On Target cg-2

by Mark Greaney

For a junior suite it was opulent, hideously so, and it had clearly been modified by Sidorenko’s men. A large seating area led to a narrow balcony. The telephone was conspicuously absent. A hallway off the living room connected to a large bedroom—again, with no telephone—which was connected to a large, modern bathroom. Court found a massive stock of toiletries on the vanity, enough for a soccer team to prepare for a night on the town. On the bed he found a single change of clothes: a silk tracksuit, multicolored—black with a thick trim of purple and a gold V shape under the velour collar. Obnoxious anywhere in the world except for the countries formerly behind the Iron Curtain.

  Back in the sitting room he saw a thick stack of papers, books, and booklets, open and bookmarked and at his service. Presumably Sid had these put here so he could check out everything the Russian mobster had said about the Sudan, the Russians, the Chinese, and Tract 12A in the Darfuri desert.

  Court ignored his homework and instead stepped out on the balcony and watched the heavy traffic clogging the road below. He spent a minute scanning the buildings around, squinting down into the streetlights’ glare. He then returned to the bathroom. He scooped up a can of shaving cream and a washcloth and slipped both inside the pockets of his jacket before stepping back onto the balcony. Deftly, he went over the railing with one leg and then the next. He shimmied down the ornamental drainpipe running along the wall next to the balcony, descended to the floor just below him, swung twice for momentum, and then kicked his legs forward. Immediately upon landing on the eleventh-floor balcony he could tell the corresponding room was occupied. Lights were on and clothes were strewn about, but no one seemed to be inside at present. Perhaps, he thought, they were out to dinner. The balcony door was locked. Quickly he shook the can of shaving cream and then pressed the button to discharge the white foam on the sliding glass door, concentrating it just next to the door handle. By the time the can was empty, the shaving cream had created a thick covering over the glass the size of a dinner plate. He wrapped his right hand in the washcloth and quickly punched through the thick cream, creating a fist-size hole with an audible crack but without the loud shattering sound of broken glass, as the foam both muffled the impact and muted the clanging of glass on the tile floor. He let the washcloth fall from his hand inside the room and then he reached in and unlatched the door.

  He entered the room, checked the clothing in the suitcases and on the floor, and was disappointed to find nothing that fit. Disappointed, but not surprised. Nothing in his life was too easy; rarely did he pull off any scheme without a single hitch. He left through the door of the room and took the hallway to a stairwell. He descended four flights and then walked along another hallway, entered another stairwell, and then exited into the lobby. From here he found employee-only access that led him to a laundry room. No one paid any attention to him as he entered.

  Thirty minutes after slinging a leg over the balcony on the twelfth floor, Gentry was dressed in fresh clothing and entering a tiny guesthouse a quarter mile from the Nevsky Palace. Court remembered the place from his last trip here. This was the nondescript hotel he’d stayed in back in 2003 with Zack Hightower, team leader of the Goon Squad, while they waited to take down the cargo ship full of Saddam’s guns. Then, as now, it was pretty much a dump, but it was quiet and secluded and at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac that gave a good view of all who came and went.

  He paid an elderly lady in euros for one night. She asked for a passport, but he shrugged his shoulders and fanned two more twenty euro notes. She shrugged herself, and took the money. He asked for the second-floor room that faced the street, and she took him up one narrow flight of stairs, past the community toilet, and down a shoulder-wide second-floor hallway that creaked with each step. She opened the door with the key and then turned and shuffled back to the staircase without a glance.

  Court much preferred spending the night here, as opposed to being held captive in his suite at the Nevsky Palace, surrounded by skinhead goons. He just wanted to crash, lie in bed, and think about his options as far as making a run for it or working with Sidorenko to get into the Sudan, maybe even return to his suite in time to thumb through some of the documentation left there to help him make up his mind.

  Court entered his darkened room and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Shit hole. He breathed a slight sigh of frustration and felt his way forward, using the dim illumination from the streetlights outside the vinyl curtains. He stepped around the tiny twin bed and drew open the curtains and turned around to survey his room.

