Endgame (Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell #6)
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The National Security Agency's top-secret initiative to protect the United States from potential threats has been dubbed the Third Echelon. It deploys a lone field operative. He is sharp, nearly invisible, and deadly. And he has the right to spy, steal, destroy, and assassinate to protect American freedoms.
His name is Sam Fisher. He is a Splinter Cell®Third Echlon.
Operative Fisher knows that several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. What he doesn’t know is that a stunning piece of evidence has been uncovered that points to the mole who sold out his government…
be tracking it.” “Any idea who they are?” Noboru braced himself. This time he would have to lie. “Not sure who they are.” “Kovac’s people, no doubt. All right.” Hansen faced the others. “Moreau’s a tough nut to crack, but here’s what I got out of him. For all intents and purposes, Kovac wants Fisher dead. And he’s pressing Grim hard to make it happen. Grim, of course, would like to talk to Sam before we put a bullet in his head. You don’t shoot your best friend for no reason. So if we ever
25 HANSEN was at the exact opposite end of the foundry from where Fisher was escaping, and it might as well have been on the opposite end of the universe. Hansen’s competitive nature and jealousy had boiled up to the surface; he wanted to be the operative who captured Fisher. Maybe that sounded immature—something Ames would no doubt admit and not apologize for—but the desire was there and Hansen needed to wrestle with it while maintaining control of his team and always putting the mission
time. Fisher was a meticulous planner and was no doubt mapping every inch of his target, which might be why Moreau and Grim were so keen on stalling the team. Finally, at about 1:20 in the morning, while watching porn with the sound turned off, Ames saw three flashes of light strike the nearby window. Hansen and Noboru were fast asleep. Ames told Hansen that he was going down to the exercise room, that he couldn’t sleep and thought some cardio might help him out. Hansen groaned, muttered
free. To that end, Hansen now stood deep within the subterranean confines of the NSA, in a sector that did not exist. With some trepidation, he swiped his ID badge through the reader, listened for the muted beep, and the LED turned green. He found Grim seated alone at the diamond-shaped conference table inside the situation room. All around her, intelligence seemed to course through the room’s veins, the unseen servers reverberating like a thousand heartbeats per second. Big-screen LCD status
sorry. Maybe you’re right. Or maybe he overestimated his chances. I think we need to be realistic. He’s a ballsy guy, but driving off a bridge? Man, that’s insane.” Moreau took in a long breath. “If I had to bet on it, I’d say he drowned.” THEY booked a few rooms at the Holiday Inn just north of the airport and waited while Moreau and Gillespie monitored police communications and checked back with the NSA via the Trinity System. The local news stations were all over the story, and Hansen