39
Ames, having read Fisher’s expression, was nodding. “Yep. That’s him.”
Hansen said, “Who?”
“Zahm,” Fisher replied.
“You’re kidding me.”
Fisher shook his head.
It made a certain sense. Though he’d had no overt clues at the time, Fisher could now see his psychological assessment of Zahm made him an obvious candidate for the man behind the curtain. A born envelope pusher, he joins the SAS but finds the adrenaline rush of covert soldiering only temporarily satisfies his addiction, so he leaves and decides, on a whim, to become a bestselling novelist, but this, too, isn’t enough. He rounds up some former comrades and goes into the business of high-end thievery only to find himself still restless, so he raises the bar. He breaks into a secret Chinese laboratory, steals five tons of weaponry, and invites the world’s most dangerous terrorists to an auction at an abandoned Soviet complex in the middle of Siberia.
To the average person, insanity. To Zahm, just another day.
What Fisher didn’t know, and might never know, was Zahm’s purpose at the Korfovka rendezvous with Zhao and Murdoch. He’d probably been laying the groundwork for the Laboratory 738 heist and the auction.
“Where is he?” Fisher now asked.
“Around.”
“You can still do the right thing,” Hansen said.
“I could,” Ames conceded.
He lifted his opposite hand in a fateful gesture. Even as Fisher’s eyes instinctively flicked to the hand, he thought, Distraction.
“But I won’t,” Ames finished.
He dropped the grenade, turned, and sprinted up the ramp.
40
Fisher jerked the Groza to his shoulder and focused the crosshairs between Ames’s shoulder blades, but he was gone an instant later, around the curve of the ramp.
“Down,” Fisher commanded, and dropped flat. The others followed suit. Two seconds passed and then the crump of the grenade’s explosion echoed up the ramp.
Hansen asked, “Up or down?”
“Down. We’ve gotta tag the last of the cases.”
“Gonna be trapped.”
“Bad luck for us,” Fisher shot back. He turned to Noboru. “You have the ARWEN?”
“Yeah.”
Fisher pointed down the corridor to the medical zone. “In about ten seconds they’re going to come charging. Don’t wait until you see them. First sign of footsteps, you put two gas canisters downrange. Got it?”
“Yep.”
To Valentina and Hansen, Fisher said, “You’re with Noboru. Anybody comes through his gas cloud, put ’em down. They’ll back off to regroup. When they do, leapfrog down the ramp and meet up with us. We’ll try to hold the ramp intersection. You three split up and check the zones for the rest of the arsenal. Questions?”
There was none.
“Good luck.”
You’re with me,” Fisher told Gillespie. They got up and sprinted to the down ramp. “Everything’s a target,” he shouted. “If it’s alive, kill it. Two rounds, center mass, then move on.”
“Got it.”
They were halfway down the ramp when gunfire from below peppered the walls above their heads. They veered right, away from the railing, and kept going. Behind him Fisher heard a plastic tink tink tink and turned to see a fragmentation grenade rolling down the ramp toward them.
“Down!”
He spun on his heel, scooped the grenade with his free hand, and shovel tossed it over the railing.
“Grenade!” a British-accented voice called, followed by the explosion.
From the level above came the double fwump of Noboru firing the ARWEN. Voices shouted, then the overlapping chatter of Valentina and Hansen firing their Grozas.
Fisher called to Gillespie, “Keep moving,” then plucked a flashbang off his harness and pulled the pin. She did the same. They rounded the corner, tossed the grenades, dropped to their knees until they heard the explosion, then got up and moved into the blinding light, guns up and tracking for targets. He kept Gillespie in the corner of his eye, instinctively closing or opening the distance between them to keep an overlapping field of fire.
“Clear,” Fisher called.
“Clear,” she replied.
Fisher heard Hansen’s voice in his headset. “We’re coming down. Four tangos down.”
“Roger,” Fisher replied
In unison, he and Gillespie turned right, checked the medical corridor for targets, then kept moving, following the curve of the railing. Fisher slowed their pace, taking slow, measured steps, controlling his breathing. He checked Gillespie; she was doing the same. They reached the head of the weapons zone corridor, paused, and saw nothing moving. Fisher turned to check their right flank and saw a figure charging at them from medical.
“Target!” he said, and squeezed off two rounds. The figure went down. “Moving.” Groza still at his shoulder, he paced forward. Gillespie followed, turning in a half circle as she covered their flanks and rear. Fisher reached the corner at the corridor, paused, peeked around. A muzzle flashed in the darkness.
“Fire at the bottom of the ramp,” Fisher advised Hansen.
“Roger. Coming down now.”
Fisher saw the three of them appear down the ramp. He gave them a nod, then stuck the Groza around the corner and fired two shots down the corridor. Hansen, Noboru, and Valentina rushed forward and pressed against the opposite wall. Noboru dropped to one knee and aimed the ARWEN back up the ramp.
“How many?” Hansen asked Fisher.
“One that we know of.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
Fisher nodded, and he and Gillespie backed away and kept circling around the ramp until they reached ballistics.
“Target!” Gillespie called. Fisher turned with her. They fired together. The figure went down.
“Are these Zahm’s?” she asked.
Fisher nodded. “Unless he expanded his crew, he’s only got three left.”
From medical rose a double pop from a Groza. Valentina called over her radio, “Target down.”
Fisher replied, “Hansen, you and Valentina clear medical.”
“Roger.”
“Noboru, can you hold the ramp?”
“Bet your ass.”
From down the corridor to ballistics they heard a shout. Fisher stopped and crouched down. Gillespie did the same. “That’s Ames,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Fisher radioed to Hansen, “Moving to ballistics.”
He and Gillespie headed out. A hundred yards down the corridor they heard Ames’s voice again: “Shouldn’t have left it sitting here alone, Chucky.”
“Ah, bloody hell, 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!”
Fisher and Gillespie kept going until they were within sight of the main door. Pressed against the near wall, with Gillespie behind him, Fisher slid ahead until he could see inside. Like the ballistics zones above, this one was wide open, measuring several football fields in length, and filled with engine test stands and workbenches.
Fisher peeked through the door, then pulled back and said to Gillespie, “Zahm’s at the far end of the room with his last two men. They’re standing at the mouth of the middle blast funnel. Right inside the door there’s a double row of workbenches running down the right hand wall. Keep your eyes sharp for Ames. He’s hiding somewhere. Ready?”
She nodded.
Fisher eased back to the door, lifted the Groza, and braced the barrel against the jamb. He nodded. Hunched over, Gillespie stepped around him and crept to the nearest bench. She took up a covering position, and he trotted forward to join her.