by Mark Greaney
No one could disappear more quickly or cleanly than the thirty-six-year-old American.
As Court walked towards the subway, he decided to place one more important item at the front of his to-do list. He smelled fresh coffee wafting from a little café just opening. And at that moment he felt he needed coffee as much as he needed a gun.
He was wrong.
A dense fog filled the dark street in front of the café, and it began to rain just as Court climbed up a pair of steps and entered the tiny eatery. It was just five thirty; he had the impression he was the first customer of the day. Court knew enough Czech to extend a greeting to the young girl behind the counter. He pointed to a steaming urn of coffee and a large pastry, watched the pale-skinned girl pour a foam cup full of rich black brew and place his breakfast in a bag.
Just then the doorbell dinged behind him. He glanced back to see three men enter, close umbrellas, and shake fresh rain from their coats. They looked local, but Court could not be sure. The first man glanced up at him as Gentry took his purchases over to a tiny stand with milk and sugar to dress his coffee.
Court looked at a glass-covered flyer promoting a poetry reading that hung on the wall, gazed idly at the window at his right, towards the dark and rainy street.
A few seconds later, he was out in the elements, ignoring the cold morning shower and walking towards the metro station at Mustek. There were no other pedestrians around; the cold and the rain and the early hour saw to that. Court did not mind the frigid air; he appreciated its ability to inject life into his tired muscles and still-fatigued brain. A few delivery trucks were about, and Gentry looked into the wet windshields of each as they passed. He found the entrance to the metro and descended the steep stairs. His still-tired eyes adjusted slowly to the harsh electric lighting around him, the cold, white tile reflecting the illumination from above.
He followed signs down a winding tunnel towards the trains. Another escalator took him deeper below the sleepy city, and another turn took him even farther into the brightly lit bowels of the metro station.
Shortly before a right turn in the passage, he passed a garbage can. In it he dropped his untouched coffee and his bag of pastry. Then he made the right turn, took two more steps, and stopped.
He flexed his muscles quickly. His arms, back, legs, neck, even his jaw tensed.
Then he reached into his waistband for his folding knife. He retrieved it and flicked it open, the maneuver executed in an impossible blur of speed and proficiency.
He spun around, took a single step back the way he came, leapt into the air to cover as much ground as quickly as possible, and plunged the three-inch blade hilt-deep into the throat of the first man following him.
The man was thick and hard and tall and broad. His meaty right hand grasped a stainless steel automatic pistol. Gentry grabbed the wrist of the gun hand and held the muzzle down and away, lest the dying man’s spasms cause the weapon to fire.
Court took no time to look into the square-jawed man’s eyes; had he done so, he would have seen shock and confusion long before the onset of panic or pain. Instead, the Gray Man pushed the man backwards to the tunnel’s corner, slammed him into the second would-be assassin, and caught this man as he was rounding the turn and pulling his gun. Court held the knife’s grip with his right hand. It was still stuck in the first man’s throat, and he used it to push the first into the second, used his other hand now to fight for the handgun in the first’s dying grip. The gun would not come free. Court could now see the third man behind the second’s falling form, and the third’s gun was rising to fire.
Gentry ducked his head into the chest of the man with the knife sunk into his throat, pushed forward over the goon falling back to the floor, and advanced quickly towards the last in line.
An ear-splitting gunshot rocked the tiled tunnel, the cacophonous explosion amplified by the low ceiling and narrow corridor. Gentry felt the bullet slam into the back of the bloody man in his arms. A second round barked and punched into Court’s dance partner. Still the American pushed the man backwards, finally shoving him as hard as possible. As the operator’s bloody body was flung at the third man, Gentry pulled his knife out of the throat and made a final reach for the pistol in the beefy right hand. He managed to hold on to the knife, but the corpse slammed into the third operator with his dead hand still firmly clutching the gun.
