On Target cg-2

by Mark Greaney

  He did not move. Blood on his face from the road rash acquired when his skin met the asphalt glistened in the cobalt streetlamps.

  Black rugby shirt swung his chain wildly now, his eyes dropping to check on his friend and then darting back up, with equal measures of fury and terror, to the bearded man in front of him. Court walked towards the man, arms low, eyes and shoulders relaxed.

  A man in his element.

  The chain whipped forward.

  The Gray Man stepped into the path of the chain, caught it deftly with his left hand, and yanked hard, knocking the young man in the rugby shirt off balance, bringing him closer with a jolt.

  A right-hand spear to the throat knocked the Irishman to his back. He rolled in the street, gagged and wheezed, choking on his bruised and swelling airway as he stared at the bearded man who now squatted above him. When he spoke, the American sounded calm, in complete control, as if he were the one who had planned this ambush in the dark.

  “Slattery’s flat number, please. I will only ask you once.”

  Four minutes later the tip of a handgun’s silencer pushed open the unlatched door of flat sixty-six of the Queen’s Court Condominiums. Behind the silencer was a Russian Baikal Makarov automatic pistol. Behind the Mak was the Gray Man. All senses were alert, more so because the door had been left open invitingly, and that was odd, considering the fact that the man who lived there was surely aware that someone was coming for him.

  As Gentry entered the well-lit living room behind the door, he did not have long to wonder about the location of his target. Slattery sat at a simple wooden table in the middle of the small room, facing the door, a bottle of Irish whiskey and three shot glasses in front of him. Court noticed that the man had changed shirts. He now wore a blue on black rugby jersey, open loose at the collar and straining tight around his thick midsection. Perhaps his favorite team?

  Slattery looked up at him for a long time. He took one of the shot glasses and turned it upside down. He had been expecting two guests, no doubt the two left lying in the street. Dougal recovered, lifted a second glass slowly. “Care for a drink, lad?” He was nervous, clearly; his low voice cracked.

  Court scanned the room quickly. His weapon remained pointed at his target’s forehead as he did so. He spoke softly but with calm conviction. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Slattery complied. “Did ya kill ’em?”

  “The rugby boys? No, they’ll be okay.” He added, “Eventually.”

  Slattery nodded. Shrugged. “Like a knife through butter, was it?”

  “Not much trouble, no.”

  “They’d have been no match if they weren’t pissed. Have a seat first, will ya? I have some grand whiskey here.”

  Court continued searching the room for threats, all senses alert. His target seemed oddly resigned to what was going on, but that could have been some sort of deception.

  “No.”

  The big man shrugged again. “Then maybe you’ll let me have a drink first.” He didn’t wait. He poured Old Bushmills into a shot glass, tossed it back into his open throat, placed the glass back in front of him, and refilled it.

  Court moved to the window. He flipped the overhead off on the way. Shrouded in darkness now, he looked down into the street.

  Slattery said, “There’s no one coming. Just the two you met already. Even if they can still walk, they won’t be walkin’ this way, I promise ya that.”

  Court checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. They were alone. The Irishman just sat at the table, facing the doorway. He shot another whiskey. Refilled the glass again.

  Waiting patiently.

  When Gentry stepped back in front of him, Slattery put his hand around the bottle, tipped it towards his guest. He said, “Sure ya won’t have a wee drop? I always found it helpful back when I was on the job.” Court shook his head. Focused fully on his target, his Makarov rose. Dougal Slattery spoke quickly. “Look, pal. I know ya gotta do it. No argument from me. I was on the job once, and I know the score. There’s just one thing. A little favor. I got a kid. Not a kid, he’s ’bout thirty now, I guess. He’s in Galway.”

  “Do I look like I give a shit?”

  “He’s got the Down syndrome. Good boy, but he can’t look after himself. No ma—she was an aul whore in Belfast, OD’d twenty some-odd years back. I’ve got him in private care. I’m all the boy has.”

  “I could not possibly care less.”

  “I’m just sayin’. I send money, enough to keep him out of state care.”

  Court pulled the Mak’s hammer back with his thumb.

