I went. Well, let’s see if they can keep up with me. I inch up my speed to seventy-five. The trees are whipping past at a dizzying rate. I have to forget about the guys behind me in order to concentrate on steering. The last thing I need is to wind my legs around a tree trunk.
Gunfire. I feel the heat of the bullets slicing the air near my head. I duck lower on the vehicle, which hampers my steering capability.
The tracking snowmobiles come closer. I manage to pull myself up and limp to the overturned Taiga. I push it upright, get back on, and start her up again. The right front ski is bent but I think it’ll still go. I accelerate and test the steering mechanism. Not bad. If I cheat to the left a bit, I can get the damned thing to go straight.
More gunfire. Great.
I increase the speed and take off into the darkness just as I hear a spectacular crash behind me. One of the enemy snowmobiles has merged with a tree in a most unpleasant manner. That’s good for me but it’s also set the tree aflame. If the fire spreads it could illuminate the forest and they’ll be able to see me better. Gotta lose these guys and fast.
I press the implant in my throat. “Are you there? Anyone?” I ask.
“We read you, Sam,” Lambert says in my ear.
“You tracking me?” I ask.
“We’ve got you by satellite. I’ll bet you need directions.”
“Please.”
“I’m afraid you can’t go back to the main road to Obukhiv. It’s swarming with troops. Your best bet is to head for the Dnipro.”
“The
“Come on, it can’t be that cold. Your suit will protect you.”
“You want me to
“Dump the snowmobile. Better yet, crash it. Your pursuers will hopefully think you’re dead.”
I shake my head. “Lambert, I’m beginning to feel like an underpaid stuntman. Okay, how far am I from the river?”
I hear Lambert consult with someone off mike, probably Carly or Mike Chan. He comes back and says, “You’re less than a mile away. Take a thirty-degree turn to the left and you’ll be heading straight for it.”
“Thanks. I’m out.” I make the move, dodge another tree, and try to increase my speed. Now the thing’s going about fifty and it’s the best I can do.
Suddenly and without warning, a snowmobile bursts out of the brush in front of me. The headlight nearly blinds me and I have to avert my eyes for a second, steer right, and perform a jump over a fallen log. My Taiga lands awkwardly and spins around. The Russian soldier slows his vehicle and fires a pistol at me. The bullet whizzes over my left shoulder as I duck and skid the Taiga in a half circle to kick up a snow spray. This gives me time to draw the Five-seveN, point it in his direction, and shoot.
Two rounds miss but the third hits the soldier in the chest, knocking him off his vehicle. I holster my gun, turn the Taiga back toward the river, and speed on.
I hear the roar of the water up ahead. I pick a nice thick tree fifty feet away and push the speed as high as it’ll go. At the same time I position myself by crouching on the seat, ready to leap off at the last second. Closer… closer… and I jump, land in the snow, roll, and wait.
The Taiga slams into the tree and bursts into a fireball. The thing is obliterated.
I stand and make my way toward the roar. In three minutes I find myself at the bank of the Dnipro, a wide, snaking river that runs from western Russia through Belarus, and down into Ukraine all the way to the Black Sea. The spot I happened to pick for entry has no easy grade to climb down. I estimate it’s at least a fifty-foot drop.
So I assume a stance, concentrate, take a deep breath, and jump off the bank. I hit the cold water like a knife, relax, and let my natural buoyancy lift me to the surface. Lambert was right. My suit keeps out the frigid temperature, but the ice water bites at my face. I roll so that I’m on my back — which goes a long way toward keeping my face warm — and drift to a place of safety as the strong current carries my horizontal body downstream.
All in a day’s work, because I’m Sam Fisher. And I’m a Splinter Cell.
2
Andrei Zdrok was not a morning person. If he had his way, Zdrok would sleep until noon and retire after midnight. Unfortunately, he had never been able to do that during his entire life. Coming from a family of bankers that did business in the former Soviet Union, it was always “early to bed, early to rise,” etc., and he hated it. Even though he had tremendous wealth, acquired from the banks that did most of the USSR government’s financial business, Zdrok found it difficult to find happiness in the world. When the Soviet Union fell and he founded the arms-dealing black market enterprise known as the Shop, he thought everything would become rosy. For a while, it seemed that it had. But things changed a year ago, after the disastrous dealings with the terrorist group known as the Shadows. The United States’ law enforcement forces, namely the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency, broke through the Shadows’ ranks and destroyed them. A domino effect reverberated through the pipeline back to the Shop, crippling the organization so badly that Zdrok had to pick up roots and move out of Europe. While living in Switzerland was nice, he never cared much for the places he had resided prior to the exodus — namely Russia and Azerbaijan.
He didn’t much like Hong Kong either.
The Shop had set up headquarters in the Far East because the organization had friends there. A particular Triad had done business with the Shop for many years and helped establish a base of operations for Zdrok. The Shop once enjoyed a profitable territory in the Far East, especially in Macau, Indonesia, and the Philippines, until the National Security Agency — once again — caused some damage to the status quo. But there were still Shop operatives in the Far East, ready and willing to go back to work. The territory could be rebuilt. Hong Kong seemed to be the most desirable choice for a new base, despite the fact that the former British colony was now under Communist Chinese rule. Zdrok’s friends had assured him that business in Hong Kong had continued “as usual,” that is, in a capitalist state of mind, after the 1997 handover. This economic philosophy was
Zdrok walked east on Hollywood Road in the Sheung Wan district, one of the more popular areas of Hong Kong Island. The streets, occupied by antique and curio shops, Buddhist and Taoist temples, eateries, and oddly, coffin makers, always seemed to smell badly to Zdrok. In fact, the whole of Hong Kong smelled. They didn’t call it “Fragrant Harbour” for nothing. At least up on the Peak, where he rented a modest but comfortable bungalow, the air was fresh. His accommodations were a far cry from what he had been used to, especially most recently in Switzerland, but they would do. What he disliked was coming to work, and that brought him down to Sheung Wan.
He turned north and then east again onto Upper Lascar Row, known locally as “Cat Street.” Zdrok had no idea why it was called that. There weren’t any cats that he could see. Just more antique shops. And one of them was the front for the Shop.
Zdrok unlocked the door to the “Hong Kong-Russian Curios” storefront, a place that had been there for ages but had recently undergone a name change. Jon Ming, venerable leader of the Lucky Dragons Triad, had smoothed the way for Zdrok’s visa and business license and taken care of other administrative hurdles. So far everything had worked smoothly. Now if he could just get used to the smell.
He went through the legitimate shop, which was full of all manner of junk that Zdrok couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy (but they did — the store actually showed a small profit) and stepped through the door behind the counter. It was still too early for the regular shop employees to be there. He paused at a mirror and took a look at