Now Gentry stood between two living assassins, both armed, each less than ten feet from him. Behind Court was the armed man on the ground. Surely by now he was rolling around to get a shot off. And in front of Court was the standing man, now shoving his blood-spewing partner out of his way to resight his weapon on his target. Court flicked his knife so that he was holding the blade and quickly threw it overhand at the standing gunman. The blade struck perfectly, buried itself in the man’s left eye socket. Blood erupted, and the operator dropped his gun to bring both hands to the knife. He fell to his knees.
Gentry did not look to the threat behind him. Instead, he dove forward, both arms outstretched, desperate to get his hands on a firearm. Just before he hit the ground, another gunshot cracked through the passage. He did not feel an impact, assumed the operator behind had aimed at his back but missed due to his leap to the ground.
Court slammed into the cold tile floor, slid forward, and lifted the third gunman’s pistol. The man with the knife in his eye was on his knees now, dying but not yet dead, screaming bloody murder. Gentry rolled onto his back next to him and turned to fire back at the last enemy still in the fight. This man had a half chance to shoot but hesitated; Court was alongside his partner.
The Gray Man, however, did not hesitate. From his prone position he poured round after round between his splayed legs into the armed man and watched him spin and die.
When Court was certain the only man alive was the hit man next to him with the knife in his eye, he placed the barrel of the gun to the wounded man’s temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The American stood over the bodies of three men sprawled in the bright, white corridor. Blood splatters stained the wall, and pools grew from the corpses at his feet. His ears rang, and his thigh wound stung and throbbed.
They had compromised themselves back at the coffee shop. He’d pegged them as operators in just over one second as they came through the door and he noticed the unmistakable flicker of recognition in the first man’s face as he met Gentry’s glance.
After identifying the threat these three men posed, Court had watched them in the reflection of the handbill of the poetry reading, in the reflection of the café’s windows, out on the street in the windshields of the few passing vehicles. In the stairway down to the metro, he sensed them closing. They closed further in the tunnel, and by the last turn before the trains, he knew the time had come to act.
Court had been faster, better-trained, colder-hearted, but as he stood over the three bodies, he knew good and goddamn well there was only one reason they were now slaughtered meat and his racing pulse continued to pump blood through him.
Dumb fucking luck.
These assassins just decided to stop in for coffee before taking position outside of his hotel, and Court just happened to be at the café when they got there.
Everything else just fell into place after that.
Court was lucky.
He knew it was good to be lucky. But he also knew his luck could turn in an instant. Luck was fleeting, arbitrary, fickle.
Court scavenged the bodies quickly and without a shred of remorse. He knew the morning’s first commuters would be rounding the corner either towards or away from the trains in moments. Less than thirty seconds after the last gunshot, the Gray Man had collected a Czech-made CZ pistol and a small wad of euros and crowns.
One minute after that, he was back at street level and wearing a canvas jacket taken from one of the men. The blood on his dark brown pants was concealed by the morning’s shower. Through the mist he walked, purposefully but without haste, towards a bus stop near the Charles
Bridge. A slight limp in his gait, but nothing else differentiated him from the ever-increasing throngs of people on the street, each beginning their workday commute.
* * *
Fitzroy had been offered a small room with a cot to rest, but he refused on principle. Instead, he dozed fitfully in the conference room in a high-backed executive chair. Around his slumped form, the Tech moved from terminal to terminal, and Lloyd made call after call on his mobile. The security men stood both inside and outside the door throughout the night.
Sir Donald awoke at six thirty and was just sipping black coffee when the Tech called across the room to Lloyd. “Sir. The Albanians are not checking in.”
Lloyd had been sitting in a chair across from Fitzroy, drinking coffee and staring at a map of Prague. He looked up at his man, shrugged his shoulders, and pursed his lips. “Hard to do when you’re dead.”
The Tech remained hopeful. “We have no way of knowing—”
Lloyd wasn’t listening. He spoke mostly to himself. “One down. Eleven to go. That didn’t take long.”