  Dougal kept talking, faster. “Without the money he’ll go to state care. It’s a fecking mess, believe me. Me boy is my punishment for me life. You can have me fecking life, mate, but don’t make him pay for it.”

  It occurred to Court that he should have just put a bullet through the man’s head when he walked through the door.

  “Everyone leaves someone behind. I can’t help you.”

  “No, you can’t help me. But you can help him. I’m askin’ for twenty-four hours. One bleeding day, and I’ll knock over a bank or a currency exchange or something. There’s an armored car that makes stops up and down Dawson Street in the afternoons. A lot of options for a quick job. If I just had time for a score, I could get some money to the home so he’ll be set. If I had any idea you were coming for me, I’d have done it already, but this is a bit of a surprise. I’ve been off the job for a long time. I thought I was out of it. Look. I won’t run. I’ll send the home in Galway one hundred percent by wire tomorrow afternoon and then I’ll come back here and you can drop me dead. I swear on me ma’s grave. You’ll get your payday for me scalp, I’ll get me boy the money he needs so he can be looked after when I’m gone. I’m sitting here now showing you respect. Showing you that I’m not a runner. I’m not a fighter. Not anymore. I’m sittin’ here handing myself over to you, hopin’ you’ll do the right thing and give me one bleedin’ day to sort out some decent future for me lad.” The man was near tears. Desperate. Court had no doubt the story was true.

  Still, he steeled himself. He raised the weapon to eye level. “Sorry, dude. That’s not going to happen.”

  Slattery’s eyes began to water before he tossed down another shot. He did not refill the glass afterwards this time. “I figured you for a man with a soul. My mistake. So it’s off to state care for me lad.” He smiled a little. “All’s not lost, though. There is some wee consolation. I know someday Sid will send some bloke after you.”

  Court lowered the pistol slightly.

  “Sid?”

  “You’re Sid’s new lad, yeah? I’m Sid’s old lad, so you see your future before your eyes, don’tcha? He’s sent you on this wee errand to make room for yourself in his organization. This is your audition to replace me, ya know.” When Court did not speak for several seconds, Slattery’s watery eyes widened. “He didn’t tell you, did he? What a bastard he is! You thought he was passing on a contract from someone else that wants me dead? No, pal, this is Sid’s doin’, all of it.”

  Gentry lowered the pistol farther. “Why?”

  Slattery poured another shot glass and tossed the contents down his gullet. “Five years back, Sid came to see me. I’d been doing some . . . some stuff for another Russian. Sid tells me he likes my work, wants me to come work for him. I say, ‘What’s the catch?’ Everyone knows Sidorenko gets the juicy contracts. He tells me the only thing I have to do is rub out the guy holding the job I wanted. Create the vacancy myself, ya see? Seems this bloke, an Israeli, had outworn his welcome. Dunno why. Sid tells me once I sort out his Jew, I’ll be top stallion in his stable.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Bloody well right, I did. ’At’s the business we’re in, ain’t it? And now I’m too old, too broken and beaten to execute the big contracts anymore. I’m not making the cash I once was, so he’s sending ya to shut me off, so ya can take over. He figures if there’s a one percent chance I’ll talk, call a news
paper or Interpol and tell on him, then he might as well off me just in case.”

  Court was stunned. Sid had lied about the very existence of a contract on the target. It was only in the personal interests of his handler that he should kill this man. He recovered a bit and reminded himself of some of the dirtier parts of Sid’s dossier on Slattery. “He told me you’d done some ugly hits in your past.” The Makarov rose again with new resolve.

  Slattery cocked his head, genuinely surprised. “Ugly hits? Ugly hits? What the feck is a pretty hit?”

  Court took a moment. “You’ve killed innocents, I mean.”

  “Bollocks. You gonna sit there and judge me, based on what Sid has told you? A feckin’ joke you are. Go on then, be done with it. Put a bullet up me nose and feel good about yourself! Ugly hits? Innocents? Aren’t you the most pretentious fuck for a hit man that’s ever soiled this godforsaken planet!”

  Dougal Slattery’s nostrils flared as he stared down the suppressor at the end of the barrel of the little Makarov. The alcohol showed in his eyes, but not a shred of fear.

