Back Blast (3 page)

M
arvin had been pointing guns at people since before his thirteenth birthday, and in all this time he’d never seen anyone so utterly unimpressed. Normally eyes widened to saucers and fixed on the muzzle of his weapon, and no matter what he did for the rest of the encounter, the person at gunpoint never
ever
glanced away from the instrument in his hand. They rarely even blinked.

But this guy turned to the other men, looked around at the street, into the sky, and at the windows of the duplexes all around. He didn’t seem at all concerned that there was a
motherfucking
gat in his
motherfucking
face.

The white man didn’t look high, and he didn’t smell drunk. His languid eyes were clear, his relaxed body did not sway. For some reason he just didn’t give a damn.

And this infuriated Marvin. He had no plan B for intimidating a victim.

The two boys stepped to either side of their prey. Now Marvin had a pistol pointed to the man’s forehead, and his crew had stilettos in range on the left and right.

But the white man wasn’t worried about the knives, either. He just sighed more deeply now, his shoulders slumped all the way down. “Any chance I can persuade you guys to step off? I don’t have any cash, no phone, no car. I don’t have a thing to offer you but trouble, and I promise you, I’m a lot more trouble than I’m worth. What do you say we call it a night and—”

Marvin was tired of this asshole. He stepped forward a half step, raising the gun higher to drive his point home. As he did so the white man’s left hand shot up and forward and he spun on his left foot in a blur, pirouetting his body out of the line of fire. Marvin was stunned by the movement. As the man turned, his strong hand locked onto the slide of the pistol, just aft of the muzzle, and he shoved the weapon to the side and down. Marvin
instinctively pulled the trigger. The Lorcin cracked loud in the empty street, but the white man had both rotated his body away to Marvin’s right and pushed the gun down low to Marvin’s left just as it fired.

Marvin realized instantly he had missed.

James leapt into the air, the stiletto dropped to the ground as he grabbed at his lower leg with both hands. He fell into the grass by the sidewalk and wailed.

The kid had taken the .380 hollow-point round through the top of his foot.

Marvin knew he had fucked up, but he still had the gun in his hand, and for some inexplicable reason, his intended victim released his hold of the weapon. The man turned away from Marvin now, his attention on Darius and his blade, leaving his back exposed, just a couple of feet from Marvin’s gun.

Marvin couldn’t believe this fool could be so stupid as to let go of a loaded gun and then turn his back on it. Marvin raised the weapon and pointed it at the back of the fool’s head, ready to kill the man before he did anything to Darius. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

—

C
ourt ignored the asshole with the gun behind him because he knew the man was out of the fight for the next few seconds. By grabbing the slide of the weapon, Court had kept it from cycling after it fired. Now there was a spent shell inside the chamber of the Lorcin, and the dude behind him could pull that trigger all damn day and it wouldn’t go bang, not until he racked the slide to eject the spent casing and load a fresh round from the magazine.

And Court didn’t think for an instant he would figure this out for at least a couple of seconds. The attacker was in a fight for his life; his adrenaline would make him spastic and unable to process the flood of information coming his way.

Court had learned long ago that in any gunfight, one does not rise to the occasion. Instead, one defaults to the level of ability he has mastered.

And the asshole with the shitty pistol couldn’t have mastered much of
anything involving firearms, otherwise he wouldn’t be carrying such a shitty pistol.

Now Court had time to deal with the stiletto in front of him. The kid jabbed straight out with it, lunging his body with the strike, and Court raised his right arm. The blade stuck into the plaster cast on his forearm, and Court used his left hand to catch the boy’s knife hand in a wristlock, twisting until the knife dropped away. Court continued the backwards twist of the hand, then pushed against the sinews connecting the boy’s upper arm and lower arm together. He wrenched it back at a forty-five-degree angle, cranking the arm awkwardly away from the bend of the elbow joint, spraining the tendons before the boy figured out his only defense to the move was to fall back onto the pavement on his back. He did this, then he rolled around on the cold concrete clutching an elbow that jolted with pain.

