Endgame. Part 36

Hansen wanted to say, "That's it?" "That's it?" but just stood there, watching. He expected something far more dramatic. but just stood there, watching. He expected something far more dramatic.

n.o.boru had already initiated an uplink to the bots and glanced up at Fisher. "Nothing yet."

"What if there's no power for them to gravitate to?" asked Hansen.

Fisher explained that just about every weapon or system on the inventory list was equipped with some form of EPROM, or erasable programmable read-only memory, a low-power battery for housekeeping functions like date, time, and user settings. If the item didn't have an EPROM, then it wasn't one of the higher-end items and losing it was no disaster.

Within five minutes, n.o.boru was reading multiple pings from inside the cases. He grinned. "I'd say our first live-fire exercise is a success."

Before they left the area, in search of more of the a.r.s.enal, Gillespie pointed out a section of extra venting between the blast funnels and the wall. To Hansen, the gap at his feet resembled a bottomless pit, and his light faded before it could pick out any floor below. The vent probably extended all the way down to level 4.

VALENTINA took no pleasure in killing the guard, and she sensed that n.o.boru felt the same. She did, however, take great pleasure in working with Nathan, and she knew once the mission was over she would succ.u.mb to her feelings and ask to see him again . . . on a personal level. took no pleasure in killing the guard, and she sensed that n.o.boru felt the same. She did, however, take great pleasure in working with Nathan, and she knew once the mission was over she would succ.u.mb to her feelings and ask to see him again . . . on a personal level.

She thought about this, even as she held her blade in a reverse grip and approached the guard.

Her hand rose to the man's mouth at exactly the same time n.o.boru's did for his guard.

Holding her breath, she drove her blade down into the guard's neck to make a perfect kill shot to the spinal cord. The slash to the throat or knife thrust to the heart that instantly kills someone is the stuff of Hollywood inaccuracy. Most knife fighters would tell you, if you don't get a kill shot to the spinal cord, your victim is going to stay alive for a while, and things will get very, very sloppy. Slashing the jugular was one of the last things you wanted to do. Sever that spinal cord and he's dead, Jim. Instantly dead.

Valentina and n.o.boru dragged the bodies up to the top of the ramp, where Hansen and Gillespie would take over and stash them in the medical area.

n.o.bORU took point, leading the way down into level 3. He headed off into the ballistics zone once more and found yet another stack of Anvil cases set up on tables within an electronics repair room adjacent to another, though smaller, rotor motor testing facility. took point, leading the way down into level 3. He headed off into the ballistics zone once more and found yet another stack of Anvil cases set up on tables within an electronics repair room adjacent to another, though smaller, rotor motor testing facility.

Now, this was more like it. This resembled an auction site. While the items weren't fully prepared, they were being arranged for display. n.o.boru was glad he'd packed the second paintball gun. He fired a round, waited, and smiled once he got back the pings he needed. He rallied with the rest back at Fisher's location near the main ramp and reported his find.

"Two down, one to go," said Fisher.

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LEVEL 3 of the medical section sent a shudder through Hansen. He was crouched near the main doorway, staring past the half-open door, into an operating area that had been converted into a barracks. He counted about twenty beds . . . all occupied. They were all men, mostly nondescript, a few European looking and a few markedly Middle Eastern. 3 of the medical section sent a shudder through Hansen. He was crouched near the main doorway, staring past the half-open door, into an operating area that had been converted into a barracks. He counted about twenty beds . . . all occupied. They were all men, mostly nondescript, a few European looking and a few markedly Middle Eastern.

He returned to Fisher, his cheeks warm, heart pounding, and reported what he'd seen.

Fisher agreed that those were probably some of, if not all, the attendees, at least those who'd been able to work around the weather conditions. More could be coming. Many more.

But they all agreed that the big fish was most certainly not among them. Who was the man behind the auction? That was the burning question Hansen hoped they could answer before leaving the facility.

"We've got one more level to check," said Fisher. With any luck, he added, they'd be back in Severobaikalsk for breakfast.

Suddenly a familiar voice rose behind them. "Not gonna happen."

Hansen cursed, turned, and realized that the man in the shadows to their rear--the rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d known as Mr. Allen Ames--was privy to everything.

"He's got a grenade," Valentina muttered.

41.

RUSSIAN TEST FACILITY.

AMES stood about sixty feet behind Fisher and Hansen, and he knew they'd have no time to react before he tossed the grenade. It was glorious. Just glorious. stood about sixty feet behind Fisher and Hansen, and he knew they'd have no time to react before he tossed the grenade. It was glorious. Just glorious.

"Don't even think about it," he said in a slight rasp. "Don't even turn around. I go down, so does the grenade."

With that, Ames darted forward for the ramp railing, moving to within forty feet.

