first mission alone, thought he was going to really prove himself to the Grim Reaper. Not on Ames’s watch. No, sir.
But when to strike? Ames had an anesthetic dart pistol in his hip pocket, ready for use. He didn’t want to kill Hansen, only incapacitate him, but Kovac had made it clear: Ben Hansen was expendable, as was Sergei Luchenko. The meeting’s security took precedence over all other concerns.
Ames waited another thirty minutes in the lobby. Hansen sat alone in the restaurant, eating a meal. Murdoch, too, sat alone, finishing up dinner. Murdoch paid his bill and stood. Hansen summoned his own waiter. Ames took a deep breath.
“Excuse me, sir?” said a voice at his shoulder.
With a start, Ames shoved his smart phone into his pocket and whirled back to face a skinny man, about forty, with a birdlike face and narrow eyes. “Yes?” Ames answered in Russian.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been watching you now for a while. Are you a guest here at the hotel?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Who are you?”
“I am Boris Svetlanoff, hotel security.” The man offered his hand, and Ames tentatively took it. “Would you mind coming with me?”
Ames hustled to his feet and spotted Murdoch coming into the lobby. Ames’s attention was now riveted on the man.
“Sir, I said: Would you mind coming with me?”
“What?”
The security man shifted in front of Ames, blocking his view of Murdoch — just as Hansen came shifting up behind the businessman.
“Sir, I must insist,” grunted Svetlanoff.
Ames snorted. “I’m not going with you.”
“We just want to ask a few questions. Can you show me your key card?”
Ames tried to step aside and head after Hansen and Murdoch, but once more the security man cut him off. “Sir, you will not leave without talking to us first.”
“Oh, really?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you
At that moment Luchenko appeared in the lobby, and for a few seconds Ames locked gazes with him.
Then, when Ames turned back, a second man was standing beside Svetlanoff. This guy was six feet five, three hundred pounds, and he could have auditioned for a part in one of the old
Ames began swearing to himself. He was going to lose them… for now.
While Murdoch waited outside the hotel lobby for his car and driver to arrive, Hansen strolled down the sidewalk; then he leapt over a low-lying concrete wall, of sorts, that ran parallel to Krygina Street. The wall was just a meter tall, and covered in ice, but it would do. There had once been a wrought-iron fence attached to the top, but the fence had long since been torn down, and its rusting metal supports rose like humps along the spine of stone. Hansen lay behind the wall, drawing his SC pistol and loading up a very particular shell.
His OPSAT read 6:28 P.M. local time. His pulse drummed. He shivered. And then a voice buzzed in his subdermal: “He’s getting in now. Black Mercedes. Very nice. Coming your way.” Sergei had come through.
Hansen waited, and then there it was, the black Mercedes in question, rolling down the street. In the steadily growing darkness, Hansen rolled up onto the wall, bracing himself with his elbows. He held his breath, thought of the wind speed, adjusted his aim… and fired at the car.
His round struck the lower right bumper, and he doubted the occupants had noticed anything more than what seemed like a tire dropping into a little pothole — and the streets were full of them.
The round contained one of the world’s smallest and most effective GPS tracking devices. The average citizen who wanted to spy on his cheating wife could buy a shoe-box-sized unit and secretly install it in the trunk of his wife’s car. That was fine if you had prior access to the vehicle and could find some extra room in one of the wells.
However, Hansen’s tracker was infinitely more advanced and resembled a tarry gray lump that might be easily dismissed as bird droppings stuck to the car. The device’s flexible GPS chip was just 7 ? 6 ? 1.28 millimeters and disguised by the goo. A similar model had been incorporated into the Sticky Cam system used by prior operatives, but this newer unit had better stealth capabilities and extended range because it was designed solely as a beacon. He immediately rolled over and checked his OPSAT for a good signal.
Nothing. He cursed, took a deep breath, and then…
V-TRAC > GPS ENABLED > ONLINE > SIGNAL: 98.563
As the signal-strength numbers continued to fluctuate but remained well within the green, he pushed up, hurried back onto the sidewalk, and jogged up to the hotel, where Sergei waited.
They headed to the parking garage and reached their car, where Hansen pulled his gear box from the trunk and threw it on the backseat. He took a seat beside the box. Sergei got in on the driver’s side and pulled out, giving Murdoch’s Mercedes an appreciable lead and putting several cars between them.
Hansen immediately began slipping into his black bodysuit. The now-standard DARPA Mark V tactical operations suit was, in his humble opinion, overkill for this short-duration op, so he’d packed one of the older models equipped with interwoven Kevlar, a thermoregulation system to maintain its temperature, photosensitive threads to detect a sniper’s laser, and water bladders to keep him hydrated. The suit’s weight, simplicity, and reliability made it a perfect choice. Hansen also tugged on a pair of Blackhawk light assault boots and buckled on his weapons belt. He’d wait to shoulder the backpack, a narrow satchel only 2.5 inches thick. Before leaving the car, he would put on a heavy woolen coat and cap, so that on first glance he could pass for one Korfovka’s fifteen hundred residents, his gear fully hidden from view. He placed the butterfly-shaped SVT on his throat, then activated his OPSAT, notifying Grim that he was online. A few seconds later, her voice sounded through his subdermal:
“Excellent work so far, Ben. We see you’ve tagged Murdoch’s car, and we’re also monitoring the signal. The road out to Korfovka is, in a word, rural, so keep your distance, lights off.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
“Grim will do. Or Grim Reaper — as I’ve heard some of you call me behind my back.”
“No, ma’am. I mean Grim. I mean—”
“Ben, listen carefully. I’ve had my eyes on the satellite feeds. Two cars arrived in Korfovka earlier today. We ID’d Bratus and Zhao, and they’ve just driven from a small restaurant to a pub on the east end of town. Take a look.”
The OPSAT screen switched from the V-TRAC indicator’s multicolored map of the territory to a satellite image, zooming in on a row of single-story buildings, outside of which were parked two late-model sedans. The level of detail was, as always, remarkable.
“Bratus and Zhao are inside, waiting for Murdoch,” Grim added.
“I need more pictures of the place — the roof, the rear entrance.”
“Working on it.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“There’s a storm front moving in. Should be blizzard conditions in three, four hours, which leads me to believe that this meeting will be short, so you’ll need to get in there as quickly as possible.”
“Roger that.”
“All right, more pictures of the pub coming through now. Saving to your OPSAT. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Thanks, Grim.”
Hansen tapped Sergei’s shoulder and handed him the trifocal goggles that had become synonymous with