Fitzroy smiled behind his coffee cup, and Lloyd noticed this. He rose to his feet, circled the mahogany table, and kneeled in front of Sir Donald. In a soft voice he said, “You and I may seem like adversaries, but we have the same goal here. If you are secretly celebrating the Gray Man’s victory, remember that as he gets closer to his target, the stakes will rise. The quicker he is put in the dirt, the better it is for you, your son, your daughter-in-law, and your precious little granddaughters.”
Sir Donald’s smile faded.
* * *
Over an hour later, Fitzroy’s satellite phone chirped. Lloyd and his men immediately went into silent mode. Sir Donald pushed the speakerphone button just after the third ring.
“Court? I have been trying to reach you. How are you?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Another kill squad just tried to zap me.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I joke?”
“Admittedly not. Who were they?”
“I’m pretty fucking sure they were not Nigerians. Three white dudes. Looked Central European. Didn’t have time to pull IDs. If they were any good, they wouldn’t have been carrying them, anyway.”
“Abubaker must still be using hired hands. No surprise, considering his deep pockets. Are you injured in any way?”
“Yeah, I am, but not by these clowns. I took a bullet to my thigh in the plane yesterday morning.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“No big deal.”
Lloyd reached quickly for a notepad and jotted this information down.
“Son, there has been a complication.”
“Complication? I’ve had to take down eight guys in the last twenty-eight hours because of some breach in your Network. You’re damn right there’s been a complication!”
“The Nigerians know I am your handler.”
The satellite connection went quiet for a moment. Finally Gentry said, “Shit, Don. How did that happen?”
“Like I said… a complication.”
“Then you are in just as much danger as me. It’s just a matter of time before they come for you, too.” There was concern in the younger man’s voice.
“They already have.”
A pause. “What’s happened?”
“They have my family. My son and my daughter-in-law, my two grandchildren.”
“The twins,” Court said softly.
“Yes. They are holding them in France, telling me I must give you up, or they will kill them. Thirty minutes ago they gave me forty-eight hours to produce you, dead or alive. They have teams hunting for you, but they want me to give them intel on your whereabouts.”
“Which you already have, apparently.”
“No, son. I haven’t said a word. You were compromised in Iraq somehow, yes, but a Nigerian agent saw you board the plane in Tbilisi. I’ve told them nothing, and I don’t intend to.”
“But your son’s family.”
“I don’t turn on my men. You are family, too.”
Fitzroy’s face was twisted into a pained expression of disgust at his words, but Lloyd’s eyes widened appreciatively at the elder Englishman’s two-faced ability to simultaneously cajole and betray his top killer. Fitzroy was playing whatever remaining heartstrings his assassin possessed like a virtuoso.
Lloyd knew Gentry’s file like the back of his hand. He knew what would come next.
“Where are they holding them?”
“A château in Normandy, France, north of the town of Bayeux.”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“Minus thirty minutes. Eight a.m. on Sunday morning is the deadline. They say they have assets in the French National Police; any hint of an operation against their location will result in a massacre.”
“Yeah. The cops will be useless. I’ve got a better chance going solo.”
“Court, I don’t know what you are thinking, but it is too dangerous for you to try any sort of—”
“Don, I need you to trust me. Best thing I can do is get there and clean this shit up myself. I need you to get me all the intel you can about their force structure, don’t give up any info on me, and I will get your family back.”
“How?”
“Somehow.”
This time it was Sir Donald’s turn to pause. He rubbed his thick fingers in his eyes and said slowly, “I would be forever in your debt, lad.”
“One thing at a time, boss.” The line went dead.
Lloyd punched his fists into the air in victory.
Fitzroy turned to Lloyd and said, “I’ll get you the scalp you are after. But you have to adhere to your end of the bargain.”
“Sir Donald, nothing will make me happier than calling off my men and leaving you and your family alone.”
