On Target

by Mark Greaney

  Zack turned his head slowly to face him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You know what I’m doing. You are an asshole, but I can’t just stand here and just let you die.” Gentry ripped open Zack’s shirt, exposed the wound. It was small, two inches below his right nipple, Court knew the bullet would have gone through the lung. He reached under Zack to feel for an exit wound.

  “You patch me up, and I’ll kill you!”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Hightower looked up at the ceiling with his half-mast eyes and shook his head slowly in disbelief. “You are a terrible judge of character, Court.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Five minutes later, Gentry had Hightower stabilized, at least for the time being. There was no exit wound, which meant there was a bullet or fragments of a bullet somewhere in his damaged chest cavity. Court used a folded cover from a magazine from the bookcase and duct tape from the aid kit to create a valve over the chest wound that would allow air to escape from Hightower’s lungs when he breathed out, but not allow air into the chest cavity when he breathed in.

  It was all he could do at the moment.

  Then Court left Zack and returned up two flights to the helm of the ship. Within minutes he’d turned all the systems on, ignored most everything except the engines and the compass and the wheel and the autopilot. He ran down to the deck and checked to make sure the anchor had not been lowered. He was sure there was some way to check from the helm, but he figured eyeballing it would be faster than trying to figure out which computer monitor displayed that nugget of information. He refrained from turning on any lights; he wanted to move as stealthily towards international waters as an eighty-foot luxury yacht possibly could. He knew he would not hit a shipping lane for some time, but he hoped that any civilian sea traffic out there in the dark had radar on board, because Court did not know how to operate that particular function of the big multifunction display at the center of the mahogany and brass helm, and he did not want a collision with some other boat.

  Court pushed the throttle gently, and the big boat surged forward. When the craft reached twenty knots, he set the autopilot to hold the present course and then he ran back downstairs.

  Court entered the lower saloon to find Hightower crawling on his side, halfway under a table that folded out from the wall. Court followed the wounded man’s eyes to a titanium snub-nose revolver on the floor against the wall, just within Hightower’s grasp. It was the same gun Zack had pressed to Gentry’s forehead in Saint Petersburg. Slowly, Hightower’s left arm crept out on the floor, reaching for the gun.

  Court did not have to hurry; he just stepped across the floor and kicked the pistol away.

  Gentry said, “I don’t think your heart was in that attempt.”

  Zack nodded; his eyes closed again. “My heart has other pressing matters to attend to at the moment.” He winced with pain. “Pulmonary pneumothorax. Air pressure in the chest cavity is stopping my heart.”

  “If you promise to stop trying to kill me for a minute, I can help you.”

  “No promises,” Zack said, but he rolled back onto his back and cried out in pain as he did so. His breath was shallow and labored. Court quickly flipped open his knife, found a spot between the second and third ribs on the right side of Sierra One’s chest, and then punched a shallow hole through the skin and muscle. Zack cried out. Immediately air escaped from the hole with a slight whistling sound. Court went to the fish tank in the corner, pulled some rubber tubing and a filter out of the water, and returned to his patient. He slid the tube in the fresher of the two chest wounds, stuck the filter in the open end and laid it on the ground next to Zack’s arm. “When we get out of this, you and I are going to need most of the antibiotics in the Western world.”

  Zack coughed. A little blood appeared on his lips. “Seriously, dude. The gunboat will be here any minute. Just where do you think we are going?”

  Court sat down next to Zack, exhausted and sore and sick from the infection in his back. He pulled the satellite phone out of his bag. “Time to kiss a little Russian ass.”

  Court got through to Sidorenko on the third try. “Hey, Sid. It’s Gray. It’s done.”

  “Yes, it is all over the news. President Abboud is dead. Everyone in Moscow is very pleased.”

  “The body has been found?”

  “Yes. Near a resort sixty miles north of Suakin. Very curious.”

