by Mark Greaney
Nick, and the other seven men of Trestle, were all good with that.
“Got it,” he replied. It was no small thing to steel oneself to shoot noncombatants, but Nick had done it before, and Nick knew Townsend Government Services had been brought into this hunt not because they were saints, but because they got shit done.
Babbitt added, “When it’s over, you get pictures, that’s mandatory, but you leave the body, get back to the airport, and get out of there. If the weather is below minimums, just exfiltrate overland and we’ll get you extracted ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Nick. Remember . . . For America.”
Now there was a pause on Nick’s side of the conversation. “You know . . . if you ever wanted to tell me what this prick did to earn his shoot-on-sight sanction . . . now would be the time.”
Babbitt replied tersely, “Just do your duty. Graveside out.”
Nick ended the call and stowed his sat phone. As he stepped back into the hangar, Trestle Two came up to him; he’d already put on his helmet and goggles, he was head-to-toe in black ballistic gear, and his MP7 PDW hung straight down from his chest. In his hands he carried Trestle Actual’s primary weapon. “We’re ready,” he said, and he held out the HK.
Nick took the gun. “Good.”
“I don’t suppose Graveside finally came through and told you what this is all about?”
Nick shrugged now, dropping the sling over his head and positioning the PDW on his chest. “Same as ever. Management doesn’t tell labor anything except the rah-rah shit. ‘Do your duty, God and country, Gentry is a clear and present danger.’”
Trestle Two rolled his eyes and made a gesture like he was performing a hand job.
Nick finished adjusting his gear on his chest. Normally he would have laughed, but his game face was on now. He looked up to his second in command. “It’s all good. Gentry did something to make himself an enemy of the state. We’re the state. Well . . . sort of. Close enough, anyhow.” He smiled now. “Let’s go kill that miserable fuck.”
“Yeah, let’s.”
The two men headed back to join the others loading into the van.
THIRTEEN
Court lay awake, listening to the wind whipping fine grainlike snow against the window of his tiny third-floor room. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly four A.M., and as near as he could tell from his view out the window, there was one hell of a storm raging outside.
He wanted to sleep; he’d dozed off and on for hours, but he couldn’t seem to shut off his mind. He often took a few days to decompress after an action, and this was no different. The good result of the Sidorenko hit notwithstanding, he found himself stressing, reliving everything that happened.
Maybe it was the kid that was getting to him. The little boy he’d run into in the hallway of the mansion. Court had done his best to scare the living shit out of him to make sure he would go back into his room and hide. He’d probably saved the boy’s life; had he been wandering the dark hallways when the shooting started he could easily imagine one of the drugged-up gun-wielding skinheads on the property spooking at the movement and shooting the boy dead.
Yes, Court acknowledged, he’d done the right thing, in the short term anyhow. But long term?
Would the boy have nightmares about his encounter with the monster who broke into his house in the dead of night and killed his uncle? Surely he would put together that a rival had sent an assassin to the house, and the assassin, while obviously talented, was no ghost. No monster.
Or was he?
Court stared out the window. What are you, Gentry?
Court was known by many names. His given name, of course, but almost no one referred to him by that anymore. His mom died when he was young, he hadn’t spoken to his dad in years, and he’d lost his brother a few years earlier.
At the CIA he had first been known as Violator, a code name he’d been given when he was admitted into AADP, the Autonomous Asset Development Program, a school of sorts in Harvey Point, North Carolina, where lost-boy renegade-types were taken in and taught how to channel their wild side into doing dirty jobs for the United States of America.
After 9/11, Court was pulled out of solo work and folded into a tip-of-the-spear unit called Golf Sierra, jokingly referred to as the Goon Squad, an anti-terror task force in the CIA’s Special Activities Division, and during those years Violator became Sierra Six, the low man in the six-member team. He spent his days on snatch-and-grab missions, rendering America’s greatest enemies to black sites for interrogation, or shooting them in the head when so ordered.
And then suddenly—extraordinarily suddenly, as a matter of fact—he was no longer Sierra Six, no longer part of the team. The Goon Squad turned on him; clearly they’d been ordered to kill him.
But Sierra Six retained enough of his training as Violator to single-handedly take down his entire team, one against five. It also marked the end of his life in the USA. He left the country a day later, running to stay ahead of the hunters on his trail.
To survive on the lam from the most powerful nation on earth, Court, Violator, Sierra Six, became the Gray Man, an assassin for hire, executing private contract killings only against those he deemed worthy of capital punishment for their crimes. In five years he had eliminated terrorists, drug lords, mafia leaders, despots, and even other assassins.
His goal, through the years living abroad and off the net, had always been to win his way back to the United States. While his one attempt at reconciliation with the CIA had ended poorly, on the banks of the Red Sea with a former friend and Special Activities Division operative declaring his intent to chase him to the ends of the earth, Court had not given up hope that somehow, someday, he would be allowed back into the USA, either into the open arms of the CIA or at least with their grudging approval.
But the years were adding up, and his relationship with Langley had not improved.