Court figured the man behind him would be in the middle of troubleshooting his situation, so he turned back to him. The thin man had his hand on the top of the pistol, and he had just begun racking the slide. The spent casing ejected into the air, but before the slide sprang forward, Court’s left hand shot out again and wrapped around the exposed barrel and the frame, restricting the slide’s progress forward. Court’s thumb pressed on the mag release button now, dropping the magazine full of bullets to the sidewalk.

Court let go of the gun.

—

M
arvin retained his grip on the weapon, with his finger on the trigger. Before he understood what was happening he squeezed the trigger, and the striker fired on the empty chamber.

The gun went click again.

Marvin looked up at the white man, his own eyes as wide as saucers now. His “victim” looked back at him, still calm. Almost bored.

Marvin gaped at his empty pistol, and at the magazine on the ground. He did not understand what had just happened, but he was pretty sure his weapon was useless. He had a folding knife in his back pocket, but he wasn’t thinking about it now. In fact, he wouldn’t remember it until much
later. For now his mind panicked. He turned and ran—Marvin had been running for his whole life, after all—and he left his teenaged crew behind.

—

C
ourt watched the thin man race off into the mist, then he knelt down over the two injured boys. The teen holding his battered arm was sitting up on the sidewalk, but the kid with the hole in his foot still writhed in pain on the grass.

Their weapons were somewhere in the dark, out of reach.

Court scanned the buildings in all directions, the windows and doorways and driveways he could see through the mist, and while he did so he spoke softly. “Hell of a guy, your fearless leader.”

Neither boy replied; they just both stared in horror at the calm man kneeling over them.

Court waited for some response, but when nothing came, he shrugged. “How much cash you carrying?”

They looked to each other briefly, then back up.

Court sniffed. “How ’bout that?
I’m
mugging
you
. The irony, right?”

Court reached out, felt through the clothing worn by the kid with the hole in his foot, and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his front pocket. The boy with the wounded arm extended a shaking hand holding a wad of crumpled one-dollar bills, and Court stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans.

He then grabbed the first boy’s injured foot and looked at the bloody hole in the top of his white tennis shoe. In a soft voice he said, “That looks worse than it is, so maybe you shouldn’t look at it.” He turned to the kid with the twisted arm and helped him back up to his feet. “You’re okay. That will hurt a few days, tops. Less if you ice it. It’s your job to help him. Take him to a hospital. When you get there tell the cops some dickhead was playing with his gun and it went off. They’ll hassle you, but if you stick with your story, eventually they’ll buy it and move on.”

Both boys nodded slowly.

Then both Court’s face and his voice darkened. “But if you tell them about me, give them a description,
any
information at all . . . I’ll come back here, I’ll find out whatever it is in this world that you love . . . and I will kill it. Are we clear?”

The boys nodded again, much faster this time.

“Good night.”

The standing boy hefted the wounded boy, and together they hobbled off into the evening. Gentry noticed they went in a different direction from their boss, and he took that as a positive sign.

But he also noted no one had come out of any of the homes nearby to investigate the gunshot, and this depressed him a little.

Court had been away from the United States for five years. It occurred to him now that this America didn’t feel much different than some of the more dangerous third-world countries he’d operated in. He’d always thought of the U.S. as home, as a sanctuary, as his safe place.

But that was fantasy. He knew the truth was just the opposite. This was Indian country. He was a wanted man here. There existed danger and menace at every turn.

After a moment, Court Gentry walked on, bundling his jacket around him to ward off the cold fog.

C
IA headquarters in Langley, an unincorporated neighborhood in the city of McLean, Virginia, was open twenty-four hours a day, but the executive offices on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building were normally deathly quiet at ten p.m. on a Saturday night. This evening, however, lights began flashing back on just before ten, and by ten thirty an entire office suite was occupied by nearly two dozen executives, assistants, communications specialists, and other support staff.