  Court breathed a hesitant sigh of relief. “Yeah. I’ll explain everything when I see you. We need to move up the extraction, though. I’ve got to get out of here immediately.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Too much heat to lay low as we originally planned.”

  “Is that so?” Sid’s voice held none of his earlier excitement. Gentry sensed trouble.

  “Yeah. I’m wounded.”

  “Wounded?”

  “Hey! Sid! Stop with the questions. Yes, I’m wounded. I need some help.”

  “I’m afraid your benefits package does not include health insurance, Mr. Gray.”

  Court said nothing. The muscles in his jaw twitched.

  The Russian mobster continued. “Abboud is dead, this I know. But I also know that you did not kill him. He was killed by a sniper while you were trying to protect him, to get him out of the country to deliver him to the International Criminal Court. You used my operation to gain access to the president, in order to take him alive for some other actor.”

  Shit. “Where did you hear that bullshit?”

  Sid’s reply was delivered with a sudden scream, his Saint Petersburg accent more pronounced and the words less intelligible. “You take me for a fool! Well, Courtland Gentry, Gray Man, I am no fool. You can stay there and die for your treachery!”

  “I’m going to kill you, Sid!”

  “You just told me you could not survive without me, and now you make threats about what you will do to me? Ha. You were a dangerous man, Gentry, this is why I liked you. But you’re not so dangerous, now that you are alone, injured, scared. Not so interesting, either. I had a man with a problem. Soon there will be no man and no problem!” Sid laughed as he hung up the phone.

  “Dammit,” said Court. He dropped the phone on the floor by his side and lay back against the wall of the saloon. The infection was sapping the last of his energy reserves.

  He thought Hightower was unconscious, but his patient turned his head slowly. With his eyes still closed, he asked, “What did Sid say?”

  “He said, in so many words, ‘Fuck you.’”

  Zack’s dry, cracked lips tightened into a slight smile. His voice was soft. “Damn, dude. Your boss is an asshole.”

  “Yeah. Who knew?”

  “Face it, nobody’s coming for us. I’m disavowed, and you’re the enemy. We are pretty much the definition of fucked. You can backstroke back to the beach; that’s pretty much your only option.”

  Court reached above him to a small bar and grabbed a water bottle. His back screamed in pain while doing so. He unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs. He poured a few splashes over his head. Distractedly he drummed his fingers on the water bottle, his legs splayed out on the rising and falling deck.

  Nothing was said between the two men for a minute. Court felt each second tick. He thought he sensed the boat pulling to the right slightly, but he pushed it out of his mind. The autopilot had been set, so the course should be true.

  “I’m open to suggestions, One,” Gentry said idly. But there was no reply. Sierra One was unconscious, though breathing better than before with the introduction of the tube to release the air buildup. He’d still likely bleed to death if he didn’t get to a hospital soon.

  Court reached for the first aid pack to see what pain medicine was kept there. He wondered if the Arabs who owned this fancy yacht were the type who abstained from such peccadilloes.

  Court’s eyebrows rose. A sudden thought struck him.

  Why the hell not?

  He reached for the phone again and leaned h
is head back against the teak walls of the cabin. He dialed a number with his thumb and held the phone to his ear.

  One ring, two rings, five rings. Court looked at his watch.

  The phone crackled as it was answered. The battery meter showed the device was quickly running out of juice.

  “Cheltenham Security Services,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Don Fitzroy.”

  “May I ask who’s ringing?”

  “Court.”

  “Certainly, sir. One moment.”

  The pause was brief. The phone was almost dead. It was possible Zack had his own Thuraya around here somewhere, but Court was too tired to hunt for it.

  Don Fitzroy, Sir Donald Fitzroy, had been Court Gentry’s handler before Gregor Sidorenko. The previous December the two men had a falling-out, and Court vowed to stay away from the English spymaster as long as he lived, even if he became desperate.

  But desperate events, Court now saw, warranted desperate measures.