And there was something else. He’d spent the last months preparing for the Sidorenko hit, putting all of his efforts into this task to the extent that he had thought of little else. Now that it was over, something had entered the forefront of his consciousness that he could no longer avoid thinking about. His relationships with nefarious personalities like Sidorenko had created so many new enemies for him to deal with, the CIA situation had become a back-burner problem for him. His killing of Sid had been necessary, but now that it was done, it felt like time wasted.
There were so many others out there who wanted him dead. A French oil concern he’d worked against, and then worked for, now held a grudge because of the manner in which they had parted ways.
A Mexican cartel boss he’d worked for, then worked against, had recently placed a video on YouTube. In it, Constantino Madrigal, one of the most wanted men on earth, addressed the camera with his face all but obscured by a cowboy hat and a bandanna.
He said, “This message is to José, the gringo pistolero. Your amigos, the Cowboys, have some advice for you. Don’t buy any green bananas.”
Madrigal ended the video with a raspy laugh and a wave of his gold-plated AK-47.
The first appearance of Madrigal on camera in years made the international press, and Court had caught the video while living in his safe house in Moscow, prepping for the Sidorenko operation. Though the clip was cryptic to everyone else, Court got the message. He had called himself José in Mexico, and the reference to green bananas was clear.
In Moscow, Court triaged this problem well behind the Sidorenko situation. He was in Russia, after all, and Sid was a bigger fish to fry than a Mexican drug lord.
But now Sid was dead, and Court wondered how much trouble Madrigal, or the French energy company LaurentGroup, could still make for him.
All the bad guys out there on his ass were really cutting into his free time.
Court knew the only way around this problem, long term, was to stop making deals with these devils. He knew he had to get out of the industry, to stop working for handl
ers he could not trust and accepting patronage from those who had as much blood on their hands as the evil men he targeted.
Court knew he had to, somehow, cease his life as the Gray Man.
It seemed as if the thought had just come to him, but he realized after a moment of reflection he had been moving toward this line of thinking for some time.
What good had he done in the past five years? There were still evil multinationals, still despots in Africa, still thriving brotherhoods in Russia, still calamitous drug wars in Mexico.
Court got older, more beaten and battered and shell-shocked and defeated, but the world around him kept turning, unchanged and unimproved.
The only thing he’d managed to accomplish was stay alive, and if he kept up this lifestyle, he knew it was only a matter of time before he pissed away this tiny victory by getting his ass killed, dead in a jungle in Asia or a dirty back alley in Europe or a putrid ditch in South America or, just maybe, a soulless hotel room in the Baltic.
The end would be ignominious and sudden.
Don’t buy any green bananas, indeed.
As he lay there on the bed, he thought back to something Maurice, his principal trainer at AADP in Harvey Point, had said to him.
“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” It was a Chesterton quote, and at the time Court was a nineteen-year-old kid, an aimless and troubled young man who just happened to be incredible with a weapon in his hand. He did not understand the quote, so Maurice explained it this way: “If you are going to fight, do it for something you love. Do it for your country.”
In the past five years Court had been a man without a country, and, for some reason he did not really understand, he seemed to keep seeking out new things to hate.
What am I doing? he asked himself. That was no long-term plan. He wasn’t making a difference, it had ceased to provide sufficient motivation, and Court just did not want to fucking do it anymore.
He made a decision then and there. He would lie low here in Tallinn for a couple of days, then push off, find a quiet place where he could do something productive other than kill, do something other than spin his wheels until the inevitable happened.
Court forced himself to focus on the snow blowing against the window, trying to put greater thoughts out of his mind and fall back asleep.
Whitlock sat at the desk in his little room, thinking about the man directly above him.
On the desk in front of him was a Glock 19 pistol and two extra fifteen-round magazines. Russ was not a Glock man himself, but he had reason to carry one tonight. Next to his pistol lay his smart phone and his backpack. And next to these, an open half-liter and half-consumed bottle of A. Le Coq beer dripped a ring of sweat on the desk.
He checked the time and saw that it was four A.M. He reached into a pocket of his bag, then pulled out a small white medicine bottle. From this he fished out two pills. They were Adderall, a psychostimulant, an amphetamine. He downed the pills with a long swig of the A. Le Coq.
The Bluetooth headset in his ear chirped. He touched a finger to it.
“Go.”
It was Trestle Actual, and he initiated the identity check. When this was complete he asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m in room 201. The target is still upstairs, directly above. He used the toilet at oh two hundred, then went back to bed. He hasn’t moved since.”
“Understood.”
“You sure I can’t help?”
“I’m not telling you again. You do not leave that room.”
Whitlock sighed. “Fine. I’m packed and ready to exfil as soon as you give me the all clear.”
“Good. I’ll be with the breach team. We hit in five mikes. I’ll notify you when it is over and safe for you to leave.”
“Roger that. Good luck.” Russ disconnected the call.
