Mark Greaney: On target

Both men went crashing to the floor in the middle of the flat.

Slattery still could not breathe, but he had plenty of fight left in him, and he managed to use his legs for leverage as he flipped on top of Court. But Court did not, would not, let go. He forced the momentum of the roll to continue and again found himself above his target.

For thirty seconds they grunted and kicked at one another among the shambles of the broken furniture and furnishings of the little flat. Gentry got both legs over one of Slattery's arms, but the other fist hammered down on Court's back and the top of his head with frantic repetition.

The big Irishman tried head-butting Gentry, as well, but their heads were pressed against one another already; there was no room for him to get his skull back so that he could slam it forward.

And then the fight slowed. And then the fight ceased.

Court kept the pressure up on his victim's throat, but he leaned back a bit to check Slattery's face. His eyes had bugged out, his face had turned impossibly red and was covered with sweat that smelled like whiskey and vinegar and body odor. Court was over him, could see his own blood dripping off his lips from where the shot glass cut them. The red splotches speckled the Irishman's forehead and stained red the sweat rivulets running into his eyes.

The bulging eyes blinked weakly.

Court let the rugby jersey loosen a bit. Quickly Dougal sucked air, gagged, and wheezed.

Court's face was inches from him. Gentry spoke through gasps from the exertion of the brutal fight. "The kid. Your boy… with the Down's? He's real?"

Slattery's tongue was swollen, his throat was nearly closed. He coughed bloody sputum. "I swear it."

Court nodded. He wiped sweat from his own brow. Still he spoke through gasps from his near hyperventilated state. "Okay… okay. Don't worry. I'll see to him. He'll be okay."

The bugging eyes of the Irishman turned to him. Blinked tears mixed with blood that streamed down both sides of his face. Mucus sprayed from his nose as he sobbed. He nodded. Spoke through a clenched throat. "That's just grand, lad. I take it back. You've got a soul. You're a good man."

"Yeah." Court brought his fingertips to the Irishman's forehead. "That's me." He smoothed the man's sopping-wet gray hair back gently.

He nodded again.

"I'm a goddamned saint."

In a swift single motion, Court Gentry scooped the Makarov from its resting place on the floor beside him, punched the suppressor into Dougal Slattery's fleshy neck, and fired a single round up through his chin, through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth, through his sinus cavity, and into his brain. The.380-caliber hollow point projectile danced inside the skull of the fifty-four-year-old Irishman before coming to rest behind the left ear. Slattery's protruding eyes turned glassy and remained wide-open in death.

Court rolled off of Slattery's chest and lowered himself onto his back on the floor next to the dead man. He was exhausted, drained, sapped of all energy and emotion. His face hurt where he had been punched, his stomach and leg hurt where he'd been stabbed and shot last winter.

Together he and Slattery lay amid the shattered shambles of the little flat and stared vacantly together at the low ceiling.

The landing launch cleared the fog bank a half mile from shore. Behind it, lost in the mist, the Lithuanian freighter that had been Court's transportation both to and from the Emerald Isle had already turned to the north, brought its engines to full power, and begun steaming for its home port. Court stood at the front of the small launch, squinting towards the docks of the Gdansk shipyard in front of him. He was the boat's only passenger.

He continued speaking into his satellite phone.

"Paulus, I want to be very clear. Except your commission, every last cent goes to this patient. I don't care how you do it. Just do it."

"That is no problem. We can set up a small trust. Regular automatic withdrawals for the institution. I checked into it as you asked. It is the best establishment in Ireland for people with such conditions."

"Good."

He paused. Court could sense discomfort in the call. "Sir. You understand I will need to contact Sir Donald."

"Go ahead. But since you'll be talking to him anyhow, tell him this. This money isn't his. It isn't mine. It belongs to the kid. He touches it… and I'm going to-"

"Herr Lewis. Please do not threaten Sir Donald. He is my employer. By duty I will be obliged to relay whatever you say-"

"I'm counting on it. I want you to tell him word for word. He touches the account, looks into it in any way, and I will show up at his door."

"Herr Lewis, please-"

"You have the message, Paulus."

"I know he will fulfill your wishes. And I will handle the account as agreed. My standard commission will apply to the funds."

"Danke."

"Bitte schon. Sir Donald is very fond of you, Herr Lewis. I am not sure why you two parted ways, but I hope maybe someday the two of you could sit down and-"

"Good-bye, Paulus."

A frustrated pause. A polite good-bye. "Auf wiedersehen, Herr Lewis."

Gentry stowed his sat phone in his canvas bag. Then he focused all his attention on a new threat ahead.

Court had noticed it three hundred yards out: a large black car on the docks. At two hundred yards he could just make out men leaning against the vehicle, all wearing dark gray. At one hundred fifty yards he counted four of them, could tell they were big. At fifty yards he had them pegged as Slavic, wearing suits, and their car was a limousine of some make.

These would be Sid's boys, here to pick him up and take him for a ride, and this made Court furious. He'd planned on getting off here in Gdansk, losing himself for a few days on the Polish coast, and then contacting Sid via the Ural Mountain Tours Web site when he was good and ready. Sir Donald, his ex-handler, never made him work face-to-face, but these goons, sent by his soon-to-be ex-handler, had no doubt come here on a babysitting mission to make sure Gentry came along peacefully to kneel before the throne of his liege.

"Fuck this shit," Court said it aloud at twenty-five yards. The men were up off the hood of the limo; cigarettes were thrown on the ground and crushed out. Court could see the glint of thin gold chains around their necks. Russian mob boys. Who else? The men stepped up to the edge of the dock, coming to the water's edge to prevent him from running away when the ferry landed.

As if.

Court looked up and down the landing to see if there was any place to run to.

Nope. Shit.

Gentry stepped off the swaying launch and up onto the floating wharf. He stood in front of the four goons. No words were exchanged. The only communication between them was through the looks of five men filled with testosterone, all of them on the job, none of them here particularly willingly. Court's old CIA Special Activities Division team leader, a foul-mouthed ex-SEAL named Zack Hightower, referred to it as "eye fucking," a crude but accurate description of men simultaneously sizing up one another and projecting their own power and prowess through their cold stares.

Slowly Court opened his peacoat to reveal the butt of the.380 Makarov on his hip. One of the younger Russians stepped forward and yanked the gun free of its holster, sneering at Gentry during his backwards draw stroke as if he had discovered the weapon himself. He then patted Court down front to back, pulled a knife from the foreigner's pocket, and slipped it into his own. He looked through the canvas bag on Gentry's shoulder, yanked out the satellite phone and pocketed it, but he did not find anything else of interest. Satisfied he'd disarmed the Gray Man, the Russian stepped back, and with an impatient gesture, he beckoned the American forward to the car.