Read Online State of Emergency by Sam Fisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sam Fisher
Tags: thriller
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'Stitch,' he gasped, as Pete
looked at him. 'It'll pass.'
Pete put his hand on Josh's sodden back. 'It's right ahead
– at the end of the path.'
Josh looked up to see a narrow opening between two jutting
rocks, and beyond that the absolute black of a cave mouth.
For a few seconds they felt very exposed as they plunged
into the gap between the rocks. They both knew it was
a perfect moment for the last Hunter to strike, and they
brandished their knives as they dashed forward. Once
through the gap, they followed a path with a rock wall
to their left. An impenetrable mesh of vines and lianas lay to
their right. Six paces on and they reached the cave.
The cool of the shade felt like a panacea, but they had no
time to enjoy it. 'We've got a minute, at best, to find him,'
Josh said, stepping deeper into the blackness.
It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, but gradually
shapes materialised. There were large rock projections
on either side. The floor was soft with a carpet of rotting
vegetation. It stank.
Josh stopped for a second and leaned forward, his hand
on his side.
Pete thought he looked on the point of collapse. 'You
okay, man?'
Josh nodded weakly but couldn't speak.
They both heard a rustling sound from further inside the
cave. A torch beam cut through the semi-darkness and they
saw a figure standing on a shelf of rock. His features were
obscured by the dazzling light.
The man stepped down to meet them, the torch bobbing.
He switched it off. 'I'm so glad you've found me,' he said,
lifting his hand. It held a small metal box. He took another
step towards Josh and Pete and they finally saw the man's
face.
'Mark!'
'Game over,' Mark said. He pushed a button on the device
in his hand and the sensors woven into the back of their
cybersuits went off. The sound reverberated around the rock
walls.
'Great try, guys, but no cigar,' Mark said, handing them
each a water bottle. 'And the moral is – trust no one!'
17
CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The tall man in a grey suit and blue tie and wearing spectacles
with Armani turtle-shell frames was seated at the head of a
long, walnut table reading a report. His assistant – younger,
shorter and in a black suit and grey tie – tapped on the glass
door to the room and walked in. He strode the length of
the room to the head of the table. The taller man indicated
the assistant should sit.
'What is it?'
'This, sir. Just in from MI5.' The assistant slid a piece of
paper across the smooth walnut.
The taller man read silently, then leaned back in his chair
and removed his glasses. 'Sounds like horseshit to me,' he
said, fixing his assistant with hard, black eyes.
'The Brits appear to be taking it seriously, sir. They've
gone to orange.'
The taller man gave his assistant a sceptical look. 'And you
think they know something we don't? Something planned
on American soil?'
The younger man shrugged. 'There's more.'
The taller man's face was impassive. The assistant handed
him another sheet of paper and the boss put his glasses back
on. 'From the Bureau an hour ago,' the assistant said as his
superior read in silence.
A minute passed and the boss placed the paper on the
table. 'More speculation.'
'Perhaps, sir. But it comes from a field operative, Freddie
Neilson.'
'Neilson? Well, that settles it. It is horseshit!'
The assistant allowed himself a faint smile. Neilson was
famous in the FBI – and infamous among the conservatives
in the CIA. Perceived as a hero by some and a fool by others,
to say Freddie Neilson was no team player would have been
like saying Bill Gates was comfortably off. But he had more
scalps to his name than any other serving operative, and
that was just about the only reason he had kept drawing a
pay cheque from the Bureau.
'Apparently, Neilson was following his own leads, deep
under cover. Wouldn't say anything to anyone about it,
following his own agenda.'
'Yeah, that sounds about right. I've never understood why
our friends at the
looked at him. 'It'll pass.'
Pete put his hand on Josh's sodden back. 'It's right ahead
– at the end of the path.'
Josh looked up to see a narrow opening between two jutting
rocks, and beyond that the absolute black of a cave mouth.
For a few seconds they felt very exposed as they plunged
into the gap between the rocks. They both knew it was
a perfect moment for the last Hunter to strike, and they
brandished their knives as they dashed forward. Once
through the gap, they followed a path with a rock wall
to their left. An impenetrable mesh of vines and lianas lay to
their right. Six paces on and they reached the cave.
The cool of the shade felt like a panacea, but they had no
time to enjoy it. 'We've got a minute, at best, to find him,'
Josh said, stepping deeper into the blackness.
It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, but gradually
shapes materialised. There were large rock projections
on either side. The floor was soft with a carpet of rotting
vegetation. It stank.
Josh stopped for a second and leaned forward, his hand
on his side.
Pete thought he looked on the point of collapse. 'You
okay, man?'
Josh nodded weakly but couldn't speak.
They both heard a rustling sound from further inside the
cave. A torch beam cut through the semi-darkness and they
saw a figure standing on a shelf of rock. His features were
obscured by the dazzling light.
The man stepped down to meet them, the torch bobbing.
He switched it off. 'I'm so glad you've found me,' he said,
lifting his hand. It held a small metal box. He took another
step towards Josh and Pete and they finally saw the man's
face.
'Mark!'
'Game over,' Mark said. He pushed a button on the device
in his hand and the sensors woven into the back of their
cybersuits went off. The sound reverberated around the rock
walls.
'Great try, guys, but no cigar,' Mark said, handing them
each a water bottle. 'And the moral is – trust no one!'
17
CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The tall man in a grey suit and blue tie and wearing spectacles
with Armani turtle-shell frames was seated at the head of a
long, walnut table reading a report. His assistant – younger,
shorter and in a black suit and grey tie – tapped on the glass
door to the room and walked in. He strode the length of
the room to the head of the table. The taller man indicated
the assistant should sit.
'What is it?'
'This, sir. Just in from MI5.' The assistant slid a piece of
paper across the smooth walnut.
The taller man read silently, then leaned back in his chair
and removed his glasses. 'Sounds like horseshit to me,' he
said, fixing his assistant with hard, black eyes.
'The Brits appear to be taking it seriously, sir. They've
gone to orange.'
The taller man gave his assistant a sceptical look. 'And you
think they know something we don't? Something planned
on American soil?'
The younger man shrugged. 'There's more.'
The taller man's face was impassive. The assistant handed
him another sheet of paper and the boss put his glasses back
on. 'From the Bureau an hour ago,' the assistant said as his
superior read in silence.
A minute passed and the boss placed the paper on the
table. 'More speculation.'
'Perhaps, sir. But it comes from a field operative, Freddie
Neilson.'
'Neilson? Well, that settles it. It is horseshit!'
The assistant allowed himself a faint smile. Neilson was
famous in the FBI – and infamous among the conservatives
in the CIA. Perceived as a hero by some and a fool by others,
to say Freddie Neilson was no team player would have been
like saying Bill Gates was comfortably off. But he had more
scalps to his name than any other serving operative, and
that was just about the only reason he had kept drawing a
pay cheque from the Bureau.
'Apparently, Neilson was following his own leads, deep
under cover. Wouldn't say anything to anyone about it,
following his own agenda.'
'Yeah, that sounds about right. I've never understood why
our friends at the
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