The Eurocopter from Maryland landed in the parking lot minutes later, and Jordan Mayes was there waiting for it in front of the large amphitheater known as the bubble, shielding his white hair from a light rainfall with a plastic file folder. Denny Carmichael climbed out of the aircraft surrounded by his four security men, but DeRenzi and company soon took up positions just behind their charge so Mayes could shoulder up to his boss while they all walked for the safety of the Old Headquarters Building.

As soon as they were inside and Mayes could be heard over the helicopter, he updated his superior. “Here’s where we stand. FAST team reports no joy on board the cargo ship, but they found a bedroll and some personal items in a recess aft of the engine room. They definitely had a stowaway on board.”

“How did he get off?”

“A supply launch left the boat two minutes before the marines boarded. Figure Gentry was on it.”

Denny knew they wouldn’t catch Gentry sound asleep in his cot. “He’s in the wind. Who do you have assembled here?”

“The JSOC liaison, the NSA liaison, the NGA liaison, the DS&T guy read in on Violator, and the communications officer on the task force. We’ll have eight in the meeting in total.”

Denny kept walking, but said, “There are only seven in the Violator Working Group.”

“I’ve asked Suzanne Brewer of Programs and Plans to join us.”

The two CIA execs and DeRenzi all had their IDs scanned, and then they entered the elevator, leaving three of the bodyguards behind. Carmichael’s clipped voice showed his displeasure. “What does Brewer have to do with this?”

“Among her other duties, she has been red-celling a lone-wolf attack on domestic CIA infrastructure for over a year. She’s got the background of a good targeting officer, and she knows how to prevent an attack by a determined enemy. If Gentry is here, and if he’s got CIA in his sights, Suzanne might prove useful.”

“She doesn’t know a damn thing about the problem at hand. Gentry isn’t some raghead with an AK taking potshots at cars at the south gate, for God’s sake.”

“Brewer is as sharp a counterterror mind as we have. She’s spent a decade on risk mitigation involving Agency facilities and personnel overseas, and she’s developed protocols for dealing with sophisticated homegrown terror hazards as well as high-level foreign actors who might target Agency assets.”

“I don’t like bringing outsiders into the fold.”

“Think about it, Denny. We’re going to have to beef up your security protocols, and we’ll be putting assets on Gentry’s known associates in the city. There is no way that can happen without Brewer learning about it. She’s an outsider now, but we bring her in and give her password access to the Working Group, and she’ll become an ally instead of an impediment.”

“And when she learns we don’t want Gentry alive?”

Mayes didn’t hesitate. “Operational expediencies won’t trouble her. If you tell her this target needs to die, she’ll make it happen.”

The elevator arrived on the seventh floor. Mayes reached out and took Denny by the arm before he left the car. He spoke softly to him. “I was also thinking . . . if Gentry
is
here to target the Agency, and this manages to make some noise outside of the Agency, God forbid, we might want to frame this to the media as some kind of an external threat. If Suzanne is involved, beefing up the guns and gates of our facilities, it will only help us sell it as some lone-wolf terror attack on the Agency.”

Denny looked at his second-in-command. In a louder voice he said, “One, this
is
a terror attack on the Agency. Gentry didn’t come all this way to pick up an old paycheck. And two, keeping this shit in house is paramount. No one breathes a word. We’ll take care of it.” Carmichael took off, heading up a brightly lit hallway towards his office.

Mayes knew when to fight with his boss, and he knew when to let his boss wrestle with his own arguments. As he caught up with Carmichael he said, “So . . . Suzanne. Yea or nay?”

After a moment the director of National Clandestine Service gave in, to a point. “Maybe. But before I bring her into the program, I want to know more about her.”

“She’s reliable. I’ve worked with her myself. She’ll play ball.”