  Fitzroy’s low, gruff voice came over the line. “Well, hullo, lad. How are you?”

  “Been better, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve been watching the news?”

  A nervous chuckle. “The only news of interest to a man like me is taking place on the western seashore of the Red Sea. I truly hope you’re not involved in all that ruckus?”

  Court sighed, “I guess I’m just about the nucleus of that ruckus.”

  Another pause. Then, “Good Lord. Whispers about say it is the CIA at work. So you are back with the agency?”

  “Unofficially.”

  “How unofficial?”

  “Well . . . actually, they’re trying to kill me.”

  “Sounds like a bloody unofficial relationship, then. In fact, isn’t that the opposite of being ‘with’ them?”

  “It’s a bit fucked-up, yes.”

  Instantly the Englishman said, “How can I be of service?”

  “Just like that? I’m in the shit, Don. You can squeeze me dry if you want. My leverage is nonexistent.”

  “We’ll work it out later. You are a man of your word. Let’s just try to get you out of there.”

  Court hesitated, then said, “Do you have any assets at all in the area?”

  “I’ll need to make some calls. Nothing of my network, but I have colleagues in Eritrea, in Egypt. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon—”

  “Negative. I can’t wait. I have to have something faster.”

  Don seemed momentarily flummoxed. Court’s slightly buoyed spirits sank anew with the delay. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. Then he opened them.

  “I do have a boat. I’m making twenty knots towards international waters.”

  “A boat? Well, that’s something.”

  “But the GOS Navy is on the way. I can’t outrun them.” Court gave his general coordinates to Fitzroy, who wrote them down hurriedly.

  “You must try to dodge the Sudanese.”

  “If I had something to shoot for, a ship or a boat or even a damn buoy to hang on to, I’d feel a lot better.”

  Don said, “There should be a handheld FM beacon on board. Find it straightaway. I’ll call a friend who’s a maritime underwriter at Lloyds of London, get a list of every boat, ship, or yacht within three hours of you. If I don’t know the owner or operator of one of those ships, I will bloody well find someone who does. You go due east from your location, get out into the sea as fast as you can, as far as you can. When you’re in international waters and clear of the Sudanese, sound your distress beacon.”

  “Understood. Thanks, Don.”

  “Thank me later. You have a navy to outrun.” Court hung up the phone and ran back to the cockpit to speed up the engines.

  FIFTY

  Court found the handheld FM distress radio in the cockpit, slid it into his hip bag, and then made his way back to the helm. Here he pushed the throttles all the way forward. There was less than an hour left until daylight, and Gentry had his bow pointed right where the burnt orange sun would appear. He only hoped he’d be around to see it shine.

  Suddenly the cockpit was awash in bright light. Court ducked instinctively, turned in all directions looking for the source of the blinding beam. He found it astern on the starboard side, a spotlight no more than one hundred yards away.

  The twin 12.7-mm machine gun of the coastal patrol boat opened up one second later, tearing into the cockpit and ripping through mahogany and bronze and glass.

  Gentry dove to the deck next to the helm, used the deeply waxed teak flooring to slide like a snake towards the stairs to the lower decks. He slid down the stairs face-first, his shoulder killing him but his fear of supersonic metal taking precedence in his priorities.

  On the main deck Court waited for a short respite from the near constant fire and grabbed both rifles dropped by the dead men on the companionway. The weapons were old and poorly maintained. Court knew firing on the gunboat would be extraordinarily reckless, but not firing on it would allow it to come as close as it wanted, shine its spot on the hapless yacht, and rake its machine guns back and forth to its heart’s content until the engines stopped and the yacht sank in the black water.

  Court wasn’t going to make it that easy for them.

