And then Sergei wondered why he was crouched there, just watching. Why hadn't he already reacted? Would he let the fat man kill Hansen? Why not? Wasn't it easier that way? But then, what about Victoria? He needed to ensure that she would not be harmed, and all he had left was the mission.
"You won't break me." Hansen gasped.
The fat man grinned and leaned over to stare directly into Hansen's eyes. "It's going to be a long night for both of us."
I don't think so,thought Sergei.
AMESwas at a precipice between sheer panic and utter violence. The bile was already gathering at the back of his throat, and he clutched his binoculars with a white-knuckled grip.
Then--as if watching Bratus kill everyone wasn't enough, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, one Allen Ames, Third Echelon operative and NSA mole--someone from somewhere took a shot at the Russian operative, who'd been standing by his car, on the phone.
Bratus's head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser, and he dropped out of sight behind his car.
Trembling and swearing aloud, Ames scanned the area. He searched the low-lying forest, the ditches, the hangar areas, and all along the service road.
It was as though the bullet had been fired by an apparition that had dematerialized into the night.
Now everyone--save Bratus's fat driver, Hansen, and Sergei--was dead. Ames thought of that Anvil case inside Bratus's car. If he could recover it . . . But there was a shooter out there.
As much as he hated the decision, Ames knew what he had to do. Nothing. Except watch.
SERGEIslid from behind the tool cart, took aim at the fat man, and fired a single suppressed round into the back of the man's head.
As the Russian fell forward, Sergei sighed and shrank behind the cart, just breathing and wondering if he could go through with the rest.
And then, for just a few seconds, his hackles rose and he sensed that someone else was inside the hangar.
He craned his neck, shot glances toward the big doors, the office, and all along the workstations. The shadows seemed to come alive as his paranoia grew, and he imagined a man dressed all in black and wearing trifocal goggles. He leapt down from an impossibly high rafter, stood before Sergei, and tore off his goggles.
It was Hansen, who took a deep breath and said, "Don't kill me."
Sergei ground his teeth, shuddered off the image, then reached into his breast pocket and dug out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, stood, and moved around the cart.
Hansen had dug himself out from beneath the fat Russian and was lying there, asking questions.
Sergei barely heard the man. He grabbed his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.
They talked, and it was a like dream, the words floating on currents of blood that wound their way through a dark forest at the end of which lay Victoria, on a stone altar, her hands folded over her chest, her skin alabaster white to match her diaphanous dress, which fell in great waves across the mossy earth.
Sergei took a deep breath and stared through the image and finally saw Hansen. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, but he feared that if he turned his apology into a speech, by the time he finished, his pistol would be back on his belt and he'd be helping Hansen off the floor.
All Sergei really wanted to do was thank Hansen for what he'd done in the past, for his unconditional friendship, for his belief that Sergei, despite his failures, could still make something of his life. Even Sergei's own father did not believe in him the way Hansen had.
Hansen deserved the truth. At the very least. Sergei apologized and added, "They sent me to kill you."
That was all he wanted to say.
But Hansen demanded the details, so without hesitation he supplied them. And again, he wanted to say so much more, to somehow justify what he was doing, but there were no words that could ever do that. All he could say was, "I didn't want to see you suffer."
When he showed Hansen the camera, his old friend cursed at him, and that was all right. That was natural. And that helped, didn't it? It was better if the man hated him.
Sergei had been thinking about how they'd been trained to deal with torture, and now he would use the same methods to steel himself against the killing of a friend.
He was now a being of cold flesh and function.
Action. Reaction.
There was the camera, the tiny screen with its crystal-clear image of Hansen lying on the floor, glowering at him, but there were no emotions now, just the camera in one hand, the gun in the other, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
"You see, he is alive," Sergei began for his audience of NSA thugs. "And now--"
A sharp pain woke deep inside his head, and for a heartbeat he thought he was falling forward, the world tipping on its side and framed in darkness.
He didn't feel the concrete, but he sensed he was on it and realized with a curious resignation that he'd been shot, that he wouldn't have to worry about forgiveness or about them killing Victoria or about a career or about anything else except what lay out there, waiting for him. . . .
11
HANSENhad braced himself for death. He'd always imagined that if he were captured, he would use his last breath to curse his enemy and never, ever be broken. It was one of those grand dramatic moments in his mind's eye, brought fully to life by his inflated ego and his arrogance.
And, yes, at that second when he knew Sergei would not change his mind, that his buddy from the CIA would not only kill him but record the act for his bosses, Hansen had fulfilled that promise and taken the starring role in the climax of his life. He had cursed at Sergei, yes, but his thoughts had not focused with rage on what was happening. He could only ask two questions: Was it going to hurt? And was there something more beyond this life?
The questions hung before him even as he faced the ugly truth that his own runner had been blackmailed into turning against him, and that his death wasn't going to be glorious or noble or memorable . . . just pathetic.
Then came another improbable turn of events as Sergei himself was taken out by a shooter so stealthy that Hansen had wondered if the shot had come from some higher power. His father would attribute the miracle to the "visitors" who'd always been here among us. No, a little green man or a "gray" had not saved Hansen. The bullet and the blood had been real, and while the shooter was seemingly incorporeal and godlike, those facts remained.
Hansen did a quick search of the hangar but came up empty. His savior must've had a very good reason for concealing his identity, and that was already driving him mad with curiosity. As he frantically gathered up his gear, his neck felt warm, and he swung around and screamed again, "Who are you?"
His voice echoed off the metal walls.
It occurred to him only then--and he would later attribute the oversight to the pummeling he'd received from Rugar--that he hadn't checked outside to be fully aware of his current situation. He rushed to the front door, eased it open, and peered out.
He saw the cars, and then . . . there was Bratus's body lying supine and draped in snow.
Hansen ducked back inside and glanced at Sergei, whose head was turned to one side, his eyes as vacant as a mannequin's. Swallowing back the bile creeping up his throat, Hansen rifled through his old friend's pockets and found Sergei's satellite phone, but, of course, it was password protected. He pocketed it anyway. He removed Sergei's OPSAT, pressed the dead man's thumb to the screen, and saw that it was still being jammed like his own. He then went to Rugar and took the fat man's wallet and smart phone. Curiously, when he opened the Russian's phone and tried to pull up numbers, the address book and call logs had been erased.