by Mark Greaney
For the next ten seconds the four men still alive in the cabin spun through the air like socks in a dryer. The team leader, Dulin, was below the others. He had managed to grab hold of some webbing on the forward bulkhead and hook his arm securely through it, and now he tried to aim his submachine gun at Gentry thirty feet above him. But Markham and Barnes bumped into Gentry as they all swirled through the air, completely out of control. Buttstocks, boots, and fists flew each time a target moved too close to engage with a rifle.
Though the men had a sense of weightlessness, they were, in fact, hurtling towards earth, dropping through the sky at maximum velocity. Only there was an airplane surrounding them and dropping as well, so they could see no reference points to prove to them that they were falling like stones.
In the chaos, the screaming and the confusion of losing hold of terra firma, Court spun backwards again, and his hand slipped from the grip of his rifle, and its sling slipped over his head. The weapon twisted out of reach. He drew his Glock-19 pistol, raised to fire without sighting, but he felt the sting of a bullet as it tore into his right thigh. The impact kicked his leg back like a hammer’s blow. He ignored the injury, and his feet found purchase again on the rear ramp. He looked up, which was now straight down, and found Dulin in his sights. The extraction team’s leader had one arm wrapped in the bulkhead webbing, and he held his submachine gun over his head with the other, pointed up towards the Gray Man. Court fired six quick rounds and saw the operator’s body react as the bullets slammed into Dulin’s groin and lower torso.
Gentry next turned to get a bead on Barnes and Markham, his final two targets, but McVee’s dead body sailed across his field of fire. Just then the pilot apparently decided he’d seen enough sand in his windscreen, and he pulled quickly out of his dive. All passengers in the back, the dead and the living alike, now dropped through the air, slammed hard into the steel flooring of the transport, and rolled like bowling balls towards the front bulkhead of the aircraft. Court’s pistol flew free of his hand on impact, and he bounced forward, the sting from the gunshot wound in his thigh burning with each jolt.
Court rolled towards the netting on the front bulkhead as the plane leveled, almost got a handhold, but the pilot put the L-100 back into a climb. Gentry’s momentum pushed him forward for a while, but as the cargo floor became a steep incline, passing forty-five degrees now, he lost the last of his inertia, and his fingertips just barely managed to tickle the nylon webbing next to Dulin’s motionless form.
Then the Gray Man went backwards. He rocked back on his heels first and fell down, then slid, then rolled, and finally Court went airborne halfway down the length of the cabin. The pain in his thigh was compounded when he landed on his hip at the rear of the plane, but this pain paled in comparison to the excruciating crush of Markham’s body as he slammed into Court’s chest. Markham faced the other direction and was even more stunned than Gentry by the violent impact, so the Gray Man easily got his arms around the operator’s head. With a merciless twist, Markham’s neck snapped, wrecking his spinal cord and killing him instantly.
The dead operator wore his rifle around his neck on a one-point sling, essentially a necklace with an automatic assault weapon dangling as its charm. Court tried to remove it, but the sling was caught on the operator’s load-bearing vest. Court pulled the gun up to the dead man’s shoulder, tried to quickly sight on the last remaining extraction team member, who was using the legs of the long bench as a ladder to climb up the cabin to the forward bulkhead loadmaster’s galley.
Court pulled the trigger, but the weapon clicked empty. He fumbled around Markham’s chest rig for another magazine and slammed it into the MP5’s magazine well. He readied to fire at his target just as the man disappeared into the galley. The plane leveled off again, and Court’s gravity returned to normal. He stayed low behind the pallet towards the rear hatch, waiting for Barnes to peek back around the door.
Without warning, Gentry heard a loud noise and felt the rear cargo ramp behind him move. The wind roared.
Barnes had activated the ramp from the front of the cabin. A second later, the aircraft began another steep climb.
