by Mark Greaney
He went back to the severely wounded man sitting up in front of the bed. He felt around his waistband, then frisked him down to his ankles, avoiding the blood on the man’s clothing.
Court breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers brushed against a Velcro ankle holster low on the man’s right leg. He yanked out a tiny Ruger LCP .380. It carried eight rounds of hollow-point ammo and fit nicely in the palm of Court’s hand.
The drug dealer hadn’t resisted at all. Court wondered if the man had even remembered the weapon strapped to his leg.
Court slipped the gun into the back pocket of his jeans, then walked over to a nightstand by the bed. It was covered with ashtrays, cigarette packs, crumpled beer cans, and candy wrappers, so Court used a forearm to knock every last item onto the floor.
He was back there in the corner for several seconds, long enough to arouse the curiosity of the wounded drug dealer, who was now lying on his side on the floor in front of the bed. “You got what you came for. There’s nothing else.”
When Court did not reply the man spoke in a slurred voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Court replied cryptically: “Sending a message.”
“What?”
Soon Court headed for the door, passing the wounded man on the floor without a glance as he did so.
As he started up the hall, the wounded man called out from behind.
“Who are you?”
Court did not reply. He wouldn’t give the man or his buddies, alive or dead, another moment’s thought. His plans ahead were infinitely more important than these inconsequential street criminals. They were just a means to an end, nothing more.
—
Less than a minute before the first police car stopped in front of the house, Court stepped back out into the backyard, holding a loaded AK-47 high in front of him. He realized quickly the two Aryan Brotherhood men who had been out there were gone from the scene—even their damn dog had hit the road with the sound of approaching sirens—so Court tossed the AK into the grass, climbed up onto the Monte Carlo by the fence, carefully pushed the barbed wire out of the way, and dropped into an adjoining backyard.
He was out of the neighborhood two minutes after that.
Tonight had been more trouble than he’d envisioned, but it had all been a necessary opening move in his operation. He needed a portable and concealable weapon, and he needed capital to put his plan into action.
He wanted more gun than what was now sitting in the back pocket of his jeans. To be sure, he wasn’t going to fight much of a battle here in the U.S. with the little Ruger, but it was a decent tool, and with it he had improved his defenses markedly.
But infinitely more important than the gun was the cash.
This was America, after all, and cash was king.
And with thirteen grand, Court Gentry could wage a motherfucking war.
7
By the time the meeting on the seventh floor of CIA’s Old Headquarters Building hit the forty-five-minute mark, Suzanne Brewer was reasonably certain everyone else had forgotten she was still here.
Denny had admitted her into the Violator Working Group, true, but since then she had sat to the side, seemingly excluded from the conversation. The cross talk now was between Jordan Mayes and Denny Carmichael as they discussed moving Joint Special Operations Command operatives into the city. Apparently a quasi-legal precedent had been established for doing so, which came as a surprise to Brewer. It seemed clear that even though Carmichael wasn’t concerned about doing things by the book himself, he knew “Jay-Sock” wouldn’t operate without all the forms filled out to the letter, so he was making sure the CIA’s JSOC liaison had all the details he needed to contact Fort Bragg and get the highly trained paramilitaries on the way to D.C.
Brewer found herself impressed with Denny. She’d never worked closely with him before, and knew him mostly as the old hard piece of shoe leather in a suit that she saw in the halls every now and then. She did know that Carmichael commanded a take-no-prisoners reputation in the Agency, and his colleagues knew to fall into step behind the man or to get the hell out of his way, because although he and the director weren’t close, Denny got things done and clearly the president liked having a stone-cold killing machine like Carmichael in his bag of tricks.
Now Carmichael, Mayes, and the communications officer at the table began discussing the logistics of initiating a full-time Violator Working Group tactical operations center, or TOC, on the fourth floor. Carmichael had already said he wanted more boots on the ground, so Mayes ordered thirty contracted assets with security clearance from a private security company. These assets, and the JSOC operators, would need a central ops center to coordinate their movements and responsibilities, and the TOC would serve that function.
Suzanne Brewer was surprised they wouldn’t use Special Activities Division assets for this, but Denny was adamant he didn’t want SAD men operating on the streets of D.C. It seemed like an odd quibble for a man who just ordered up U.S. military forces and private contractors to do the same thing, but Brewer figured there was a piece of the puzzle she didn’t understand, so she didn’t bring it up.
When there was a brief lull in the chatter, Brewer fought her way back into the conversation.
“I’d like to know something about Violator’s specific capabilities.”
With Carmichael’s approval, Mayes said, “Gentry has every tactic, every piece of tradecraft, every relevant training evolution you can think of. He can fly planes, scuba, rappel, fast rope, and free climb. He’s a master in the Israeli martial art of Krav Maga, and he’s the best close-quarters battle tactician to ever serve in SAD. He’s been to jump school, sniper school, advanced surveillance school, explosive breaching school, SERE school.”
Suzanne didn’t know that one. “SERE school?”
“Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape.”
“Okay.”
