by Mark Greaney
• • •
Twenty minutes later he stood in the dark on Schlitwald Strasse, and a black BMW coupe pulled up next to him. Court climbed in, and the vehicle began moving again.
The man behind the wheel said nothing at first, and Court appreciated that, but he knew it wouldn’t last.
Finally Vincent Voland turned to him. “So? It’s done?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Shakira’s done. Drexler got the pain you wanted him to feel. Maybe more.”
“But?”
“But I don’t know.” Court turned to the Frenchman. “I’d be locking my doors, if I were you.”
“Merde.” Shit. “Did he . . . did he say anything? What about her? Did she speak? Tell me, what did they say?”
Court said, “I don’t remember, really. ‘Don’t shoot,’ probably. That’s usually what you hear. Trust me, you rarely get anything too profound.”
Voland was clearly frustrated. “I see.” It was silent between the two men as they drove along the narrow valley road. “Listen. I have been asked to reach out to you by members of the French government, who would like to pay you for everything you have—”
“Don’t insult me, Vincent.”
“No insult intended. They want to hire you again, they have more work, and you are the only man they will trust with it. It’s a show of good faith, nothing more.”
Court shook his head. “When I get out of this car at the train station, you’ll never see me again.” He turned to the older Frenchman. “And if you do, it’s only because I’ve been sent.”
Voland turned to the American. “You’d kill me if you were paid to do so?”
“If you hadn’t gotten the kid and Yasmin out of Syria, I would have killed you for free. But you came through, and you linked Drexler to the bank, and found him and Shakira here. You served your purpose.” Court drew his pistol from the small of his back, and Voland turned to look at it. “Just like I’ve served mine.”
Court tossed the weapon into a backpack in the back of the BMW, then pulled a small Smith and Wesson revolver in a holster from the bag and strapped it to his ankle.
The rest of the drive was quiet. Court climbed out of the BMW at the station, gave Voland a half nod, and began walking inside.
As he entered, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He made it all the way to the train timetable in the main hall before the call was answered.
“Suzanne Brewer.”
Court paused a moment. He knew once he spoke, he was committed.
“Brewer?” There was obvious annoyance in her voice.
Court waited another second as he fantasized about hanging up, but then he spoke. “It’s Violator. I’m reporting in. You need me?”
The woman at CIA did not hesitate. “I’m afraid we do.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Greaney has a degree in international relations and political science. In his research for the Gray Man novels, including Gunmetal Gray, Back Blast, Dead Eye, Ballistic, On Target, and The Gray Man, he traveled to more than fifteen countries and trained alongside military and law enforcement in the use of firearms, battlefield medicine, and close-range combative tactics. He is also the author of the New York Times bestsellers Tom Clancy Support and Defend, Tom Clancy Full Force and Effect, Tom Clancy Commander in Chief, and Tom Clancy True Faith and Allegiance. With Tom Clancy, he coauthored Locked On, Threat Vector, and Command Authority. Visit him online at markgreaneybooks.com.
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