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Mark Greaney: On target

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Mark Greaney On target

On target: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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"So you killed him."

"Bloody well right, I did. 'At's the business we're in, ain't it? And now I'm too old, too broken and beaten to execute the big contracts anymore. I'm not making the cash I once was, so he's sending ya to shut me off, so ya can take over. He figures if there's a one percent chance I'll talk, call a newspaper or Interpol and tell on him, then he might as well off me just in case."

Court was stunned. Sid had lied about the very existence of a contract on the target. It was only in the personal interests of his handler that he should kill this man. He recovered a bit and reminded himself of some of the dirtier parts of Sid's dossier on Slattery. "He told me you'd done some ugly hits in your past." The Makarov rose again with new resolve.

Slattery cocked his head, genuinely surprised. "Ugly hits? Ugly hits? What the feck is a pretty hit?"

Court took a moment. "You've killed innocents, I mean."

"Bollocks. You gonna sit there and judge me, based on what Sid has told you? A feckin' joke you are. Go on then, be done with it. Put a bullet up me nose and feel good about yourself! Ugly hits? Innocents? Aren't you the most pretentious fuck for a hit man that's ever soiled this godforsaken planet!"

Dougal Slattery's nostrils flared as he stared down the suppressor at the end of the barrel of the little Makarov. The alcohol showed in his eyes, but not a shred of fear.

After a long pause, Court lowered the gun to his side. He pulled out the wooden chair and sat slowly down at the table across from the Irishman.

"I guess I'll take that drink now."

Slattery did not take his eyes off the American as he poured for them both.

FOUR

Ten minutes later Court had reholstered his weapon. He'd decided not to kill the man in front of him. He'd told him as much. The Irishman did not smile or breathe a sigh of relief, but he did strike out a hand, and they shook. They sat mostly in silence in the dim light from the streetlamps outside the tiny room. Court was careful to leave his hands on the small wooden table to keep Slattery relaxed.

After a while Dougal said, "Sid's not gonna be happy with you."

"We had an agreement. I told him I would only execute contracts I approved of. If he gave me bad intel, I reserve the right to pull out. Fuck him."

Slattery lifted a Bushmills into the air.

"I'll drink to that. Fuck Sid!"

"He'll just send someone else after you, you know."

"Aye. Suppose he will. Maybe I should just go ahead and have you do me in, just to get it out of the way."

Court said, "I don't take requests."

The thick Irishman laughed heartily. "That's a good one, mate. Maybe my two lads will be out of the hospital by the time the next hitter shows. Hopefully Sid feckin' Sidorenko will send someone they can handle."

Court chuckled. "I doubt that."

Dougal Slattery poured another shot of Old Bushmills for himself and then, seemingly as an afterthought, pulled Gentry's shot glass to his side of the table and began to fill it.

Court tried to stop him. "No. I'm good."

Slattery kept pouring. "It's the third, me boy. The third wee shot will make a man of ye, I swear it!"

Court shrugged, shook his head, reached across the table for the drink, hoped the hard liquor would substitute for the pain meds his body craved. He said, "You might want to think about leaving town until-"

The table rose into the air to meet Court's face. The shot glass slammed into his mouth before he could grab it, the wooden table's edge hit him squarely on the chin. Gentry's head snapped back, and he flew backwards off his chair.

The big Irishman had flipped the table up on him. Slattery lunged over it, took hold of Court before his back hit the floor, and Dougal's meaty hands wrapped around the American's muscled neck.

Court tried to shout but could not make a sound. He felt two thumbs digging into his throat, pressing his Adam's apple to the point of crushing. Though dazed by the blow from the table, he had the instincts to turn his head sharply to loosen his opponent's grip. He swept an arm up to try to knock away the hands entirely, but the big man's thick arms barely budged.

"Stop!" Gentry gurgled. He had every intention of leaving Dougal Slattery alive. Either Dougal Slattery did not believe that, or he felt, for some reason, Sidorenko would only convince this killer to return someday, and the Irishman wanted to preclude that event here and now while he saw an opportunity.

On his back, with the big Irishman on top of him and his hands choking the life from him, Court saw only one option. He scooted around on the cheap linoleum flooring, used the heels of his shoes to rotate himself and his attacker around to where Court's legs were bent against the door to the little flat. From here, still using his hands to try to push away the iron grip on his throat, he walked his feet up the door. Six inches, two feet, three feet. This raised his lower torso off the ground and caused Dougal's dead weight to roll forward onto Court's face and shoulders. Quickly, with all his strength, Gentry pushed off the door with the balls of his feet, executed a sloppy headstand, then a backwards roll. His head popped free of Slattery's grip when he spun back over the top of him. Court landed on his knees on the overturned table, leapt back to get away from any wild punches from the prostrate former boxer.

In one second both men were on their feet. Court looked at his attacker; the Irishman's fat face was beet red and slick with sweat, his eyes wild from fury. He shouted something; it was Gaelic, perhaps, as Court could not understand.

Gentry wanted to tell the man it was a mistake, that he just wanted to leave, but there was no use. Slattery took a step forward and threw a right jab that half connected with Court's left cheekbone. It stung and stunned him, and instantly his right eye filled with water and his vision blurred.

Court had vastly underestimated the flabby man's brute strength and blinding speed. It was a mistake that he could easily find himself paying for with his life.

Court backed away into a corner, created just enough space from the big man to reach for his Makarov, but he found his holster empty. He was certain it had fallen loose when he did the headstand, and was somewhere on the floor under the overturned table or the broken chair.

Slattery noticed Court's empty holster. A wild-crazed smile broadened across his cherry-red face. "You're feckin' dead, laddie!" The Irishman fired another jab. This one Gentry leaned away from and avoided all but a brush against his chin.

A left hook came next, thrown from Dougal's body, his torso and legs shifting along with the punch to get full force behind it. Gentry blocked it, but it still knocked him down. The fist failed to impact him, but just the power Court absorbed in his forearm sent him tumbling in the tiny living room. He ended up against the wall on his knees.

He stood quickly, just in time to recognize and then duck below a jab. Gentry then quickly retaliated with a finger spear into Dougal's solar plexus, followed with an instep kick to the big Irishman's crotch.

Slattery was unfazed. "Jesus sufferin' fuck, ya fight like a Molly!"

Then Court remembered Slattery's weakness; he'd followed the limping man for half an hour through the night and had watched him struggle to put weight on his left knee. Court kicked viciously to the inside of the knee, and it buckled outwards. Dougal screamed and stumbled but did not fall.

Instead he kept coming, though the American's attack caused him to telegraph his next move.

Court dropped low and to his right, ducked the right fist as it whipped the air just above his left ear. The American moved in on his attacker with all his speed, leapt off the ground, and got his right arm on top of the Irishman's right shoulder. From here, in a blur of perfectly practiced execution, Gentry reached high with his right arm, rolling his own shoulder forward to turn his fingers in. His hand came behind Slattery's neck and back around in front of his face from his left side, then it hooked back around under his chin. Court's hand grabbed the right collar of Dougal's rugby shirt, pulled it back across his throat, yanked it all the way around his neck in the back, and handed it off to Court's left hand.

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