Sam Fisher- Cottonball Cocktail

  He found the servants' changing room, a small closet off the laundry room, by the garage door, and found a white smock and a pair of khaki pants and sandals that fit reasonably well, then went to the kitchen.

  SITTING on the counter were a dozen liquor bottles, but the emptiest ones seemed to be those needed for mojitos. Perhaps it was time for a special Sam Fisher concoction. He found a glass pitcher in one of the cabinets, mixed up a batch of mojitos, then set it aside and turned to his SC-20. How many? he wondered. Three men, four women, all already drunk . . . He ejected five Cottonballs from the rifle's modular magazine, dropped them in the pitcher, and then, using a long grilling fork, probed the liquid until he'd perforated all the Cottonballs. He waited three minutes to let the tranquilizer diffuse, then gave the pitcher a good stir, added ice, found a silver tray and six highball mugs, and poured. Finally, he shoved the SC pistol into his waistband and headed for the door. He paused before the foyer mirror to check himself, then stepped out.

  He was halfway down the terrace steps before he was noticed. Welcoming shouts and cheers rose from the group around the pool, and by the time Fisher reached the deck they were walking toward him. Fisher's Portuguese was rudimentary, but his French was better, so he switched mental gears and said in French-accented, halting Portuguese, "Mojitos. Senhor Zahm's compliments."

  The sweating glasses disappeared from the tray. Fisher turned to leave but was stopped short by a shout from one of Zahm's men: "Hey, I thought Charles gave you guys the night off."

  Fisher turned. "No, sir. I am here."

  "You're not Alberto." The man pointed a wobbly finger at the embroidered name on Fisher's smock.

  "No, senhor. Pierre." Fisher gave the man a subservient smile.

  "Huh. Pierre."

  "Yes, senhor."

  "Okay, then. Keep 'em coming, Pierre."

  "Yes, senhor."

  Fisher walked back to the steps and started upward. When the curve of the stairs blocked the pool area from view, he stopped, crouched down, and set aside the tray. He crab-walked back down until he could again see the pool. He was under no illusion about his Cottonball ruse: The tranquilizer would probably not be enough to render everyone unconscious. What it would do--what he was now seeing--was effectively double the group's inebriation level and give him the advantage he needed. One of the women, the skinniest of the group, was the first to react, stumbling toward a chaise lounge, where she collapsed, giggling and holding her mojito glass aloft in a babbled toast.

  Fisher gave it another ninety seconds, then retrieved his tray and trotted back down the steps. As he walked onto the deck, he held the tray up to shoulder height with his left hand as though announcing the arrival of another round, while reaching behind him and gripping the butt of the SC with his right hand. He walked directly to the densest cluster of people--two of the men and two of the women--and closed the distance to ten feet before he was noticed.

  "Hey, there!" one of the men called. "More--"

  Fisher let the tip of his foot catch a seam in the deck and stumbled forward, dropping the tray as he did so. As it sailed toward the group's feet, he drew the SC, brought it up, and fired three times in rapid succession, taking down both men and one of the women. The fourth one reacted surprisingly fast for a drunk, spinning on her heel and running toward the couple who stood twenty feet away. She got halfway there before Fisher's dart in the nape of her neck took her down. Even before she sprawled to the deck, Fisher shifted aim and fired again, taking out the woman on the chaise lounge. He turned, focused on the couple. From eight feet he fired twice, but a gust of wind took both darts wide, giving the man a chance to reach toward the gun in his waistband. Fisher fired again and this time the dart struck home, hitting him in the hollow of the throat. Beside him, the woman stood still, her arms raised and her mouth agape.

  "Please, don't--"

  Fisher darted her in the thigh. She went down.

  He spun, SC extended, looking for more targets. There were none.

- Conviction, Chapter 21