ELEVEN
Court Gentry had worked as a private operator for four years. Before that was Golf Sierra, AKA the Goon Squad, and previous to this he ran singleton ops for the CIA. A few steely-eyed agency operatives notwithstanding, Gentry had spent the majority of adult life alone. To be sure, when he was in deep cover, he developed the relationships necessary to conduct his missions, but these interactions were fleeting and based on a bed of lies.
His was a life lived out in the cold.
There had been but one episode in the last sixteen years when Court was not an assassin, not a spy, not a shadowy figure moving into and out of the landscape. Two years earlier, for just under two months, Fitzroy had employed the Gray Man in a capacity completely unique to anything else on his résumé. Court took a post in Close Personal Protection, bodyguard work, to watch over Sir Donald’s two granddaughters.
Their father, Sir Donald’s son, was a successful London real estate developer. He did not follow in his father’s footsteps into the shadowy realm of intelligence; he was an honest businessman, played by the rules. Still, Phillip Fitzroy managed to run afoul of some Pakistani underworld types, something to do with his firm’s lobbying against a municipal proposal that would have allowed more uncertified and unqualified labor on his construction sites. Philip Fitzroy logically argued that it was best for everyone in London if only well-trained workers built apartment dwellings and shopping centers, but the Pakistani mob had been extorting from the undocumented populace for years, and they decided that if more immigrants had higher-paying jobs, they could squeeze out from them a few quid more.
It began with threatening phone calls. Phillip was to back off, quit the lobbying campaign. A fake pipe bomb in the mailbox was found by Elise Fitzroy, Phillip’s wife. Scotland Yard opened an investigation; dour-faced detectives rubbed their chins and promised to be vigilant. Phillip continued his fight against the labor law, more threats came, and the Yard put a car with a narcoleptic officer in front their Sussex Gardens town home.
Elise was cleaning out six-year-old Kate’s school backpack one afternoon while the girls watched television. She pulled
a folded page out of an outside pouch, thinking it to be a note sent home from Mrs. Beas ley. She opened it. Handwritten scrabble. Large capital letters.
“Any time we want them, we can have them. Lay off, Phil.”
Elise hysterically called Phillip, Phillip called Sir Donald no less frantic, and seven hours later Sir Donald arrived at the door with an American in tow.
The Yank was neither big nor small, he was quiet, and he made little eye contact. Elise thought he was in his late twenties; Phil put him near forty. He wore jeans and a small backpack that never left his shoulder and an oversized sweater under which Phillip assumed was stashed God knows what manner of obscene apparatus for doing harm to his fellow man.
Sir Donald sat with Elise and Phillip in the drawing room while the man waited in the hall. He explained to the worried parents that this man’s name was Jim, just Jim, and he was quite possibly the best in the world at that which he did.
“What, exactly, is that, Dad?” asked Phillip.
“Let’s just say you’re better off with him than you’d be were your whole street lined with cars filled to bursting with bobbies. That’s no exaggeration.”
“Doesn’t look like much, Dad.”
“That’s part of the job. He’s low-profile.”
“What the bloody hell do we do with him, Dad?”
“Throw him a sandwich a couple of times a day, keep the coffeepot hot in the kitchen, and forget he’s here.”
But Elise refused to treat the man as an inanimate object. She was polite and found him to respond in kind. He never looked at her; this she insisted when her husband asked. “He looks out the window to the street, out the window to the back garden, at the door to the twins’ room. Never at me. You and he have that in common, Phillip; you should get on brilliantly.”
The introduction of an additional man to the Fitzroy household inevitably caused friction between husband and wife.
Claire and Kate took to Jim. They mimicked his American accent, and he was good-natured about it. He drove them to school each day in the Saab while Elise rode along. Young Kate teased him once about being a bad driver, and he surprised mother and daughters with a burst of laughter, admitting he usually traveled by trains or rode a motorcycle. Within a second his face rehardened, and his eyes returned to the mirrors and the road ahead.