As Court scrambled to grab on to the netting over the pallet on the floor in front of him, Barnes appeared near the bulkhead. The dark-clad operator had slung a parachute rig onto his back. Apparently he figured this plane had taken all the damage it could, or perhaps he worried the pilots were dead from stray gunfire. Barnes held the bulkhead webbing with all his might and fired burst after burst in Gentry’s direction, one-handed, with his M4 as the ramp opened fully behind the Gray Man.
Court reached behind him with his free hand and stripped the gun off Markham’s neck just before the dead man rolled out of the plane and into the darkness. The pilot continued his climb, and soon McVee’s body slid past Gentry and out into the night. Perini’s body was lashed into his seat, and Dulin’s corpse was still secured in the bulkhead webbing.
Gentry and Barnes were the only two left alive.
Court held on to the submachine gun with his right hand, and his left hand squeezed the net on the pallet. His glove had twisted on his fingers, and he knew he could not hold on much longer. His boots kicked at the deck of the plane to try to find purchase as the climb angle grew steeper and steeper.
He was seconds away from falling backwards down the ramp.
But Gentry had one last chance. He lifted Markham’s rifle and fired a long burst over the pallet at Barnes, hitting him squarely on his chest plate, slamming his head back against the bulkhead hard enough to knock him out cold. The aircraft’s incline was forty-five degrees now, and the wounded Barnes lost his hold of the webbing, dropped to his knees, and rolled down the length of the plane towards the rear hatch.
This was Gentry’s ride off the damaged aircraft and he did not want to miss it. As the incapacitated operator bounded past, Court let go of the pallet and pushed off the floor with his boots and kneepads. Gentry leapt to his right and grabbed hold of the unconscious man by the parachute harness, and they sailed together out the open hatch and into the night sky.
Gentry hooked his arms around Barnes and crossed his legs behind his back. The L-100 disappeared above them, and soon the roar of the engines was replaced by the howl of the wind.
Court grunted and screamed with the effort of holding on as tightly as possible. He did not dare reach for the ripcord of the chute. If he lost his tenuous hold, he would never find it again in the black night sky. He was reasonably sure this rig would have a CYPRES automatic activation device that would pop the reserve at seven hundred fifty feet if its occupant was still in free fall.
Gentry and his would-be killer tumbled end over end through the cold blackness.
One of Court’s hands found a good hold on the parachute’s shoulder strap, so he released the other hand to find a similar grip. Just as he let go, he heard a one-tone beep that lasted less than a second.
Then the reserve chute deployed.
Court held on with one hand. This parachute was not meant for two people, one of whom was kicking and yanking, desperate to get a firmer grip, so the men fell too fast and spun around like a whirligig.
This continued for just a few seconds before Gentry began to vomit from the vertigo. He did not have far to fall, but his nausea had already turned to dry heaves before they slammed together on the ground.
Court’s impact was muted by landing squarely on the man in the chute. He checked on the other operator. He’d landed hard, face-first, with Gentry on his back. Court found no pulse.
Once on terra firma, Gentry got control of his heaving stomach, grabbed his thigh and writhed in pain for a moment, and then recovered enough to sit up. The first hues of morning were glowing to his left, showing him the way east.
Now that he had his bearings, he took stock of his surroundings. He was on flat ground, at the bottom of a gentle valley. There was a brook close enough to hear and goats bleating in the distance. The dead operator lay broken, the reserve
chute flapping behind him in a cool, predawn breeze. Court searched the man’s gear and found a medical blow-out bag on Barnes’s hip.
He sat down on the grass and did his best to treat his wound in the dark. He assumed he had a long walk to reach the border and wanted to patch his injured leg so it could stand the trek. It was a clean wound, in and out, no major vascular or orthopedic damage, nothing much to worry about if you treated it early and well and did not mind days or weeks of throbbing discomfort. Gentry puked bile once more, his body and his mind just catching up to the chaos of the past five minutes.
Then he stood and slowly began walking north towards Turkey.
SEVEN
Fitzroy sat across from Lloyd on the couch in his office. Even as the older man listened to the other end of the satellite connection, his angry eyes did not flicker away from the young lawyer.
