Valentina and Noboru dragged the bodies up to the top of the ramp, where Hansen and Gillespie would take over and stash them in the medical area.
Noboru 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. Noboru 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.
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.
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 bastard known as Mr. Allen Ames — was privy to everything.
“He’s got a grenade,” Valentina muttered.
41
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.
“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 damned 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.
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.
“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 Noboru. “You have the ARWEN?”
“Yeah.”
Fisher spoke in a rapid fire. He told Noboru that the initial counterattack would come from the medical zone, where Hansen had spotted the attendees. Zahm had most assuredly placed some of his guards near and around them. As soon as Noboru 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 arsenal.
With wide eyes, Fisher wished them all good luck, then took off with Gillespie. They would hold the ramp intersection, while Hansen, Noboru, and Valentina made their sweep.
Once they reached the medical zone, Noboru 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 Noboru fired, the gun echoing with a 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 Noboru 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, Noboru 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.