And then he emerged from the shadows and watched as the entire group turned to face him.

He'd told them not to move, but what did he expect? Compliance from a group of misfits? "Not another step," he warned.

Ames hung his arm over the railing, prepared to drop the grenade down to level 4, where it would explode and set off alarms throughout the facility. He was sure they wanted to know what he was doing there, how he'd arrived, and what he wanted, but it was quite nice just letting them hang for a few moments--after what they'd done to him.

"What do you want?" asked Fisher.

Ames snorted, told Fisher that, yes, he was a survivor, and that was all he really wanted--just to say that. Fisher probed him about how he'd escaped, and Ames gave him the condensed version, said he'd flagged down the helicopter that had been pursuing them and had convinced the boss man that he was working for a mutual friend.

That left Hansen puzzled. If Ames had spilled his guts, why wasn't the facility on high alert?

Fisher must've been thinking the same thing and asked, "Do they know we're here?"

Ames shook his head. "I told him you were still in Irkutsk."

"Him?" Fisher asked. "Who?"

This was the part where Ames laughed. "You've met him. In fact, he told me you had him in your hands and let him go."

Fisher's expression soured, and his mouth moved, almost forming the name.

"Yep, that's him," Ames confirmed.

"Who?" asked Hansen.

"Zahm," Fisher replied.

Hansen frowned. "You're kidding me."

Fisher shook his head and sighed.

Ames's smile broadened. Good old Sam Fisher couldn't see the forest for the trees. The d.a.m.ned bad guy had been right in front him. The same guy who'd pulled off the weapons heist in the first place was the guy orchestrating the auction. No brainer, Sammy boy. It was the introduction of the banker that made the plot seem larger, when, in fact, it was all quite simple. And Zahm was just the kind of maniac to push things over the top. He never knew when to quit, and never, ever, had enough . . . of anything.

"Where is he now?" Fisher asked.

Ames grinned and shrugged. "Around."

Hansen glanced at him emphatically. "You can still do the right thing."

"I could," Ames agreed, "but I won't."

He'd already pulled the pin on the grenade and let it slip from his hands. In the same instant, he sprinted back up the ramp, even as he knew they were swinging around, bringing their rifles to bear on him.

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THE explosion echoed up from the level below, and Hansen, along with the others, was on his belly as the corridor reverberated and a sulfurlike stench wafted their way. explosion echoed up from the level below, and Hansen, along with the others, was on his belly as the corridor reverberated and a sulfurlike stench wafted their way.

"We gotta tag the last of the cases," cried Fisher, which meant they were going down, not up, to escape.

"Gonna be trapped," Hansen told him.

Fisher answered in a deadpan: "Bad luck for us." Then he turned to n.o.boru. "You have the ARWEN?"

"Yeah."

Fisher spoke in a rapid fire. He told n.o.boru that the initial counterattack would come from the medical zone, where Hansen had spotted the attendees. Zahm had most a.s.suredly placed some of his guards near and around them. As soon as n.o.boru heard them moving, he was to put two gas canisters downrange. Valentina and Hansen would back him; then they would leapfrog down to level 4, split up, and make a last sweep of the zones for the rest of the a.r.s.enal.

With wide eyes, Fisher wished them all good luck, then took off with Gillespie. They would hold the ramp intersection, while Hansen, n.o.boru, and Valentina made their sweep.

Once they reached the medical zone, n.o.boru set up about fifty feet from the twin main doors leading to the makeshift barracks. He clutched the ARWEN tightly and gave Hansen a quick nod: good to go.

One door shifted open and n.o.boru fired, the gun echoing with a fwump fwump. The gas canister arced through the gap in the door and clattered on the floor inside. Shouts in Russian and a few other languages announced the attack as the hissing canister spewed a thick funnel of smoke.

Hansen, who had tucked himself tightly against the wall, steadied his rifle, ready to unleash his first salvo, while n.o.boru stood ready once more with the ARWEN. He had a five-shot capacity in the weapon's rotary drum.

The doors slammed open, and through the smoke, a pair of gunmen appeared, AK-47s held high. With a grunt and thump, n.o.boru express-mailed another gas canister.

At the same time, Hansen and Valentina sent their first wave of automatic fire punching through the veils of smoke. The two guys dropped like drunken frat brothers. He and Valentina couldn't see much after that, but they didn't need to because Fisher's plan was already working. They kept firing, and farther back, Hansen stole a second's glimpse of two more men hitting the floor. Four down.

Valentina abruptly charged toward those doors and took cover on the left side. Hansen gave her a look that said, What the h.e.l.l are you doing? What the h.e.l.l are you doing? She ignored him and drew a fragmentation grenade from her web gear, pulled the pin, then extended her arm and pitched it inside. She ignored him and drew a fragmentation grenade from her web gear, pulled the pin, then extended her arm and pitched it inside.