“I see,” said Fitzroy into the phone. “Thank you.” He terminated the call and placed the phone gently on the table in front of him.
Lloyd stared back, hopeful.
Fitzroy broke the staring contest with a gaze to the carpet. “It seems they are all dead.”
“Who’s dead?” asked Lloyd, the tint of optimism ever growing in his voice.
“Everyone but the flight crew. I am told there was a bit of a dustup in the aircraft. Courtland did not go down easily; no surprise there. The pilot found two of my men’s bodies in the back, no sign of the other four. Blood on the floor, walls, and ceiling, over fifty bullet holes in the fuselage.”
“My firm will compensate you for the damages.” Lloyd said it matter-of-factly. He cleared his throat. “But they did not find Gentry’s body? Could he have survived?”
“It appears not. There was a lot of gear lost, the plane flew for miles with its rear cargo door open, and among the unaccounted-for items is a parachute, but there’s no reason to assume—”
Lloyd interrupted. “If our target is missing out the rear of an airplane along with a parachute, I can hardly convince the Nigerians the job is done.”
“He was outnumbered five to one against a tier-one crew, all ex-Canadian Special Forces. Clearly I have fulfilled my end of our bargain. I ask you to now kindly carry out yours. Stop your threats to my family.”
Lloyd waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Abubaker wants proof. He demanded Gentry’s head in an ice chest.”
“Dammit, man!” said Fitzroy. “I did as I was told!” Fitzroy was angry, but he was no longer fearful for his son’s family. Shortly before Lloyd arrived, Sir Donald had called his son, had him collect his wife and children, and rush to St. Pancras Station in time to make the morning’s second Eurostar train to France. At this very moment they should be settling into the family’s summer villa just south of the Normandy beaches. Fitzroy felt confident Lloyd’s men would not find them there.
“Yes, you did do as you were told. And you will continue to do so. I have a very quiet but very ominous Nigerian back in my office who will not leave with my assurances only. I will need for you to ascertain the flight path of the pilots, and I’ll need to send a team to investigate—”
The phone on Fitzroy’s desk chirped with a distinctive ring of two short bleats. Sir Donald spun his head to it and then back up to Lloyd.
“It’s him,” said Lloyd, responding to Fitzroy’s obvious shock.
“That’s his ring.”
“Then answer it, and activate the speaker function.”
Fitzroy crossed the room and pressed a button on the console on his desk. “Cheltenham Security.” The voice that came through the line was distant. The words came out between labored breaths. “You call that a rescue?”
“It’s good to hear your voice. What happened?”
Lloyd quickly pulled a notebook from his briefcase.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’ll live. No thanks to the extraction squad you sent to pick me up.”
Fitzroy looked to Lloyd. The young American scribbled something on his notepad and held it up. Nigeria. “Son. I heard from the flight crew about the melee. These were not regular employees of mine. Just a mer cenary unit I had used once before. I was rushed to get a team together after the Polish pulled out.”
“Because of what happened in Iraq?”
“Yes. That whole sector has become a no-go zone after your little demonstration yesterday. The Polish refused to go in. The men I sent instead let me know they’d do anything for money, despite the risks. Clearly someone got to them, bought them off.”
“Who?”
“My sources tell me Julius Abubaker, the Nigerian president, is after your head.”
“How does he know I was the one who waxed his brother?”
“Your reputation, no doubt. You have reached the status where some jobs are so difficult or high-profile that they just have to be you.”
“Shit,” said the voice through the line.
Fitzroy asked, “Where are you? I’ll send another team to pick you up.”
“Hell no, you won’t.”
“Look, Court, I can help you. Abubaker leaves office in a few days. He will leave with unimaginable wealth, but his power and his reach will be lessened once he is a civilian. The danger to you will soon pass. Let me bring you in, watch over you until then.”
“I can lie low on my own. Call me when you get more intel on the men after me. Don’t try to find me. You won’t.”
And with that, the connection died.
