THEteam got into the city, then ventured northwest toward the outskirts and a bean-shaped lake. Up ahead lay an intersection, with the shoreline road curving toward the northwest, a second road heading west, and a third swinging down east, back toward the city. The rain had tapered off, but Hansen felt the wind continue to buffet the car.

Ames began to pull farther ahead of him, and Gillespie, who was riding shotgun, urged Hansen to accelerate. Ames's car vanished over the next hill.

"Wow, he's really flying. He'd better slow down."

"He knows more than he's saying."

"At this point, I don't care. I'm just glad he came up with something. I'm just glad we're not being played for fools anymore."

"How do you know that?" she asked. "How do you know this hasn't been all planned by them?"

"Kim, please. Just don't go there!"

AMESsaw the man coming out of the grass, the suit, the goggles. . . .

But just for an instant. Ames was driving too fast.

"I don't believe it!" he cried. "That's him!"

He jammed on the brakes and threw the Audi into reverse. "I got him! I got him!"

"HE'Son foot, running southeast." Ames's voice shot through Hansen's subdermal. "We need to get back!"

They'd donned their suits, and goggles, and were armed for hunting bear, a.k.a. Fisher, so Hansen immediately flipped down his visor and went to night vision as he swung the car around and found himself now in the lead, heading back down the road they'd just come up. The grainy green fields on either side of the car appeared much more distinct now, unrolling in long, lazy waves.

"SLOWdown," hollered Valentina. She was sitting in the driver's-side rear seat of Ames's car and rolled down her window. She directed a flashlight into the ditch and let it pan up toward the tree line. "Wait . . . there!"

Fisher, wearing a tac-suit and Tridents, appeared in the light, but in the blink of an eye he was lost in the trees beyond. Valentina's map told her the trees were simply a narrow stretch bordering two fields.

"Just keep going," she told Ames. "The road will curve around and we can flush him the next field over, behind the trees."

"I hear that, baby. I'm on it!" cried Ames.

"Baby? Shut up and drive!"

ONValentina's advice, Hansen had veered off and was now heading east toward a wooden bridge. His first instinct was to have Valentina and the others chase Fisher on foot, but there was a good chance Fisher would double back--he was an expert at that--so Hansen sent them to flush Fisher while he served as a blocking force. It was a classic pincer movement, and Fisher would no doubt recognize it, but it was better than a foot chase.

Hansen swung his head around and stole a look at the field, where he spotted Fisher running, but he wouldn't stop and would maintain observation for the flushing team. Trees abruptly cut off his view.

"I've lost him," said Ames.

"Me, too," answered Hansen, pulling up the map on his OPSAT. "All right, we'll search the ditches. You guys check out that wedge of trees. You see it on the map?"

"I see it," said Valentina.

They spent the next thirty minutes combing through the woods and the field and ditches, and the only conclusion they reached was that Fisher had reached the larger forest to the east, where there'd be thousands of acres to search.

Gillespie met up with Hansen back at their car. "Check the map. Anything in those woods?"

"Just a campground. And this little town, Scheuerof, over here," he said, tapping his OPSAT's screen.

"What if he left his car at the campground?" she asked. "To get out, he'd follow this road here through Scheuerof."

"But what if he heads south?"

"I think he'll keep heading east toward the German border. More rural, more cover. But you never know."

Hansen nodded. "Let's take a shot. I say we get up there and see if we can cut him off."

Hansen told Ames the plan, and they met on the road heading east toward Scheuerof. As they passed through the little down, they spotted a police car, lights flashing, heading in the opposite direction, and then, a few minutes later, another one.

Gillespie patched herself directly into the local police channel and reported, "There was some kind of incident up at the campground."

Hansen grinned to himself. "Fisher. We're close now."

"Why don't we just call Moreau? If Fisher's in his car, Moreau can see him right now."

"And he can lie to us about that," Hansen shot back. "No way. We're doing this on our own."

30

NEAR VIANDEN, LUXEMBOURG HEADING TOWARD THE GERMAN BORDER

HANSEN'Sdetermination to work alone and stay the course paid off. They spotted the Range Rover heading east about a mile ahead of them. Gillespie zoomed in with her night-vision binoculars and confirmed that Fisher was behind the wheel. She even saw him consulting an OPSAT, either Ames's or one he'd procured from the weapons cache in Bavigne.

They were racing down a winding road with a series of dips and bends that challenged Hansen's driving skills. Each time Fisher reached the crest of a hill, Hansen was better able to gauge his lead. Audi versus Range Rover? There was no competition, unless Fisher was actually driving Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and planned to fly over the treetops.

"I'm right behind you, Boss," said Ames through the subdermal.

Hansen had not asked the man for an update. "Uh, yeah, I can see you," he said sarcastically, stealing a look in his rearview mirror.

"Don't slow down."

"Ames, we'll catch up to him. Relax."

Fisher disappeared once again. The road grew dark. Hansen accelerated a bit more, rose up and over the next crest, and started down.

Lights appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road.

Reverselights.

Hansen's mouth fell open. Fisher had stopped dead, waited for them, and thrown the Rover into reverse. He was now barreling backward, directly toward them.

With the better part of three seconds to react, Hansen jammed on the brakes, and while the Audi's sophisticated antilock braking and traction- control systems immediately kicked in, he still found himself skidding across the road, past the Range Rover, and sliding up onto the right-side shoulder. And then, with a jerk, the car dropped, as though on the rails of a roller coaster, and began to plunge down the embankment.

Hansen corrected course, rolling the wheel and taking the car back up toward the pavement as Gillespie clutched a handle near the passenger's-side window and said, "The son of a bitch was never a good driver!"

As they neared the top of the embankment, Hansen hit the brakes hard, burning rubber to a stop, front tires now up on the pavement, back still on the dirt.