With bug eyes, she came racing toward them, screaming, "Time to rock and roll!"

Hansen exchanged a look of surprise with n.o.boru as they dropped in behind her. Call that the Valentina Day Ma.s.sacre. A heartbeat later, one of the doors blew off its hinges behind them. But what was worse, somewhere down below echoed the sound of more gunfire. As he ran, Hansen spoke into his headset, telling Fisher they were on their way.

They were out of the corridor in thirty seconds and reached the main ramp to head down. Below they spotted Fisher, who nodded to Hansen, then jammed his rifle around the corner and fired two shots.

Hansen led them down to Fisher's position, and there n.o.boru dropped to a knee and aimed the ARWEN back up the ramp.

There was a sudden change of plans. Fisher now wanted Hansen and Valentina to clear medical. n.o.boru would hold the ramp. Fisher and Gillespie went charging off to ballistics, where Gillespie thought she'd heard Ames shouting at someone.

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GILLESPIE was about a hundred yards down the corridor, running just ahead of Fisher, when she heard Ames's voice again: "Shouldn't have left it sitting here alone, Chucky." was about a hundred yards down the corridor, running just ahead of Fisher, when she heard Ames's voice again: "Shouldn't have left it sitting here alone, Chucky."

And then came another voice, presumably Zahm's, given the British accent: "Aw, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you little weasel! Come down here so I can put a bullet in your brain!"

"Can't do that, Chucky!"

"Don't call me Chucky!"

They reached sight of the main door into ballistics, level 4, then peeked around the corner. Similar to the zones above, the level was cavernous, like a stadium with a stone roof, and lined with engine test stands and ancient-looking tractors and treads for moving the heavy motors. Fisher raised his binoculars and saw that Zahm was at the far end of the zone with two men. They were near the mouth of the center blast funnel, near the last collection of Anvil cases. He told Gillespie to keep her eyes sharp for Ames. He was in there somewhere, and, she figured, had probably been double-crossed by Zahm, which was why he was still around and possibly about to exact his revenge on the self-appointed auctioneer as well as his best buddies in Third Echelon.

She and Fisher moved past the door and crept over to the nearest workbench. She took point and immediately found a covering position, while he eased in beside her. She got her first look at Zahm, a tall and stocky character with a thick shock of wavy hair. He was probably about Fisher's age, though his hair was suspiciously devoid of gray. He wore a dark green turtleneck with suede patches on the shoulders.

Zahm lifted his voice. "Give it up, Ames! You won't get 'em open!"

"Don't want to!" Ames answered, his voice emanating from somewhere above.

"What's he doing?" she whispered to Fisher.

"Don't know."

The others checked in over the headset. n.o.boru had heard the remaining guys moving around, trying to call the elevator. Fisher told him to hold position and that they had Zahm and what was left of the a.r.s.enal. This wasn't exactly the original plan, but they'd take it. Hansen would clear weapons and electronics, ensuring no surprise attacks for their escape; then he would rally back at n.o.boru's position. Valentina would do likewise.

With that, Fisher gestured to Gillespie, and they hustled off, working their way between the shelves and equipment, the vehicles and engine parts, keeping low and tight to the corners, advancing fluidly like two lethal components controlled by a single brain.

The strangest sensation washed over Gillespie, and she found it hard, for a moment, to concentrate. There was something incredibly s.e.xy, even erotic, about darting through the shadows with him, the threat of being caught reinforced by every footfall. When they paused at the next bench, she just looked at him, in awe, and he looked at her: What? She just shuddered and mouthed, "I'm okay."

No, Sam, I could never have shot you. Who was I kidding?

They came within a hundred yards of Zahm and his two men. He gave her the hand signal to take the man on the left. She nodded. Set up. Took aim. The Groza felt perfect in her hands. Groza means "thunder." Oh, yeah, she was about to deliver her thunder. . . .

They would do it just like training. She waited for his shot. The instant she heard it, she squeezed the trigger. Her target could not react in time.

Both of Zahm's men dropped. One, two. Textbook head shots.

The man himself spun away, but Fisher was already running toward him. "Hi, Chuck."

Gillespie dropped in beside Fisher.

Zahm whirled to face them, a 9mm semiautomatic clutched in his right hand. He looked at Fisher, then at Gillespie, and she could almost hear the ticking of his thoughts: If I shoot Fisher, then the woman kills me. If I shoot Fisher, then the woman kills me.

You can bet on it, Gillespie thought. Gillespie thought.

Fisher ordered Zahm to lose the gun.

Zahm set down his weapon. "Fisher," he cried, as though to a long-lost friend.