“This!”
Moreau tipped his head, then pushed back with all his might, driving his chair directly into the man’s abdomen.
Of course the guy didn’t fire. He wouldn’t. He had orders to get the information. Anything else was BS. Killing Moreau without getting the data would result in his own death. Now that that fact was established, Moreau would begin teaching this fool a lesson.
As soon as his legs cleared the desk, Moreau spun around. The man staggered back.
And, wouldn’t you know, the idiot made the impetuous decision to fire.
The shot thumped no more loudly than a hand clap and kicked into Moreau’s shoulder. He jerked back across the desk, even as he drew his own sidearm and fired at the man’s crotch.
Sensory overload: pain and images and a trace of gunpowder all coming at him.
Who was his attacker? So far, he was a guy dressed in casual business clothes and wearing a long leather jacket. He was no more than thirty and most definitely European, with a simple conservative haircut, no earrings, and nothing to distinguish him save his twisted grin. He leaned forward, groaned, then fell back onto his rump.
With a fire now burning in his shoulder, Moreau charged forward from the desk, and fired again, his suppressed round hitting the man’s arm point-blank and causing him to drop his weapon.
Moreau dove for the gun and came up with it just as the man began to sit up, shivering and groaning.
“This would’ve been the part where I ask you questions. But I’m not doing that.”
“You’re not?”
Moreau shook his head, took both pistols, and placed them on the floor beside him. Then, remembering Noboru’s words and imagining himself as Jules Winnfield, Moreau crawled forward and began choking the man with one hand.
Now, with a grimace of pain, Moreau wound up and punched the guy so hard in the mouth that several teeth loosened. The thug tried to reach up to stop him, but Moreau delivered another blow that sent both of them falling forward onto the rug. Teeth flew from the man’s mouth as Moreau loosened his grip.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” the guy lisped through a gurgle of blood.
Moreau straddled him and widened his eyes as blood rolled down his arm. “You want to talk to me? You don’t know jack. All you know is that a man named Stingray hired you. You don’t even know who Grim and Fisher are. And I bet when you go to the beach, you wear a little Speedo like all those other European fools trying to show off.”
The man shook his head. “I know about Stingray. Let me tell you something about him. Please don’t hit me anymore. I’m just doing a job.”
Moreau cursed, winced over the pain, then struck the man in the temple so hard that the thug passed out.
Beginning to shudder with the throbbing in his shoulder, Moreau stood, breathing heavily, and rushed to the bathroom to check the wound. He slowly sloughed off his shirt. Damn, off to the hospital he’d go, but the wound didn’t look too bad — clean entry and exit. He’d have time to pack up and get down to the hospital.
Moreau got back on the Trinity System and told Grim what had happened. She ordered him to get treatment.
“What happened to our tail on Stingray? He should’ve let me know about this guy. They must have met,” he said, growling more than speaking.
“I know. They either took him out or bought him off. I’ve had no contact from him.”
“Damn it. Fisher needs to flush out that mole.”
“He will. Now, Marty, go get help. Let me worry about the mess in your room.”
Ames and Gillespie arrived on the outskirts of Tétange and parked near the train station, which, according to the map, was on Line 60 connecting the city of Luxembourg to the Red Lands in the south. Tétange was the second stop on the branch line that split from the main line at Noertzange and led to Rumelange. Of the three cities to the east, Tétange seemed, at least to Ames, the best choice for Fisher. He could catch a train up to the city of Luxembourg, if that was his destination.
Moreau spoke evenly over the team channel and said he’d be off-line for a few hours. Hansen was understandably pissed, more so since Moreau offered no reasonable explanation for his absence. Ames told Gillespie to hold her position at the car while he reconnoitered the train station.
If there were six people at the station, that was a lot, and Ames did his best to keep close to the wall, near a vending machine, while he scrutinized those waiting near the taxicab ramp. His hand went unconsciously into his coat pocket, and he began to roll his Zippo through his fingers.
For just a few seconds, he imagined Sam Fisher strapped to a table while he poured gasoline over his entire body.
Fisher wanted to talk, though he never once let down his tough-guy demeanor. “We’re both going to hell. I’ll get there first. And you’ll be in second place, as always.”
“Maybe you’re right. But first I want to see you cry. I want to see you beg for mercy.”
Fisher cursed; he would die before doing that.
Ames’s Zippo clicked open and came to life — the thin, perfect flame glowing as he touched it to the table. The whoosh of flames nearly sent him toppling backward.
Fisher screamed and writhed in agony, tearing at his bonds as the flames swallowed him whole.
Shaking off the thought, Ames let go of the Zippo and reached for the satellite phone Stingray had given him. He dialed the number, heard the man’s key code, then returned his own code, the tones communicating that they were both free to talk.
“We’ve split up,” Ames said abruptly.
“I know where you are now.”
“Moreau’s off-line.”
“How long ago did you hear from him?”
“A minute.”
Stingray swore and said, “All right. I’ll let them know.”
“You do that.”
After he hung up, it occurred to Ames to check the train schedule. He consulted his watch, then said, in French, to the wizened man behind the glass partition, “Did a train just leave?”
The old man frowned. “If you want to speak French, okay… ”
Ames had forgotten that he was not in France anymore, and in Luxembourg they spoke Luxembourgish, a high dialect of German, as well as some French and German.
“The train?”
“You missed it. Five minutes ago.”
“And that was the last train for the night?”
The old man nodded.
“You see a guy come here and buy a ticket?”
The man made a face. “I see a lot of them.”
“Guy in a red shirt? No, wait, uh… ” Ames reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of Fisher. “This guy.”
The man frowned at the photograph. “I don’t really look at people when I sell tickets.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Even the hot women?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t see this guy?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Maybe is not an answer.” Ames hardened his tone. “Did you see him or not?”
“Are you the police? Where’s your ID?”
Ames sighed and turned away. There was a strong chance that Fisher could have run from the stadium or gotten a ride and caught that train. He walked back to the SUV, opened the door, and said, “I’m bored. Let’s have sex.”
Gillespie spoke through her teeth. “I would rather eat your entrails.”
“Oh, Pippi, my dear, Pippi. I guess you would. You want the good news or the bad?”
She rolled her eyes. “What now?”
“Last train already left. We might’ve missed him.”
“I’ll call Hansen.”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
He wriggled his brows. “Because I want to talk to you.”
She smirked and activated her OPSAT. “Ben, it’s Kim. We’re at the station here. Last train left already.”