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  HANSEN had 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.

  AMES figured 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.

  Chapter 12.

  VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  HANSEN was 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

  THREE days 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.”

  Chapter 13.

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND PRESENT DAY

  AFTER returning 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 mis
erable. 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.

  THEY arrived 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.”

  “Okay … ” Hansen started for ward and asked, “Am I supposed to introduce myself?”