  Five men faced him in the low light. Still as statues, they were positioned against the walls, but all were within a couple of steps of the Gray Man.

  Court’s fight-or-flight response kicked on in a single heartbeat, and he attacked. He ducked low and charged the man on his far right, slammed into him as the big man’s arms came down hard on the back of Court’s head. They crashed into the wall together. Gentry raised his left leg to deliver a groin kick to whoever would surely be attacking from behind. He connected with inner thigh, not a debilitating blow, and while he brought his right palm up hard for an open-hand uppercut on the man embracing him, he felt an airborne body hit him hard from the right. Court’s palm connected with the first man’s face just as he spun away, crashed onto the bed on his back, and felt two more men grab his legs and pin them.

  With his one free arm he delivered a vicious punch to the solar plexus of a man moving towards him. He felt a Kevlar vest under his dark clothing and knew he’d done no damage.

  As he struggled and fought, he recognized plainly that the men attacking him were competent. No, they were damn good. They were fast, strong, and well-trained. More important, they worked together and didn’t shout or scream or freak out as they fought him. He managed a solid elbow to the side of a smaller man’s head, sending him hard against the headboard of the bed and then off the side onto the wooden floor. But the others filled in the gap left by their wounded comrade in an instant, their body weight pinning his appendages to the bed as he wrestled desperately to get free.

  Looking to his left, he saw one of the men had retrieved something from somewhere in the darkness and approached now with careful confidence. Court saw the sharp glint of thin metal, a stubby piece of clear plastic. Even in the negligible light he recognized the outline of the syringe. The needle approached, and whatever noxious goo it had been filled with was on its way to his bloodstream unless he could stop the man trying to punch it against his skin.

  Instantly Gentry decided these were CIA Special Activities Division Paramilitary Operations officers, an entire field team, and he knew he was in deep shit. There was a termination order on him. He’d ducked them for years, but they had found him now.

  Bound to happen sooner or later.

  Court relaxed his left arm for an instant, gave the man holding it down a moment’s respite from the struggle. The ruse worked, and Gentry shot his arm down, under the man’s grip and to his side. From here it was free, and he jetted out a fierce jab to the needle man’s face. The needle man’s head snapped back, and he dropped the syringe as he folded back on his legs and grabbed his nose, but the operator pinning his left leg down reached out and grabbed the instrument off the floor, buried its business end into Court’s thigh, and pressed the plunger as Gentry tried and failed to kick free.

  “Son of a bitch!” Court shouted, not knowing what he’d been injected with but recognizing that, no matter what he did now, he had just lost the battle.

  He stopped moving immediately. There was no point. He was as good as dead.

  A sixth man entered the room—slowly, but with an unmistakable swagger in his step. Court tried to focus on him, but already he could feel a drug taking hold of his central nervous system. Whatever they’d given him was powerful; he’d worked with poisons and incapacitating anesthetics enough to know that he’d been dosed with a hard and potent sedative. His muscles relaxed; he felt as if his body were melting into the mattress.

  The new man i
n the room leaned over him as the others climbed off. Two of the original five were down; the other three calmly tended to their associates’ injuries, while the new visitor to the dark room just looked down on Court with curiosity. Gentry tried to focus on the man, to fight against the growing fuzz from the drugs in his blood. For a moment he thought the face looked familiar, but a wave of dizziness wiggled the image out of his mind.

  The man above him spoke. “Hiya, Court.”

  Through the haze Gentry knew the voice somehow. The man grabbed Court’s cheeks and pinched them until his mouth opened. Saliva oozed out past his protruding tongue and down his chin.

  “Twenty seconds and he’s out,” said the man above him to the men standing around. Then he turned his attention back to Gentry. “Predictable. I knew you’d sneak out of the hotel and come here. Haven’t you picked up any new travel tips in the past eight years?” He smiled. “Unlucky for you I just happened to remember this shit hole.”