  After a long pause, Court lowered the gun to his side. He pulled out the wooden chair and sat slowly down at the table across from the Irishman.

  “I guess I’ll take that drink now.”

  Slattery did not take his eyes off the American as he poured for them both.

  FOUR

  Ten minutes later Court had reholstered his weapon. He’d decided not to kill the man in front of him. He’d told him as much. The Irishman did not smile or breathe a sigh of relief, but he did strike out a hand, and they shook. They sat mostly in silence in the dim light from the streetlamps outside the tiny room. Court was careful to leave his hands on the small wooden table to keep Slattery relaxed.

  After a while Dougal said, “Sid’s not gonna be happy with you.”

  “We had an agreement. I told him I would only execute contracts I approved of. If he gave me bad intel, I reserve the right to pull out. Fuck him.”

  Slattery lifted a Bushmills into the air.

  “I’ll drink to that. Fuck Sid!”

  “He’ll just send someone else after you, you know.”

  “Aye. Suppose he will. Maybe I should just go ahead and have you do me in, just to get it out of the way.”

  Court said, “I don’t take requests.”

  The thick Irishman laughed heartily. “That’s a good one, mate. Maybe my two lads will be out of the hospital by the time the next hitter shows. Hopefully Sid feckin’ Sidorenko will send someone they can handle.”

  Court chuckled. “I doubt that.”

  Dougal Slattery poured another shot of Old Bushmills for himself and then, seemingly as an afterthought, pulled Gentry’s shot glass to his side of the table and began to fill it.

  Court tried to stop him. “No. I’m good.”

  Slattery kept pouring. “It’s the third, me boy. The third wee shot will make a man of ye, I swear it!”

  Court shrugged, shook his head, reached across the table for the drink, hoped the hard liquor would substitute for the pain meds his body craved. He said, “You might want to think about leaving town until—”

  The table rose into the air to meet Court’s face. The shot glass slammed into his mouth before he could grab it, the wooden table’s edge hit him squarely on the chin. Gentry’s head snapped back, and he flew backwards off his chair.

  The big Irishman had flipped the table up on him. Slattery lunged over it, took hold of Court before his back hit the floor, and Dougal’s meaty hands wrapped around the American’s muscled neck.

  Court tried to shout but could not make a sound. He felt two thumbs digging into his throat, pressing his Adam’s apple to the point of crushing. Though dazed by the blow from the table, he had the instincts to turn his head sharply to loosen his opponent’s grip. He swept an arm up to try to knock away the hands entirely, but the big man’s thick arms barely budged.

  “Stop!” Gentry gurgled. He had every intention of leaving Dougal Slattery alive. Either Dougal Slattery did not believe that, or he felt, for some reason, Sidorenko would only convince this killer to return someday, and the Irishman wanted to preclude that event here and now while he saw an opportunity.

  On his back, with the big Irishman on top of him and his hands choking the life from him, Court saw only one option. He scooted around on the cheap linoleum flooring, used the heels of his shoes to rotate himself and his attacker around to where Court’s legs were bent against the door to the little flat. From here, still using his hands to try to push away the iron grip on his throat, he walked his feet up the door. Six inches, two feet, three feet. This raised his lower torso off the ground and caused Dougal’s dead weight to roll forward onto Court’s face and shoulders. Quickly, with all his strength, Gentry pushed off the door with the balls of his feet, executed a sloppy headstand, then a backwards roll. His head popped free of Slattery’s grip when he spun back over the top of him. Court landed on his knees on the overturned table, leapt back to get away from any wild punches from the prostrate former boxer.

  In one second both men were on their feet. Court looked at his attacker; the Irishman’s fat face was beet red and slick with sweat, his eyes wild from fury. He shouted something; it was Gaelic, perhaps, as Court could not understand.

  Gentry wanted to tell the man it was a mistake, that he just wanted to leave, but there was no use. Slattery took a step forward and threw a right jab that half connected with Court’s left cheekbone. It stung and stunned him, and instantly his right eye filled with water and his vision blurred.

  Court had vastly underestimated the flabby man’s brute strength and blinding speed. It was a mistake that he could easily find himself paying for with his life.