Lloyd clapped. “Well played, Sir Donald. Quite a performance. Your man didn’t suspect you at all.”
“He trusts me,” Fitzroy said angrily. “For four years he’s had every reason in the world to think I was his friend.”
The American lawyer ignored Sir Donald’s anger and asked, “Where will he go?”
Sir Donald sat back on the couch and ran his hands over his bald head. He looked up quickly. “A double! You want a head in an ice chest? I will bloody well get you a head in an ice chest! How the hell will Abubaker know the difference?”
Lloyd just shook his head. “Weeks ago, before the president demanded we kill him, he asked us for all the intelligence we had on the Gray Man. I happened to have photos, dental records, a complete history, et cetera. I sent that to him, thinking the son of a bitch would just kill Gentry himself before the hit on his brother was carried out. Abubaker knows your man’s face. We can’t use a body double or, as you suggest, a head double.”
Fitzroy cocked his head slowly. “How the bloody hell did you come by this information?”
Lloyd regarded the question for a long moment. He picked at a piece of lint on the knee of his pants. “Before I moved to Paris to join Laurent, the Gray Man and I worked together.”
“You’re CIA?”
“Ex. Definitely ex. There’s no money in patriotism, I’m afraid.”
“And there is money in hunting down patriots? Threatening to hurt children?”
“Good money, as it happens. The world is a funny place. I copied personnel files when I was with the agency. I planned to use them as a bargaining chip if they ever came after me. It’s just serendipity that these documents have proven useful in my current position.” Lloyd stood and began pacing Fitzroy’s office. “I need to know where Gentry is now, where he’s going, what he normally does when he goes into hiding.”
“When he goes into hiding, he simply vanishes. You can kiss your natural gas good-bye. The Gray Man will not turn up on anyone’s radar again for months.”
“Unacceptable. I need you to give me something, something about Gentry I don’t already know. When he worked for us, he was a machine. No friends, no family that he gave a damn about. No lover stuck away for those long nights after a job. His SAD file is about the most boring read imaginable. No vices, no weakness. He’s older now; surely he’s made associates of a personal nature, developed tendencies that will help us figure out his next step. I’m sure you can tell me something, no matter how trivial, that I can us
e to flush him out.”
Fitzroy smiled a little. He sensed the desperation in his young adversary.
He said, “Nothing. Nothing at all. We communicate via untraceable sat phone and e-mail. If he has a home or a girl or a family hidden away, I wouldn’t know where to tell you to look.”
Lloyd walked over to the window behind Fitzroy’s desk. The Englishman remained on the sofa and watched the uninvited guest pace the office as if Fitzroy himself were the visitor and Lloyd was the proprietor of Cheltenham Services.
Suddenly the American spun around. “You can offer him a job! An easy job for big money. Surely he won’t turn down a high-paying milk run. You send him on a new mission, and I’ll have a team there to ambush him.”
“Bloody hell, you think he’s survived out there this long by being a fool? He has no interest in earning wages at the moment. He’s busy blending into his surroundings. You had one shot to take him out, and you made a mess of it. Go back to your office and lick your wounds; leave me and my family alone!”
Fitzroy noticed a nervous twitch in Lloyd’s face. It was replaced, slowly, by a smile.
“Well, if you won’t help me use Gentry’s weakness to flush him out, I will be forced to use yours.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and smiled at Don Fitzroy as he spoke into it. “Pick up Phillip Fitzroy and family. They’re at their summer cottage in Normandy. Take them to Château Laurent.”
Fitzroy rose to his feet, “You bloody wanker!”
“Guilty as charged.” Lloyd’s tone mocked the Englishman. “My associates will hold your son and his family at a secluded property LaurentGroup owns in Normandy. They will be well taken care of until this matter is resolved. You will contact the Gray Man and give him their location, tell him the Nigerians are holding your only child, his adoring wife, and their darling little kiddies there. Tell him those black savages promise to rape dear Mommy and slaughter the rest of the clan in three days unless you give up your assassin’s location.”