  He turned back to his colleagues. “Sierra Six never was the luckiest dude around. We used to say that if it were raining pussy, Court Gentry would get hit with a dick.”

  Sierra Six?

  As Court felt himself falling into blackness, his numb mouth moved, and he whispered a single word before the lights went out completely. “Zack?”

  NINE

  “You remember me, don’t you, Gentry?”

  Gentry hadn’t even remembered that his name was Gentry. His eyes were well open when he became aware, and he wondered if he’d been conscious for a while or if he’d just now come to. He was not dead, of that he was certain, though the rest was unclear. He then felt the cold, looked down at his bare chest and underwear, found himself sitting on a chair. Four walls surrounded him, and his wrists were bound behind his back. He saw four men standing around him, over him, and felt their malevolence, but their faces were difficult to focus on, drugs coursing through him still. In his training at the CIA’s secret Autonomous Asset Development Program in Harvey Point, North Carolina, he had been injected with, had ingested, or had been aspirated with somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five mood-altering substances to test and improve his dexterity, agility, and cognitive ability while under the influence. He’d once even successfully climbed a three-story rope ladder and picked a lock while completely numbed by Versed, though he had no recollection of performing the drill twenty minutes later. He’d learned much about opiates and other anesthetics in his training, but now all he could say for sure was that he was seriously fucked up.

  In a flash he realized that he had not taken any heavy pills in nearly three weeks and had seemingly kicked the painkiller addiction he’d been suffering from for months in the south of France. Now he wondered if having these drugs forced into his bloodstream would just undo all the work he’d done to get past his problem.

  Of course, he reckoned, if one of these men did what he was supposed to do and put a bullet into his brain, then the problem would be remedied in short order.

  Death solves all problems.

  Three of the four men backed out through a small door in the room, leaving just the one who’d spoken. “Hang on a sec,” the standing man said. “We took you off the drip a few minutes ago. You’ll come down in a flash. Let me know when I’m coming through loud and clear, okay, bro?”

  Court knew the voice before he knew the face. He fought the drugs, shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Blinked hard. Then he knew. His eyes furrowed. His head cocked. “Didn’t I kill you once?”

  “Negative, Court. Why would you kill me? We had a little misunderstanding way back when, but nothing major.”

  “Hightower. Zack Hightower,” Court said the man’s name as if the man didn’t know it himself. Court’s words did not come out past his tongue as clearly as he’d intended.

  “Are you hurt?” asked the standing man.

  “Na . . . negative.”

  “Let me fix that. Now pay attention, bro. I’ve been waiting four years for this moment. I’d sure hate for you to miss it.” He snapped his fingers in front of Gentry’s face. “You with me still? Outstanding. Now . . . this is for Paul Lynch.” Hightower punched Gentry in the jaw.

  Court fell off the chair and onto the floor with a brilliant starburst in his eyes.

  “Fuck!” said Court.

  “Fuck!” said Zack. Court looked up and saw the other man holding his fist, in obvious pain. Court licked his lower lip and spat blood. Zack pulled him by the hair back up into the chair. Gentry’s movements were sluggish from the drugs, but the punch had gone a long way towards focusing his senses.

  “And this, Court, is for Dino Redus.” Hightower hit Court again in the face. Gentry dropped back onto the floor, felt his left eye swell instantly, heard Hightower cuss again in pain.

  After a moment Court said, “Redus tried to kill me! You all did!”

  “Shut your dick trap, Gentry! We’re not done here yet!”

  Court rolled up to his knees, fought with his balance for a moment, then climbed back up to the chair without Zack’s help. His left eye had all but shut, tears running and blurring his vision further. “He, Lynch, Morgan, you, you guys came at me! What the fuck was I supposed to do? Just let you murder me?”

  “Would have been helpful,” said Hightower. “Keith Morgan’s wife sure would have appreciated it.” Hightower smashed his left hand into Court’s head. Not as hard this time, but again he shook his hand to cool it after the impact.

  Court wobbled but kept his seat this time. He spat a mouthful of blood on the floor and said, “Too bad you’ve got more piece of shit dead friends than you do hands.”