As soon as the conversation ended, Russ Whitlock began moving. He unzipped his backpack, and from it he pulled a tiny pinhole camera with a wireless radio attached to it. The entire device was no larger than a matchbook, and it had an adhesive puttylike backing. He stuck it on the wall by the desk to test its hold, then pulled it off again. He picked up his smart phone and opened an app on it. In seconds the screen on his phone was displaying the image from the pinhole camera. He then pocketed both devices.
Russ stood up from the desk, slipped his gun into a holster inside the waistband on the right side of his jeans, the two extra magazines into a mag carrier inside the waistband on the left, and then he put on his black coat. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, chugged the rest of the beer, then dropped the empty bottle into a pocket on the outside of the pack. Finally, he put his hand on the door latch and paused.
Russ would not be following Trestle’s instructions. He would not sit quietly in his room. His upcoming course of action had been decided by Russ himself, and he was not following the orders of his company. He had concocted his plan, labored over every detail, refined and revised it as time went on.
And then he put the plan on hold, waiting for the day Townsend Government Services would lead him to the most infamous assassin on the planet.
The Gray Man.
Russ was out for the biggest game on earth, the hardest target.
With a long breath and a determined mind-set helped on by the Adderall, he opened the door and exited his room, leaving not a trace behind.
Gentry had not fallen back to sleep; he lay fully clothed and faceup, still listening to the whipping snow on the window. But his head jolted from his pillow when the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside caught his attention. The footsteps weren’t tentative, but they slowed a little as they approached his door, and Court found their cadence unnatural and suspicious. His right hand shot out and wrapped around the cool plastic grip of his Glock 19 as he sat up.
The footfalls stopped. Court aimed his gun at the door, ready to open fire.
There was a knock, and Court started moving, low across the hardwood, moving close to the walls to minimize the creaking of the floorboards. As he passed the single window in the tiny room, he glanced out across the park. The snow was heavy and he couldn’t see past it to the ground.
Another knock. This time it was louder, faster.
Shit. Another phrase oft uttered by his trainer Maurice popped into his head. “Nothing good ever happens at three A.M.”
It was four now, but the concept was no less valid.
In German Court called out, “Wer ist da?” Who is there?
Russ Whitlock stood in front of the door to room 301, his hands empty and high over his head to show he posed no threat. He did not speak German, and he did not know Court Gentry’s voice. He faced the door in the dimly lit hall, wondering suddenly if he had made a mistake. He thought quickly back to all the intel on Court he’d studied over the past months. Language skill: Russian good, Spanish very good, French good, German fair.
Yep. Court spoke German.
Russ replied in English, “Court. I am a friend. And I am alone. I need to talk to you. It is extremely important.”
There was a pause. “Wer ist da?” the man on the other side of the door repeated.
Russ leaned close to the door, still keeping his hands up in case the door opened. “There is no time to fuck around, Violator. I’m on your side. You have to trust me.”
After a moment he heard the lock retracting, and he saw the latch turn. The door creaked open and Russ kept his hands raised, displaying his empty palms.
The chain caught the door when it opened three inches. It was dark inside. Russ peered in, could see faint light coming from the window, and he could tell that whoever had opened the door had stepped to the side.
“Who are you?” It was English now. The voice came from behind the wall on Whitlock’s right, not from behind the door.
Whitlock looked back over his shoulder quickly, then said, “Right now, I’m the guy holding your life in his hands.”
From the d
arkness came the response. “And right now, I’m the guy pointing a gun at your dick.”
Whitlock cocked his head, then looked down. He saw it now, the square tip of a Glock pistol, low in the dark, held by a hand that disappeared around the side of the doorjamb. He looked into the room farther, searching for a mirror or some other reflective surface that Gentry could be using to target him while keeping himself out of the line of fire. He saw nothing, but he knew the lights of the hallway had him well silhouetted.
He said, “My name is Russ. It looks like you and me better make friends.”
“Or you could just back the fuck up and leave.”
Russ said, “You’re going to find this hard to believe, but I’m not your biggest problem.”
A figure stepped into the middle of the room from behind the wall. In his hand the gun was raised now, level with Russ’s chest. “I’m listening.”
Russ found himself face-to-face with the Gray Man. He’d thought of this moment for months. He knew his entire future depended on the success of this conversation. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
“I’ve got something you need to see. I’m reaching into my right coat pocket and pulling out my cell phone. I’ll move slowly.”
“Don’t move at all,” Court ordered, then took a step forward, unhooked the chain from the door and opened it, reached into Whitlock’s coat, and pulled out the phone. He took a single step back from the doorway.
“Look at the screen,” Russ instructed.
Court did as instructed, keeping his gun trained on the stranger’s chest.
It was an image from a camera; it looked like the stairwell here in the hotel. From the odd angle and the marginal quality of the picture, Court imagined the man in front of him must have set up his own mini surveillance cam high in the stairwell, and Court was now viewing a live feed. At first there was no movement, but then four men in black came into view, floating up the stairs, slowly and carefully in a tactical formation. They held their short-barreled weapons high, pointed higher in the stairwell. In under a second Gentry registered their guns, their body armor, their communications gear.
