I anticipate this and beat him to it. Lo isn’t a fighter — he’s more of a brains guy, so he isn’t equipped to handle the chokehold I lock around his head. My arm muffles his cries as I pop his head forward, snapping the surprisingly brittle bones in his neck. He collapses to the floor just as the sound of running boots outside grows louder. There’s no time to get into the ventilation shaft, so I press myself flat against the wall next to the door.
It bursts open and three armed security guards rush inside to find Lo and Wong dead on the floor. Their shock and dismay give me the opportunity to slip out behind them through the open door. There’s no way I can do it without detection, though. One of them shouts something like “There he is!” and the guards are after me.
I run down the corridor to the staircase I know is straight ahead. It’s the only way out at this point. Instead of taking the steps, I leap over the rail and land in a crouching position in the middle of the lower flight. I take the remaining steps three at a time and I’m on the ground floor. By now, of course, a few more guards have been alerted to my presence. In fact, one guy is running at me from the direction of the big gaming room. He shouts and I dart toward him. He pulls a Smith & Wesson out of his holster, but I leap at the corridor wall, bounce off of it by kicking with the soles of my boots, and propel myself into him. He tumbles back as I gracefully land on my fingertips, do a split-second handstand, and then jackknife in the air to alight on my feet.
The nearest exit is the front door of the building. To get there I have to traverse the gaming room. Unlike many Macau casinos, the Tropical has one big gaming room — much like the casinos in Las Vegas — whereas others in Macau might have separate rooms for different games. Here you have blackjack, roulette, poker, baccarat, slot machines, and a couple of weird Chinese gambling games I’ve never heard of, all in one big space. At this hour there aren’t many patrons, so I decide to give them something to talk about when they go to work the next day. I run into the room and dart through an aisle of blackjack tables.
The place is deadly silent. The fifteen or so gamblers look up from their various games and stare, open- mouthed. The dealers are too shocked to move. Who’s this
Part of my extensive training with Third Echelon involved learning to utilize my surroundings to propel myself quickly. I can use walls, furniture, and human beings as push-off points in order to get across an obstacle course. When I saw other guys doing it, I immediately thought of pinballs doing their thing inside arcade machines — and that’s precisely the concept behind the technique. It’s especially effective when someone’s shooting at you. A moving target that haphazardly changes direction is truly difficult to hit.
Now that the bullets are flying, the casino guests naturally shout in fear and cower. Some are smart enough to fall to the ground as I spring past them. The two guards, now blocking my exit, are firing their weapons indiscriminately, hoping to land a lucky shot. I have no choice but to act offensively. I duck behind a table, draw my Five-seveN and release the safety. It’s the Fabrique Nationale Herstal tactical model with a single-action trigger and a twenty-round magazine that holds 5.7?28mm ss190 ammunition. The rounds offer good penetration against modern body armor while keeping the weapon’s weight, dimensions, and recoil at reasonable levels. The damage the rounds do to unarmored bodies is something to behold. It’s a weapon I don’t like to use in full-scale fire-fights, though. It has a fairly limited range, so I mostly use it in situations where I know I’ll have the advantage. Like this one.
I reach around the bottom leg of the table and fire—
I hear a shouted command behind me, followed by more gunfire. I glance back and see three more security guards running into the room. Damn, where did all these guys come from at this time of night? You’d think that at four in the morning they’d keep just one or two on duty to save money. I suppose bad guys all over the world retain guards in reserve for that one instance when an American operative barges through HQ in the middle of the night.
I reach for the pocket on my right outer thigh and remove a smoke grenade, one of the more harmless ones. I carry a couple of different types of smoke grenades — one that only produces dark smoke to cover my tracks, and another one filled with CS, or what tongue-twister lovers call O-chlorobenzalmalononitrile gas. That stuff is nasty. Exposure to CS gas causes violent respiratory seizure, and prolonged contact produces unconsciousness. I pull the ring and toss the grenade behind me and wait for the loud pop. The thing works surprisingly fast. Black smoke fills the gaming room in less than five seconds. It’s almost as if someone simply turned off the lights. With my goggles on I’m spared the eye irritation and can also see the archway out of the room.
I run into the casino’s main lobby and past a couple of frightened patrons. The entrance guards must have left their posts to chase me in the gaming room, because I’m home free. I push the glass doors open and bolt down the steps to the street. It’s still dark, of course, but lighting from the street lamps illuminates the area quite well. The few casinos on the street are still open. It will be a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before more trouble appears on the scene.
I make my way around the building to the small parking lot and go to the first SUV I see. It’s a Honda, one of their luxury utility vehicles. I drop to the cement and roll underneath the car. Taking hold of the chassis, I pull myself up and lodge my body into the crevice so I can’t be seen from ground level. I spring a hook that’s embedded in my belt buckle and latch it on to the chassis to help hold me in place.
Sure enough, I hear running footsteps and shouts. The guards make it outside and begin to search the parking lot thoroughly. I imagine the looks of bewilderment on their faces. Where the hell did he go? He couldn’t have disappeared so quickly!
I see feet run past the SUV. More shouts. More confusion. The guards’ boss is yelling at them, cursing in Chinese. It’s going to be his head for this! Find that
It takes them ten minutes before they give up. They figure the intruder must have gone in another direction. I wait another five minutes to make sure it’s completely quiet, and then I lower myself to the cement. I look around for signs of people’s feet. Nothing. I roll out from under the Honda, look both ways, and then rise to a crouching position. I slowly lift my head over the hood and survey the parking lot. I’m alone.
I leave the property the way I came, using the shadows to mask my presence. I move like a tomcat, quiet and unobtrusive, sticking to walls and street objects. Stealth is the name of the game and I’m damned good at it.
As missions go, this one went relatively smoothly. No mission is “easy,” per se. They all have their challenges. I can’t take anything for granted and I must be certain that I do my job invisibly. That’s what being a Splinter Cell is all about. Leave no footprints. Get in. Get out. You’re done.
A Splinter Cell works alone. A remote team monitors and supports me — professionals that are damned good at their jobs, too — but it’s my ass that’s out there in the line of fire. Every move must be thought out as if the field were a gigantic chessboard. A single mistake can be fatal.
I like to think I don’t make mistakes. I’m Sam Fisher. I am a Splinter Cell.
2
Lieutenant Colonel Dirk Verbaken looked at his watch and decided to get going. He had forty minutes before the rendezvous — more than enough time — but he had to allow for unforeseen surprises.
He stood, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of his office. He addressed his personal assistant with a simple “I’ll be at lunch.” She nodded and noted the time. Verbaken walked down the hall, pausing at the door to the men’s room. He nudged the door ajar but didn’t go in. Verbaken felt a twinge of trepidation as he looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he skirted across the hall to the File Room. He knew it would be empty at this time of day.
Rules at the Intelligence and Security Staff Department were very strict, especially when it came to removing files from the building. Anyone wishing to take something from the File Room had to perform a bureaucratic song and dance that involved way too much red tape. A paper trail was kept and the chances of questions coming up