  “They were your friends, too, Court! Before you killed them!” Hightower balled his left fist again, reached back for another punch.

  “Come on!” shouted Court. “I know about the sanction! It’s shoot on sight! You keep swinging at me like that, and we’ll be here all fucking night! Pull out your gun and do your goddamned job!”

  Zack held his fist high over Gentry’s face. Then slowly the fist lowered. His jaw tightened. He nodded slowly. He reached behind his back and drew a snub-nosed nickel-plated revolver from his waistband.

  Zack swung it around and pressed it to Court Gentry’s forehead in a single motion.

  Court blinked, his cheeks twitched, but then he looked up at Zack, up the tiny barrel of the gun. His voice was soft. “Might as well just tell me why. What’s it going to hurt now?”

  Zack ignored the question, just held the gun against Gentry’s head steadily for five, ten, twenty seconds. Then he said, “Just so you know. Whatever happens after this, Six . . . for the rest of your life. Everything from now on . . . is a gift from me.” With a cruel look in his eyes he lowered the gun, slipped it back into the small of his back.

  Court blinked away a bead of sweat that had trickled into his right eye.

  Zack put his hands on his hips, still looking down at his prisoner. Through heavy breaths brought on by the physical activity of the beating and the intensity of the moment, he asked, “Did ya miss me, Court?”

  Court blinked again. Said, tentatively, “Like a hole in the head.”

  Zack smiled wryly. “Easily arranged.”

  Without another word, Hightower left the room, giving Court the opportunity to calm his nerves a bit and take stock of his surroundings. Immediately he decided from the thick white paint and bare furnishings of the small space that he was on a boat. Near the engine room, he surmised, from the humming in the walls. He could not feel the motion of water, but he knew that his equilibrium was toast at the moment, so that didn’t mean much.

  Hightower returned with a clear plastic bag full of ice and a small utility knife. He stepped behind Court’s chair and, with a well-practiced single motion, cut away the flexi-cuffs binding Court’s wrists. Zack then grabbed another chair from the hallway, dragged it across the floor with a painful screech, and sat facing Gentry, dropping the bag of ice into his prisoner’s lap. Court immediately brought it to his eye and lip to deaden
the growing pain there.

  Gentry looked the man over with his right eye. It had been four years since they last worked together in the CIA’s Golf Sierra unit, unofficially known, to those few who knew of it at all, as the Goon Squad. Hightower had been Sierra One, the team leader. Gentry was Sierra Six, the youngest, most junior man on the team, but always the first through the door. Hightower was now forty-five or so, but his eyes were still as bright and blue as a baby boy’s. He was razor lean and square-jawed. His hair was cut in a classic military high and tight; flecks of silver now blinked in the sandy blond. He was six one and two hundred pounds, not an ounce of it excess fat. He moved with confidence, walked with his broad chest leading the way. Court knew Zack was Texas born and bred, had joined the navy after college baseball, spent a decade on the storied SEAL Team Six before joining the CIA’s Special Activities Division as a Paramilitary Operations officer. Zack was smart and tough and sure of himself, exceptionally charming with the ladies, and popular with the guys.

  In short, a typical SEAL.

  “How ya been?” Hightower asked as he looked down to his own injury, a hand swollen at the knuckles. Court thought briefly about leaping off the chair and spearing the bigger man’s windpipe, but he knew the drugs in his system would slow his reflexes still. Zack didn’t seem worried about Court attacking, and Court figured Zack would know better than he did what was still pumping through his bloodstream.

  “Some days better than others, I guess.”

  “Scuttlebutt is you’re doing all right. You’ve run three to five ops a year for the past four years. All over the map. Making some pretty good bank is the word on the street. Langley thinks you smoked both of the Abubaker brothers, one in Syria and the next a few weeks later in Madrid. French intelligence says someone fitting your general description blew up half of French-speaking Europe last December. The Ukrainians are even running around saying you did that shit in Kiev. You didn’t, did you?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. How’d you guys find me?”