Endgame

22

Ames smacked 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.

Kimberly Gillespie 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.

She tried to ignore her eyes. The burning. The old aches and pains. The guilt of taking from him what she shouldn’t have, and still hoping that somewhere, deep down below all those shields against emotion, there was a man who would, at the very least, remember her.

She once again smelled the chicken they’d roasted that night, tasted the wine — too much wine — and listened to him speak softly in that near whisper that at once captivated and drove her insane with lust. And for just a moment, she was back there, feeling his lips on hers, and then…

“This was a mistake,” he’d said afterward. “You were my student.”

“And now I’m your lover.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry this happened. You can do better. You deserve better.”

“Relationships are about people, not numbers on a calendar.”

“It’s not the numbers I’m worried about. It’s me.”

Gillespie’s foot came down and snapped a branch. Loudly.

She mouthed a curse. Froze.

Then she waited a few breaths more and crossed to open ground, heading west now.

Had she heard something? Breathing? She thought for a moment that he was close, watching her, his gaze warm on her cheek. She wanted to call his name, beg him to turn himself in, to end the game here and now. She could help. She would do anything. She imagined him emerging from behind the trees, hanging his head, reaching out to her.

She heard herself, “Sam, come home. Just come home.”

Then she shook free the thoughts, willed herself back to the task. She scanned the trees. That’s right, back to work. Get rid of the baggage. She’d made a promise to Hansen. All right. If Sam had cut to the north instead of crossing the road… But she couldn’t abandon the plan or the others. She had to keep moving. It was all part of small-unit tactics. She could still hear his admonishments as she continued, carefully measuring her steps, wincing at the crunch of twigs.

Her pulse began to slow, and then, reaching out with all her senses, she tried to detect him, taking her mind beyond the flesh to see if maybe, just maybe, the connection they’d had could transcend physical distances.

A cold breath washed over her.

She stopped, looked around, and something told her that Sam Fisher was already long gone.

They were getting just a little too close for comfort, thought Moreau. He was alone, using the Trinity System, floating over the reservoir now and watching as Fisher neared the Esch-sur-Alzette’s train station. Fisher stepped onto the dirt shoulder just as a motorcyclist came barreling toward him. Moreau winced and through a gasp cried, “Get out of the way, Sam!”

This was hardly planned. Unless Fisher had decided to suddenly check out and wanted to be run down by a motorcycle, he needed to move.

But then the guy on the bike swerved to avoid him and wound up dumping the bike in a ditch, his body tumbling off at shockingly steep angles, as though he were an action figure tossed aside by an angry kid. Fisher ran down after him. Others gathered around; then Fisher took off, northward up the road, moving another fifty yards.

Moreau checked the locations of the team, the pieces on his chessboard, as it were, and so far everything was falling into place.

“I’ve found some clothes here,” called Valentina. “No more red shirt! He’s changed!”

Of course he has, thought Moreau.

“Anything, Moreau?” asked Hansen.

“Still looking,” he answered. “But we’ve got a motorcycle accident. That’ll back up some traffic.”

Fisher was now positioned between the highway to the left and a large soccer stadium to his right, its lights burning brilliantly.

Hansen’s SUV was up on the north side of the road, picking up Gillespie, Valentina, and Ames, while Noboru remained behind, and he would be in plain sight to pick up Fisher. A little nudge from Moreau couldn’t hurt at this point.

“Hey, Bruce Lee, you still with us? Wake up, Grasshopper.”

“I’m here, Mr. Jules Winnfield. Would you like me to get you a Royale with cheese?”

Moreau laughed under his breath. “Fisher might be heading your way, just behind you.”

“I’m out for a look.”

Noboru pushed forward in the seat of the SUV, grabbed his binoculars, then hopped out of the SUV and crouched down near the wheel. He trained his binoculars on the road, about a quarter mile back.

“Nathan, we’re coming around, back to your position,” said Hansen.

“Roger. Nothing yet… Wait…”

Noboru zoomed in toward a hurricane fence that was twisted and had fallen in all directions. The fence had once secured an ancient- looking building with towers and crumbling bricks and exposed girders and more stone, like an old fortress abandoned a hundred years ago.

Noboru lowered his binoculars, brought up the map on his OPSAT, then tapped on the building to get more data. A box indicated that the place had once been a steel foundry. Noboru raised the binoculars once more. Still nothing, but the place presented a definite point of cover, so they had to check it out. “This is Nathan. Still nothing, but there’s an old steel foundry down the road. He might be going there. Let’s check it out.”

Not thirty seconds later, Hansen arrived, and they pulled a couple of U-turns and headed south toward the old building.

“All right, boys and girls, better get a move on, because Bruce Lee is right,” said Moreau. “I’ve picked him up near the foundry.”

“Damn it, the traffic’s backed up,” said Noboru, slamming on his brakes and looking for a spot where he could rumble onto the embankment and skirt around the other cars.

Just then, the traffic moved, and they rolled closer to the foundry’s main driveway and shifted into the turning lane to cut across the road.

The size and decay of the building unnerved Noboru. If Fisher wanted to lure them into a gauntlet of horrors and systematically dispose of them, the abandoned foundry presented the perfect opportunity.