Denny slowed and turned back towards Mayes, but before he could say anything Mayes preempted him by handing over the plastic file folder. “Here’s her two-page write-up. You want more, I can send it to your office.”

Carmichael took the file, but said, “I want it all. Nobody gets read in on Violator unless I know them inside and out.”

—

T
en minutes later five men and one woman converged in a glass-walled conference room that could easily accommodate sixteen, took their seats quickly, and then all eyes turned to a pair of side-by-side monitors on the wall. A satellite linkup had been established with Tel Aviv and fed to one of the monitors, but until the commo people on the Israeli side of the connection gave the word that their attendee was on camera and ready, the screen just glowed blue. Next to this, a larger screen displayed an interactive map of the greater Washington, D.C., area.

The responsibilities of those in the room represented some of the most secret departments and divisions within the CIA. Communications was there, as were the CIA employees charged with working with the National Security Agency, the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, and the Joint Special Operations Command, the military’s most elite paramilitary fighting force. A CIA analyst sat across from a senior officer in the Department of Science and Technology. Jordan Mayes, assistant director of the National Clandestine Service, entered and sat to the left of the empty chair at the head of the table.

Most of these officers had been on the Violator Working Group for years. It had taken them, both physically and virtually, to locations all over the world. But this was most assuredly the first time any of them found need to refer to a map of the local area in relation to the Gentry hunt.

The one new face in the room was also the lone female. Suzanne Brewer was a thirty-nine-year-old Programs and Plans officer for the National Clandestine Service. She spent her days at CIA identifying and fortifying soft spots in Agency security protocols. She knew the name of every potential agent provocateur; she knew the details of threats against CIA personnel, every known operation targeting the Agency, every website that posted warnings to life and limb of intelligence officers all over the District. She wasn’t a spy herself, but she saw it as her mission to keep the spies of NCS safe from harm.

Denny Carmichael marched in at eleven forty-five p.m., his brow pinched with purpose. DeRenzi was with him, and as Denny moved to his chair, his close protection officer took a position against the wall, present for the meeting in an observer capacity only. It was his job to keep his protectee safe from harm, after all.

Denny dropped into his seat at the head of the conference table, facing the large monitors on the opposite wall. He turned first to Brewer. “Suzanne, you’re the odd man out here, if you will excuse the phrase. This is going to be a little out of your wheelhouse, but AD Mayes invited you in. Before I decide whether you are going to have code word access to the Working Group, I need to make a determination about your relevance to all this. What have you been told?”

“Only that there is a potential threat to local CIA personnel, and I would be briefed in the meeting and asked for my preliminary assessment.”

“I’ve read your file,” Carmichael said. “You’ve been solid in delicate situations. You’ve worked as a targeting officer as well as a counterterror officer, and you’ve excelled in both positions.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But you haven’t run up against a situation as difficult or as delicate as this.”

Brewer said, “I only ask for an opportunity to show you what I can do.”

Carmichael turned to Mayes, and with a nod gave him the go-ahead to brief her.

Mayes said, “Here’s the sitrep. A former Ground Branch paramilitary operations officer, code named Violator, has appeared suddenly in the United States. We think it’s likely he’s in the immediate area.”

Brewer was confused. “And this former employee. He poses some sort of a threat?”

Mayes just said, “His name is Courtland Gentry.”

It was obvious to all that the name meant something to Suzanne Brewer. She blinked hard. “The Gray Man? You’re talking about the Gray Man?
Here?
”

The reply was delivered in a biting tone. “We call him Violator, Suzanne. You aren’t at the watercooler with the junior administrators.”

Chastened, she said, “Of course. I’m sorry. But why is he a threat? My understanding was that
we
were after
him
.”

Mayes said, “We are, and he knows it. Five years now. That’s why him showing up like this is so problematic. It’s possible his arrival in the area was coincidence, a waypoint towards his final destination, but we have to allow for the possibility that he is here on some sort of an offensive operation.” Mayes added, “It’s what he does, after all.”

