Valentina was about to stand and thank Leonard for the interview when the man’s BlackBerry rang.
“Please, let me take this, but wait,” he said. “I want to introduce you to the rest of my staff.”
“All right.”
He shifted away from the desk and headed toward the window.
Suddenly, Hansen’s voice came through her subdermal. “Maya, get out of there. Now!”
Even as she gasped, Leonard cried, “What? Oh, my God!” into his phone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Leonard, I need to go.”
With that she started for the door, which suddenly took a bullet, the wood splintering as she ducked and craned her neck to see two more rounds punch through the office window, the first striking Leonard in the chest, the second in the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the back wall as Valentina dropped to her hands and knees, drew her SC pistol from her purse, and crawled toward the door.
She chanced a look back at Leonard, lying there, bleeding, reaching out to her, his mouth working, a word barely forming: “Please…”
Allen Ames was on the building’s roof when the shooting began. He’d been up there only as an observer, gathering intel on the comings and goings of visitors to the building and hoping to get some up-close-and-personal pics of at least two of Mr. Leonard’s “special” friends from Beijing.
Ames felt at home on rooftops. He’d grown up in Brooklyn and had spent years atop apartment buildings, hanging out with his friends, getting drunk, and dreaming of a better life that would help him forget about the fire… about the screams from Mom and Dad, about Katy’s face at the window, looking at him, coughing… until she fell backward into the flames.
Now, twenty years after that fateful night, Ames was staring down through the telescopic sight of his sniper rifle. The shooter had set up on the roof of a building across the street from Leonard’s and had only revealed himself to take the shots. He’d been in Ames’s sight for all of two heartbeats before he’d vanished behind the air- conditioning units. Ames had been on the roof since sunrise, and he’d neither seen nor heard the shooter’s approach, so the man might have been there even longer and had obviously cloaked his heat signature.
Ames cursed, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and muttered, “I’m going after the shooter.”
The SVT, or subvocal transceiver, a butterfly-shaped adhesive patch on Ames’s throat, just north of his Adam’s apple, picked up his voice so it could be broadcast over the channel for all, including Grim, to hear.
Ames took off, running for the stairwell door, wrenched it open, and began storming down the steps. At just five feet eight and 140 pounds, he was the fastest runner on the team; still, that didn’t stop the others from quipping about his size. Oh, they never ridiculed him to his face, but he overheard their remarks. He didn’t care. He knew he was ten feet tall when standing on his skills and charisma. Moreover, with a little gel worked into his unruly blond hair, he easily added three inches.
How many staircases had he mounted during his tenure as a New York City cop, back at the old 4–8 precinct? Too many to count. And just when he’d grown so cynical that he thought he’d abandon public service forever, he’d joined the National Security Agency (NSA) and become a police officer in Fort Meade, Maryland. They’d given him a nice milestone recruitment incentive, and the money and new mission had lifted his spirits. While there, he’d been tapped for Third Echelon — despite his lack of a special-forces background — and so here he was, back to racing down stairs, trying to help out his fellow Splinter Cells who, of course, had no idea what he really was.
“You don’t have the temperament for this job,” Sam Fisher once told Ames during a particularly brutal training session.
Fisher was a very good judge of character.
A motley crew of overweight soccer moms hopping around like sea lions in spandex, and fifty-year-old cougars who’d left their rich husbands to lust after group fitness instructors half their age had crowded into the Gold’s Gym fitness room for the morning’s body-combat class.
Under the harsh glow of overhead lights that beamed off the waxed wooden floor, the class was in full swing, with the instructor, Greg, booming into a headset while techno music blared from speakers taller than Gillespie.
Kimberly Gillespie had donned her workout gear and stood within a meter of Mrs. Cynthia Leonard, the fabulously wealthy wife of the team’s target. The first break in the music finally came, and they stole a moment to towel off and gulp down their water.
“You’re really good at this,” she told Cynthia.
The woman smoothed back her bleach-blond hair, then blotted sweat off her chest — her impossibly perky boobs threatening to explode from her tight top. “Thanks. I’ve been doing it for a while. Takes time to learn all the punches and kicks. But you look like you’ve had some training.”
Gillespie smiled. “A little bit.”
“I like you’re accent. You’re not from Houston.”
“North Georgia.”
“And I love all that red hair and your freckles. You know, I once dated a man who said he stopped for blondes and brunettes, but he took two steps back for redheads.”
Gillespie chuckled under her breath. “I tend to scare away most men. They don’t step back. They run.”
“All right, ladies, break time is over,” cried Greg.
“My Lord, he’s a real drill sergeant,” said Gillespie.
“Yeah,” Cynthia agreed. “But look at that ass.”
The remark reminded Gillespie of army boot camp, of her old friend Lissette, who helped her get through the misery by making jokes and lusting after all the sergeants. The army had allowed Gillespie to escape from Creekwood Trailer Park and her father’s grocery list of emotional problems and addictions. She’d finally been able to make a name for herself as an intelligence analyst who advised special- forces teams and operations.
Four years in the army, then another four years at University of Central Florida to earn a degree in civil engineering, had prepared her well for a career with the NSA. When she was handpicked by Grim herself to join Third Echelon was one of the proudest moments of Gillespie’s life. Someone had finally noticed her, recognized her skill set, and appreciated her sarcasm and take-no-prisoners attitude.
As they were about to move forward and prepare for the next phase of punishment, Cynthia glanced down at the BlackBerry sitting atop her purse and shifted back to take a call.
Gillespie assumed the fighting stance, then turned as Cynthia suddenly rushed from the room.
2
Allen Ames slammed open the stairwell door and squinted in the brighter light. He charged across the parking lot, threading between parked cars as his senses reached outward for the shooter.
Thankfully, most people were inside and not stopping to watch a semicrazed, darkly clad man running with a rifle slung over his back. But did that even matter now? The operation had already gone so far south that they’d need an icebreaker to get home.
He rounded a row of bushes, mounted the sidewalk, and, at the far corner of the building, he spotted a man emerging from a delivery entrance near a UPS truck.
The guy was no more than five feet five, with a black crew cut, and clearly of Asian descent. He took one look at Ames and sprinted off, a rifle slung over his back.
Leonard’s receptionist was hiding under her desk as Valentina rushed by and broke her heel. She wrenched open the office door, kicked off her shoes, and ran barefoot down the corridor. She found the nearest entry to the stairwell and nearly ran head-on into Hansen, whose glossy eyes and pained expression must have matched her own.
They stomped together down the stairs, with Valentina crying out, “The receptionist can identify me!”
“I know. How the hell did they get to him first?”
