Mark Greaney: On target

"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 his 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."