Brewer spoke with a tone of astonishment. “That . . . that would be suicide on his part.”

On the monitor next to the map a new image appeared. A passport photo of Courtland Gentry, wearing a blue blazer and wire-rimmed glasses. The image was at least five years old.

Brewer said, “He looks so . . . average.”

Carmichael broke into the conversation. “Do you know what this ex-asset is capable of?”

“I admit I only know the rumors. Cafeteria chatter and such. That file has been SCI code word classified,” she said, and then quickly added, “which of course you know, because you classified it.”

“I did,” replied Carmichael.

She added, “If I am to help you, I’ll need to know what we’re dealing with. The more information you can give me, the better.”

Jordan Mayes said, “Here’s what you need to know. The threat is one man, but the threat is real. Gentry was, hands down, the best hard asset in the entire Agency while he was in.”

“And how long was he in?”

“He was with us for nearly twelve years.”

“Ex-military?”

“Negative. His potential was identified at a young age, then he was brought in to a pilot program designed to train exceptional young men for autonomous field work.”

She lifted her pen and put the tip on the legal pad in front of her. She still seemed stunned by the thought of going up against the Gray Man, but she was quickly composing herself and getting down to work. “The name of this program?”

When no one spoke, Brewer glanced up from her pad. The room was perfectly silent and all eyes stared at the pen on the paper.

After a few seconds, she slowly put the pen back down. “I see.”

Mayes broke the silence. “After 9/11 Violator was folded into a rendition and direct action task force in Ground Branch.”

Brewer said, “I’m cleared for SAD ops. Will you tell me the task force’s name?”

Carmichael answered with a wave of his hand, as if it didn’t matter. “Golf Sierra. Run by Matthew Hanley.”

Brewer just muttered, “The Goon Squad.”

“So you’ve heard of them, too.”

“Well, like it is with Gentry, I only know the legend. They were supposedly the best we had.” Brewer glanced quickly around the room. It was evident to all she was wondering why on earth Gentry’s former superior was not present. Matthew Hanley was now the head of the Special Activities Division;
surely
he was cleared for anything said in this room.

As she was about to bring up this concern, something else occurred to her. “I guess the most important thing you can tell me is why we are after Gentry in the first place.”

She looked to Mayes, but Mayes only turned his head to Carmichael. Apparently Carmichael would determine if she was to be allowed to know this part of the story.

Before Carmichael could speak, a disembodied voice filled the room. “We have Director Aurbach ready on the satellite.”

Mayes told the commo technician to send the feed to the monitor.

The large blue screen on the wall came to life. Menachem Aurbach sat at a desk wearing an open-collared white button-down. The man was
seventy-two years old, and he had a thick neck and a thicker gut, but he also was in possession of a ruddy complexion and a coiffed black mane that was only peppered with strands of silver. His visage was tired and sullen, but Carmichael expected nothing else, because as long as he’d known the Mossad man, Aurbach had always looked as if he’d just been awakened from a deep sleep and told that his dog had died.

Carmichael and Aurbach had first met in a bomb shelter in Beirut in 1985, both intelligence officers representing their countries during Lebanon’s insane seventeen-faction civil war. Denny was new at CIA at the time, but he’d already spent over a decade in military intelligence, so he and the rugged Mossad officer worked well together in those instances when CIA and Mossad found themselves in close operational relationships.

Carmichael and Aurbach had kept the relationship up in the nineties, and then after 9/11 they worked even more closely together. Carmichael became station chief in Hong Kong, then was promoted to head the CIA’s Special Activities Division, a hard-charging unit of paramilitary officers that was called on constantly during the War on Terror. After several years running SAD, he was promoted again, this time to run the entire National Clandestine Service.

As high up on the American intelligence food chain as Carmichael was, Menachem Aurbach had reached even loftier realms in the Mossad, becoming the head of Israeli Intelligence several years earlier.