reservoir, 200 feet across, and there's a dirt road on the other side. Looks like he's headed there," said Moreau.
"We're standing by in the cars," said Hansen. "Noboru and I will be ready to pick you up. Just don't lose him!"
"No chance of that now," said Ames.
Valentina was about to snort when the short man in front of her lost his footing and suddenly dropped to his rump. And in the next second she and Gillespie found themselves stumbling downward as the forest gave way to a forty-five-degree slope. Gillespie fell; then Valentina lost her footing and slammed onto her butt, and now all three of them were careening down, gliding across thick beds of leaves, trying to push off trees and find a path toward the flickering sheet of darkness that was the cool, calm surface of the reservoir.
And then . . . a splash . . . and Ames grunting into his SVT: "He's in the water."
22
BORDER CROSSING RUSSANGE, FRANCE
AMESsmacked into the tree so hard that he was wrenched sideways and his rifle flew off his shoulder. He whipped his head as the weapon slid away and landed beside another tree a few meters away.
Before he could get up, Valentina and Gillespie were already back on their feet and running past him. He cursed, rose, and crawled on his hands and knees to scoop up his weapon.
He stood and headed farther down the embankment to where the women had dropped down to their bellies, along a rocky ledge with the water about ten feet below.
"Wait for him to come up," said Valentina. "I have the first shot when he does."
"No, I got it," snapped Ames, hurrying up to the edge himself.
"I have it," Valentina insisted. "Do not test me, little man. . . ."
Ten, twenty, almost thirty seconds passed. . . .
Ames impatiently stared through his scope, searching in vain across the dark waves dimly lit by the moon. The night scope lit up the darkness, but there was still some distortion coming off the water. Mist perhaps.
And then, sans any forewarning, Valentina launched a Cottonball.
Ames jerked his rifle left, toward the sound, and spotted Fisher in the water. The old man had come up to steal a lungful of air, and Valentina's round hit him perfectly in the back of the head.
But that wasn't how Ames would interpret it.
"You missed," he said through his SVT. "Damn it, you missed!"
"No, I didn't! He's hit," barked Valentina.
"No, he's not!" Ames insisted, paving the way for what he'd do next. . . .
He tracked Fisher's intended path, and he assumed that the man, clearly alerted to their presence, wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
Fisher had taught Ames that water was cover, escape, and safety, and he'd also taught him to swim on his back and steal breaths so that only his mouth broke the surface, not his head. This was a basic escape-and-evasion technique often forgotten by operative in the heat of the moment.
Imagining Fisher doing just that, Ames zoomed in with his scope and spotted a faint outline in the water, the slightest disturbance across the waves.
Ames shuddered. He had him.
But now to set it up for the others.
"He's getting away," Ames cried. "But he's submerged. The Cottonball's no good. I have to stop him."
With Kovac's orders to kill Fisher echoing through his head, Ames took in a long breath and steadied his rifle. Fisher was shifting through his sights. Ames would not waste this opportunity. No way.
Was there any guilt? Even the faintest trace? No. It was just business. Time to put the old boy out of his misery. Fisher's ghost would probably thank him for it.
Ames blinked and stared more intently through the scope. He took another deep breath, held it. Then he trained his crosshairs over the disturbance in the water.
Moment of truth. He was ready, with thirty 5.56-mm bullpup rounds at his disposal. The SC-20K's bullpup design meant that the magazine and action were located behind the weapon's trigger, allowing the rifle to have a longer barrel length relative to its size. The design was popular with NATO operators and quite useful for Splinter Cells who needed the capabilities of a longer– range weapon in a compact design for stealth.
Indeed, that longer range would come in handy, since now Ames would use the Splinter Cell's favored rifle to kill the program's most lethal operator. Ironic? Fitting? Oh, it was hardly that dramatic. He just wanted to make sure he got credit for the kill.
He took his first shot, the pop much sharper than the one produced by Valentina's Cottonball.
"Is that live fire?" cried Gillespie through her SVT.
Ames gritted his teeth, spotted even more waves, and realized he'd missed.
He adjusted aim and fired another round.
That one must've hit Fisher.
"Ames, is that you? Hold fire! Hold fire! I already got him with the Cottonball," said Valentina.
"You missed."
"I'm telling you, I didn't!"
"All right, hold up," said Ames.
"Ames, are you firing live rounds?" Hansen demanded over the channel.
"She missed him. I'm not shooting to kill. Just forcing him toward the shoreline."
More BS from the king of BS, Ames thought.
"We're trying to take him alive," insisted Hansen.
"Roger that. He's still in the water. He has to come up soon. We'll get him."
"I'm coming down," said Hansen.
"You sure? We'll need you up there," said Ames. "If he heads farther north, you'll need to circle around. I'll let you know."
"He's right," said Moreau. "Stay with the SUVs."
"All right, but you watch that fire, Ames!" ordered Hansen.
A moment passed, with Ames just listening to the sound of his own breathing.
"I don't see anything now," said Gillespie.
"Me neither," added Valentina.
Below the huge concrete embankment to the northeast lay patches of thick weeds Fisher could use for cover. Ames focused on that area and waited.
No sign of movement. He slowly lifted his rifle to pan farther west, to an unpaved road running beside the opposite shoreline, then back down to the weeds. Fisher might try to rise from the water and break there.
"Moreau, you got anything?" Valentina asked.
"No sign of him yet. I've got a good image of the reservoir right now."
Ames frowned. What was Fisher waiting for? Distance was survival. They both knew that.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, Ames caught the faintest shift in the shadows that seemed to be gathering along the road. He swung around his rifle, brought it to bear on the movement, and saw the silhouette of a running man.
Ames wanted to take another shot, but he couldn't. He had to exercise some reserve lest he betray himself. Two shots was already pushing it. The kill had to come naturally, organically, not in a hell-bent fury.
Fisher dropped down into a depression in the road and vanished. Ames swore.
"I've got him now," reported Moreau. "He's heading toward the woods just north of the road. Hansen? Noboru? Looks like if you take the SUVs north and west, you might be able to cut him off while the rest of you keep pushing him forward."
"That's the plan, everyone," said Hansen. "Let's go!"
Ames struggled to his feet. The women were already ahead of him, running along the trees, the water rippling down below. His footfalls were heavy, his pulse high, and in the seconds that followed he relived the shots he'd taken at Fisher. What kind of a marksman was he? Certainly this demonstration did not reflect his Third Echelon training or his police background. Was he just succumbing to the pressure? No, he couldn't think that way. He'd nail Fisher. In time. Patience. No hell-bent fury.He would neither beat himself up nor get too far ahead of himself. At least now the old man knew they meant business. Perhaps he'd step up his game and make the kill more interesting.
KIMBERLYGillespie turned northwest, heading straight for the pine trees near which Moreau reported he had last spotted Fisher. She was moving in directly behind him, from the south, and began to slow as she neared the first cluster of pines, their boughs still. Not a sound. She raised her rifle, made sure the fire selector was set for Cottonball.