  He crawled to the bow, staying out of sight. The braying 12.7-mm guns seemed to be concentrating on the helm, the waterline, and the stern of the ship, most likely to destroy the controls and the propellers and stop the boat’s retreat to international waters, as well as to kill anyone hiding out belowdecks. But the bow was still mostly shrouded in the dark shadows of the upper saloon and cockpit, and Gentry used this to mask his movement. He flipped the selector switch on the weapon to fully automatic, lined the 81’s iron sights up on the spotlight beam, and slipped his finger into the trigger guard. In the brief pause he took to concentrate his senses before he fired, he noticed the deck below him was not moving forward in a straight line. No, he felt a very noticeable and very strong pull to the right of the eighty-foot craft. He had no idea why, guessed only that the machine guns had already damaged the rudder.

  He pushed this out of his mind and pressed the trigger. The light exploded in a flash of sparks. Suddenly the Fatima was enshrouded in darkness, and the gunboat across the water was the bright spot, as its windows and electric lighting exposed all the men on the deck.

  Court fired the remainder of the first AK’s magazine in full automatic mode at the men, killing two and sending the rest diving to the deck of the hundred-foot craft. When his weapon ran dry, Court dropped it and ran to the port side of the yacht. He knew the bright flash of the gun would have attracted attention, and he needed to get as far away from the bow as possible. He made it back to the stairs to the lower decks just as the machine guns on the yacht again began belching hot steel. On the stairs he saw his boat was sinking now, leaning to the port side, although its forward propulsion still pulled to starboard.

  Court returned to the lower saloon and dropped to his hands and knees. It was below the waterline and therefore mostly safe from direct gunfire. He found Zack lying in the same place. His bare chest was covered in the ersatz bandages and a thick sheen of sweat. His eyes were open and blinking.

  “Fucking navy,” Zack said as Court crawled up next to him. A passing sweep from the machine gun sent splinters and glass and seawater throughout the saloon just above their heads. Seconds later the engines stopped, and the Fatima began to drift.

  But the gunfire continued. Court had to scream to be heard. “We’re going up on deck!”

  “Don’t forget the sunscreen.”

  “We’re sinking. We’re going to have to go over the port side. Maybe we can wait a while, transmit the distress on the VHF when they leave.”

  “Not gonna work. We’re nowhere near international waters. The Sudanese will hear the distress, come back, and finish the job.”

  “I’m not going to sink that navy boat. I don’t have any ot
her alternative.”

  Zack laid his head back flat. “Do what you gotta do, bro. I’m staying right here.”

  The machine gun fire stopped abruptly. Court looked around. He noticed the water bottle he’d left on the floor earlier had rolled to the port side. Within seconds other items in the room began to slide on the mirrorlike finish of the deck.

  “We’re dead in the water,” Court said. “The engine room must be filling up. But why aren’t they shooting?”

  Zack said nothing.

  “I’ll be right back.” Court climbed the stairs on his hands and knees. The yacht was sinking incredibly quickly. Already it leaned to port at a ten-degree angle. On the deck he laid flat, so he was concealed to the starboard side by the list to port. He crawled to the railing and peered over carefully, looking for the gunboat. The navy vessel was moving out of the area, away from the yacht, and Court could not imagine why. Quickly he looked into the sky, worried about a fighter plane with a bomb or some other attack that would necessitate the patrol craft hauling ass. But the starry skies were clear.

  He was about to turn to slide back to the companionway when he noticed it, above the waterline, just below his position at the railing. In the darkness it glistened and hung there like a big, wet tumor on the hull of the Fatima.

  It was attached to the hull with cables and suction cups, and had been below the waterline before the yacht began listing hard to the opposite side.

  Cigar-shaped, black as onyx, and twenty feet long, an enclosed prop and rudder at the rear, and a clear plastic canopy on the top.

  A mini submarine.

  Court shook his head in disbelief and mumbled with a little smile, “Zack, you rat bastard.”

  Court realized now why the boat had pulled so hard to starboard at speed.

  Hightower had neglected to mention it because his primary mission was to kill the Gray Man. His secondary mission would be to save his own life.