Mayes continued. “Ground Branch contains the finest one hundred fifty hard assets on planet earth. Gentry was as good as any one of them if not better, and that was before he went solo five years ago and really began to hone his craft.”
Brewer asked, “When you say hard asset, I assume Gentry was involved in lethal operations for the Agency.”
No one answered for a moment.
Brewer cleared her throat. “Look. You invited me in. If I can’t be told the full scope of the danger, then I won’t be much help to you.”
Carmichael nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Jordan Mayes said, “Gentry began his career as a singleton operator, he graduated to singleton assassin, and then in the Golf Sierra task force he was the point man for an assassination and rendition team.” Mayes cleared his throat. “Golf Sierra was absolute tip-of-the-spear stuff.”
Brewer took it all in. The gravity of what was being asked of her was growing by the second. “I spoke of the rumors I had heard. As a private hit man he supposedly has executed over thirty lethal operations.”
Mayes answered back. “Our confirmed number is much lower. Twelve.”
“A large discrepancy,” Brewer added. “But the fact remains he has managed to survive for a long time in that industry. My suggestion is we don’t play into this threat. If he draws us out into a campaign on the streets of the USA, we will be vulnerable to counterattack, as well as exposure.”
Carmichael shook his head adamantly. “Suzanne, we are going after him. We know he’s in the area. We have no intentions of battening down the hatches and sheltering in place while he is here. I’ve been after this man for five years. This is an opportunity too good to pass up. I’m not going to just lock my doors and wait for him to move on.”
Brewer had expected this reaction. “Very well. In that case, we need to bring in a brain trust to help us determine Gentry’s potential actions. Who in the Agency knows him best? Who knows all of his TTPs?” She knew the tactics,
techniques, and procedures of her target were an essential element in establishing his operational pattern, which itself was critical in figuring out what he would do next.
The NSA liaison spoke up. “Matthew Hanley at SAD knows him well. He ran Gentry and the Golf Sierra Task Force.”
More to himself than to the others, Denny Carmichael said, “I don’t trust Hanley. He’s after my job.”
Brewer smiled. Taking a chance with a joke she said, “I’m after your job, Denny.”
There were a few chuckles at the table, but not from Carmichael. He sniffed. “You can fucking have it, today.”
Mayes joined Brewer in making a case for bringing Hanley into the Working Group. “Court Gentry shot Matt Hanley in Mexico City a couple of years ago. He barely survived. Matt might not be your closest confidant in the halls here at Langley, but I feel sure he wants Gentry’s head on a pike as bad as you do. Isn’t that all that matters at the moment?”
Brewer knew Matt Hanley vaguely; she’d met him in Port-au-Prince when he was chief of the CIA station there, but had heard nothing about him being shot. Protecting CIA facilities and personnel was Brewer’s job, so she couldn’t believe she’d been kept out of the loop on something so big.
“Wait. The head of SAD was shot by the Gray Man?” She caught herself. “Violator, I mean.”
Carmichael said, “Hanley wasn’t running SAD at the time, he was COS in Haiti. It was kept quiet.”
“From me?”
“From everyone.” Carmichael drummed his fingers on the table a moment. “I don’t want Hanley brought in. He stays on the outside of this, for now anyway.”
Brewer said, “If you don’t want him involved in this hunt, that’s one thing. But if Violator has a beef with the Agency, that beef is likely to include his former case officer, especially if he’s targeted him in the past. We surely need to give Hanley a heads-up that his rogue operative is on the loose in the area.”
Carmichael seemed to acquiesce a little. “We’ll put security on Hanley, watching his house, just to keep him safe. But let’s keep it low-key. Don’t tell Hanley.”
Brewer dropped the subject and went back to her request for information from others who knew Gentry. “Who else worked with him? What about other members of his task force?”
The CIA liaison to JSOC said, “All dead. Gentry killed them.”
Mayes and Carmichael exchanged another look. The liaison caught it, and he cocked his head. “What?”
Carmichael said, “Not exactly true. One man survived.”
Mayes picked it up from there. “The team leader of Task Force Golf Sierra, Zachary Hightower, is not dead.” With a shrug he said, “He might as well be. Denny shit-canned him after he botched an attempt to snatch Gentry in Africa.”
Brewer said, “It stands to reason his team leader would know a great deal about his operational abilities. Do we know where he is?”
Mayes said, “No idea, but I’m sure he can be located.”
Carmichael held up a finger. “I want to see him first, face-to-face, to evaluate what I’m working with. He was injured severely in Africa, then he was drummed out of the Agency. If he’s like a lot of operators he’ll be bitter, and a shell of the man he was when he worked for us.”
Brewer nodded and made notes on her pad.
She started to switch the conversation to Carmichael’s immediate physical security, but one of the communications technicians outside the room knocked on the glass wall and stepped to the door. Mayes pressed a button, and the door unlocked with a click.
Mayes asked, “What is it?”
“We picked something up on the scanner. PD reports a homicide in Washington Highlands. Home invasion, multiple fatalities.”
Carmichael picked up his coffee mug and took a sip. “Sounds like any other Saturday night over there.”