  Court backed away into a corner, created just enough space from the big man to reach for his Makarov, but he found his holster empty. He was certain it had fallen loose when he did the headstand, and was somewhere on the floor under the overturned table or the broken chair.

  Slattery noticed Court’s empty holster. A wild-crazed smile broadened across his cherry-red face. “You’re feckin’ dead, laddie!” The Irishman fired another jab. This one Gentry leaned away from and avoided all but a brush against his chin.

  A left hook came next, thrown from Dougal’s body, his torso and legs shifting along with the punch to get full force behind it. Gentry blocked it, but it still knocked him down. The fist failed to impact him, but just the power Court absorbed in his forearm sent him tumbling in the tiny living room. He ended up against the wall on his knees.

  He stood quickly, just in time to recognize and then duck below a jab. Gentry then quickly retaliated with a finger spear into Dougal’s solar plexus, followed with an instep kick to the big Irishman’s crotch.

  Slattery was unfazed. “Jesus sufferin’ fuck, ya fight like a Molly!”

  Then Court remembered Slattery’s weakness; he’d followed the limping man for half an hour through the night and had watched him struggle to put weight on his left knee. Court kicked viciously to the inside of the knee, and it buckled outwards. Dougal screamed and stumbled but did not fall.

  Instead he kept coming, though the American’s attack caused him to telegraph his next move.

  Court dropped low and to his right, ducked the right fist as it whipped the air just above his left ear. The American moved in on his attacker with all his speed, leapt off the ground, and got his right arm on top of the Irishman’s right shoulder. From here, in a blur of perfectly practiced execution, Gentry reached high with his right arm, rolling his own shoulder forward to turn his fingers in. His hand came behind Slattery’s neck and back around in front of his face from his left side, then it hooked back around under his chin. Court’s hand grabbed the right collar of Dougal’s rugby shirt, pulled it back across his throat, yanked it all the way around his neck in the back, and handed it off to Court’s left hand.

  “Fight like a bloody man, you feckin’—”

  Dougal’s words were replaced by a choki
ng gurgle. Gentry cinched the collar tight like a twisted garrote, using the man’s own shirt to strangle him. He wrapped his right arm around Slattery’s neck as if he were hugging him passionately, wrapped both his legs around the man’s back, and held on for dear life as his left hand pulled and pulled and pulled on the rugby shirt digging into the boxer’s fat throat.

  In the panic of loosing his airway, Slattery moved across the flat, wobbling on his bad knee, crashed the American assassin’s back into the glass window, slammed him into a wall hard enough to crack the Sheetrock and knock cheap imitation lithographs of mustachioed bare-knuckled boxers onto the floor, and then spun him sideways into the heavy wooden door.

  Just then, above the crashing and the panting and the shouting, a pounding came from the other side of the door. A woman screamed frantically, asking Mr. Slattery if he was all right. Asked if she should go for help. Dougal could not speak. He tried to reach for the door latch with his left hand, but the strength was leaving him with the depletion of oxygen in his lungs. Just as he got a finger on the latch, Court reached back with his right hand, flicked the dead bolt to lock it, and then used his legs to push off from the door.

  Both men went crashing to the floor in the middle of the flat.

  Slattery still could not breathe, but he had plenty of fight left in him, and he managed to use his legs for leverage as he flipped on top of Court. But Court did not, would not, let go. He forced the momentum of the roll to continue and again found himself above his target.

  For thirty seconds they grunted and kicked at one another among the shambles of the broken furniture and furnishings of the little flat. Gentry got both legs over one of Slattery’s arms, but the other fist hammered down on Court’s back and the top of his head with frantic repetition.

  The big Irishman tried head-butting Gentry, as well, but their heads were pressed against one another already; there was no room for him to get his skull back so that he could slam it forward.

  And then the fight slowed. And then the fight ceased.

  Court kept the pressure up on his victim’s throat, but he leaned back a bit to check Slattery’s face. His eyes had bugged out, his face had turned impossibly red and was covered with sweat that smelled like whiskey and vinegar and body odor. Court was over him, could see his own blood dripping off his lips from where the shot glass cut them. The red splotches speckled the Irishman’s forehead and stained red the sweat rivulets running into his eyes.