Tom Clancy, David Michaels
Endgame
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges the support and cooperation of the following individuals:
Grant Blackwood, for his collaboration, creativity, and great sense of humor.
Vietnam veteran and retired chief warrant officer James Ide, for his considerable technical experience, research assistance, and unceasing passion.
Jackie Fiest, for her proofreading, enthusiasm, and technical knowledge of the Splinter Cell universe.
Tom Colgan, for his continued support and encouragement as editor of these books.
Sam Strachman, for his trust and belief in the Splinter Cell book franchise and caretaking of its ideas.
Tom Clancy, for creating a body of work that continues to inspire readers and writers everywhere.
PROLOGUE
The first blow loosened one of Ben Hansen’s molars and sent his head wrenching to one side.
He never saw the second blow, only felt Rugar’s pointed knuckles drive into his left eye.
Hansen’s head whipped back, then lolled forward as warm blood spilled down his chin.
Now Rugar’s screams grew incomprehensible, like panes of glass shattering across the hangar’s concrete floor.
Hansen tugged at the plastic flex-cuffs cutting into his wrists and binding him to the chair. He finally mustered the energy to face Rugar, who loomed there, a neckless, four-hundred-pound, vodka-soaked beast crowned by an old Soviet Army
Rugar opened his mouth, exposing a jagged fence of yellowed teeth. He shouted and more glass shattered, accompanied by the rattling of two enormous steel doors that had been rolled shut against the wind.
Hansen shivered. It was below freezing now, and their breaths hung heavy in the air. At least the dizziness from the anesthetic was beginning to wear off. He tried to blink, but his left eye did not respond; it was swelling shut.
And then — a flash from Rugar’s hand.
The fat man had confiscated Hansen’s knife.
But that wasn’t just any knife — it was a Fairbairn Sykes World War II-era commando dagger that had once belonged to the elusive Sam Fisher, a Splinter Cell few people knew but whose exploits were legendary among them.
Rugar leaned over and held the blade before Hansen’s face. He spoke more slowly, and the words, though still Russian, finally made sense: “We know why you’ve come. Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live.”
Hansen took a deep breath. “You won’t break me.”
For a moment Rugar just stood there, his cheeks swelling like melons as he labored for his next breath. Suddenly he smiled, his rank breath coming hard in Hansen’s face. “It’s going to be a long night for both of us.”
Rugar’s left ear was pierced, and the gold hoop hanging there caught the overhead lights at such an angle that for a moment all Hansen noticed were those flashes of gold. He realized only after the blood spattered onto his face that Rugar had been shot in the head, the round coming from a suppressed weapon somewhere behind them.
All four hundred pounds of the fat man collapsed onto Hansen, snapping off the chair’s back legs as the knife went skittering across the floor. Hansen now bore the Russian’s full weight across his chest, and he wasn’t sure which would kill him first: suffocation or the sickly sweet stench emanating from Rugar’s armpits.
With a groan, he shoved himself against the fat man’s body and began worming his way out, gasping, grimacing, and a heartbeat away from retching.
He rolled onto his side and squinted across the hangar, toward the pair of helicopters and the shadows along the perimeter wall and mechanics’ stations.
And then he appeared, Sergei Luchenko, Hansen’s runner. The gaunt-faced man was still wearing his long coat and gripping his pistol with its large suppressor. An unlit cigarette dangled from his thin lips.
Hansen sighed deeply. “What happened? Why didn’t you answer my calls?” He groaned over the question. “Strike that. I’m just glad you’re here.”
Sergei walked up to Hansen, withdrew a lighter from his breast pocket, and lit his cigarette.
“How about some help?” Hansen struggled against the flex-cuffs.
“I’m sorry, my friend. They sent me to kill you.”
“Bad joke.”
“It’s no joke.”
Hansen stiffened. “Not you, Sergei.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
Hansen closed his good eye, then spoke through his teeth. “Then why did you save me?”
“I didn’t. The kill must be mine. And… I didn’t want you to suffer.”
“This is not who you are.”
“I’m sorry.” Sergei drew a compact digital video camera from his pocket and hit the RECORD button. He held it close to Hansen. “You see, he is alive. And now…” Sergei raised his pistol.
Hansen cursed at the man.
There would be no life story flashing before Hansen’s eyes; no images of his youth growing up in Fort Stockton, Texas; no scenes from his days at MIT, which he had attended on a full scholarship; no moments from that bar with the director, Anna “Grim” Grimsdottir, who had recruited him out of the CIA to join Third Echelon and become one of the world’s most effective field operatives — a Splinter Cell. No, there would be nothing as dramatic or cinematic as that — just a hot piece of lead piercing his forehead, fracturing his skull, and burying itself deep in his brain before he had a chance to think about it.
The gun thumped. Hansen flinched.
And then… Sergei collapsed sideways onto the concrete, a gaping hole in the back of his head.
Hansen swore again, this time in relief. He squinted into the shadows at the far end of the hangar. “Uh, thank you?”
No reply.
He raised his voice. “Who are you?”
Again, just the wind…
He lay there a few seconds more, just breathing, waiting for his savior to show himself.
One last time. “Who are you?”
Hansen’s voice trailed off into the howling wind and creaking hangar doors. He lay there for another two minutes.
No one came.
Tensing, he wriggled on his side, drawing closer to his knife, which was lying just a meter away. He reached