“A surviving victim reports a lone Caucasian assailant. Apparently he took down a house full of heavily armed Aryan Brotherhood drug dealers. Two dead, four wounded.”
“When?”
“Less than thirty minutes ago.”
“One guy did it?” Carmichael asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Carmichael and Mayes nodded at each other, and Brewer picked up what her superiors were thinking.
She asked, “Why would Violator attack a house full of meth dealers?”
Carmichael said immediately, “Maybe he needs something.”
“He needs meth?”
Mayes answered with confidence. “Resources. Arms and financing. No better place to get both if you don’t mind a fight.”
Carmichael said, “And Violator loves a fight.” Slowly his lean face widened into a smile. “It’s classic Gentry, isn’t it?”
Brewer was confused. “Classic in what way?”
“He needs weapons and money, right?” Carmichael said. “What’s the easiest way to acquire them? Knock over a pawnshop? Hit a liquor store with a security guard? Why doesn’t he steal a shotgun out of a patrol car and rob a check cashing business? Why does he do it the hard way? Hit right up the fucking middle of a house full of armed meth head Aryan assholes?”
“Tell me why,” Brewer said.
Mayes understood what Carmichael was getting at, and he answered Brewer’s question. “Because Violator sees himself as the good guy. He only targets bad guys.”
“But you just said you think he is a threat to us.”
“Make no mistake. He truly thinks he’s some sort of hero and we’re the villains.” Jordan Mayes stood now. “I’ll check out the crime scene personally.”
Suzanne Brewer stood as well. “Denny, I’d like to go along, too. I’m behind the curve on understanding this target of ours. If this was him, I want to get the feel of the scene, to see what he’s capable of.”
“Okay.” Carmichael turned his attention to AD Mayes. “Mayes, it’s possible you are in Gentry’s crosshairs, same as me. I want you rolling in armor, with a full detail.”
Mayes whistled softly. “Damn, Denny. I didn’t even have a full security detail in Baghdad.”
“Gentry was on our side back then, wasn’t he?”
8
After dark, Andy Shoal lived on cans of Red Bull and cups of convenience store coffee. He wasn’t a night owl by design but, over time, he had created a chemically structured superhuman version of himself that got him through the nighttime hours, allowing him to excel at his job as a crime reporter for the Washington Post.
As “on” as he was when most people were tucked away in their beds, there was a price to be paid—the physical crash came each day with dawn. He was usually back in his apartment in Arlington by eight and asleep by nine, but by four thirty p.m. he was on his way back to his tiny cubicle in the Post’s office on 15th Street NW, just a few blocks from the White House.
He told himself he wouldn’t have to do this forever. Andy was ambitious, and he was four years into his five-year plan to get out of Metro and into something higher profile, a position on the national desk or on an investigative team that wouldn’t necessitate him being a zombie every damn day, so he worked hard, he got along with his editor, and he didn’t bitch.
All that taken into account, Andy still figured he must be doing something seriously wrong, because why else was he the one driving out to the shittiest ward in the District in the middle of this cold misty night to report on a double homicide?
Tonight’s assignment didn’t sound terribly interesting—the Watergate break-in this wasn’t. From the info he picked up over the police scanner in his car it seemed to be a shooting at a crack house or something. Not anything new and exciting, as Andy had filed countless stories like this already, but there were bodies and there were injured and this was his job, so as soon as he finished a piece he was working on at his desk, he climbed into his Ford Festiva and headed out into the dreary night.
&
nbsp; With luck, he told himself, he could get six column inches out of this shooting.
Now he followed the last instructions of his GPS and turned off 4th Street SE and onto Brandywine Street.
Even though he knew the depressing crime statistics for Ward Eight, Andy never really felt unsafe around here. He was from Philly and had been raised lower middle class, so he was no stranger to rough streets. He’d been mugged once in D.C., but that was just three and a half blocks from the Capitol building, so he didn’t ascribe much more threat to the so-called bad parts of town.
As Andy pulled into the neighborhood he heard over his police scanner the crime scene was a possible meth stash house run by the Aryan Brotherhood, and as he parked and looked around he thought that possibility to be highly likely. He couldn’t imagine this property in front of him being anything other than a drug house. It was basically a boarded-up ramshackle single-story with a pickup truck adorned with a rebel flag decal in the driveway out front. The front door was a big black iron monstrosity and the fence around the back of the property was high and ringed with barbed wire.
The entire property was surrounded by police tape, and a few locals stood around in the rainy night. In the street a dozen squad cars idled, all with their headlights facing the home, and many with their lights flashing. A pair of fire trucks were parked end to end out front, and a single ambulance sat in the driveway, the EMTs leaning against their vehicle.
Just another night.
Other than Animal Control wrangling a big pit bull in the parking lot of an apartment building three doors down, there was no sense of urgency to the scene, which told Andy this ambulance was here to pick up dead bodies, not injured victims.
As he parked he noticed a gray four-door Nissan that he knew belonged to a homicide detective he’d become friendly with during his time as a cops reporter. He grabbed his backpack, stuffed with a camera, notebooks, an iPad, and a digital recorder, and he climbed out of his car, locking it before heading across the street.
