The Gray Man (48 page)
Riegel knew his only mission now was his own survival. He did not need the Gray Man dead; that mission had expired. That said, if Gentry came through either the door to the hall on his right, or the doorway to the circular staircase to his left, if anyone came in from anywhere, he would put three rounds from his big Steyr into their face before he bothered to identify them.
He just had to hold out until the rescue ship arrived from the home office.
Court wanted to crouch low as he moved through the house, but the pain in his abdomen prevented it. If push came to shove, which surely it would, he could drop, roll, crawl, whatever he had to do. But he was afraid that if he had to squat low or dive to the floor, he might not be able to get back up. So he walked fully upright, nearly dragging his numb left leg behind him.
Into the huge kitchen now, he heard gunfire above him, on the third floor or the roof perhaps. On the first floor, near the foyer, it sounded to the Gray Man’s practiced ear like a one-versus-many battle had just ended, and now a new threat had arrived, maybe four-on-four. He recognized the distinctive reports of AK-47s and twelve-gauge shotguns, and shouts in what sounded like Russian on one side of the fight.
Court crossed the kitchen. He’d almost made it to a door towards the rear of the château, away from the shooting, when a black man in a brown suit appeared in the doorway in front of him.
Court trained his MP5 on the wide-eyed man. “Who are you?”
“Only the butler, sir. I have no part in this.”
Gentry grabbed the man by the throat and turned him up against the wall. With the hot muzzle of his weapon pressed against the thin man’s neck, the American frisked his prisoner quickly and found not a single weapon. Court tossed the man’s cell phone into a pot of water sitting on the stove next to him. He found no identification.
“What’s your name?”
“Felix.”
“Let me guess. Felix the Nigerian butler?”
“No, sir. I am from Cameroon.”
“Sure you are, buddy.”
Court pushed the man towards the door out of the back of the kitchen. The black man kept his hands in the air as he walked, Gentry several feet behind him. They crossed an ornate dining room with a fireplace with gilded trim and rounded the huge, oaken table. Tapestries and portraits lined the walls. Stepping into a small hallway with a door immediately on their left, Gentry whispered again to the man in front of him, “What’s in there?”
A hesitation. “It’s . . . it’s a bedroom.”
“Not sure? A butler who doesn’t know the rooms of the house?”
“I told you . . . a bedroom. I am new here, sir. I am scared.”
“Open it. Let’s see if you’re right.” Court drew his Glock and held it down the hallway behind him with his left hand, while he held the MP5 at Felix’s head with his right.
The suited man opened the door and turned back to the Gray Man. Court looked in over his shoulder. There were stacked sheets and blankets in shelves from floor to ceiling. It was not a bedroom; it was a large linen closet.
“If you
are
a butler, you suck.”
are
a butler, you suck.”
Felix said nothing. The gunfire at the front of the house continued without pause.
Court holstered the Glock on his hip and took his last fragmentation grenade off his vest. He pulled the pin and put it in his pocket, held the spoon down, and placed it in Felix’s sweaty hand. When the American assassin was certain his prisoner had a good hold, he said, “Don’t drop that. And don’t think you can use it against me. There is a six-second fuse. Plenty of time for me to shoot you dead and duck into a room to get clear of the blast.”
Felix’s voice cracked. “What am I to do with—”
“Just keep walking ahead of me. I’ll take it back from you and let you leave once I get to my objective. Don’t worry, you’ll be back home in Cameroon in no time.”
The corridor turned to the left and ended at a large set of double doors. Court shoved the confused man forward. Twice the man tried to speak, and both times Gentry hushed the strong African accent. “Open those doors,” Court demanded, still behind at the turn in the passageway.
“But I—”
Gentry pointed his submachine gun at his prisoner’s head.
Slowly, Felix turned back around, opened the door on the right, the grenade hidden behind his back in his left hand.
Almost immediately cracks of handgun fire echoed out of the room ahead, and oak splinters snapped off the heavy doors. Felix spun where he stood, fell facedown in the doorway.
Court spun out of the line of fire, dropped onto his kneepads with a grunt, and counted to six.
Serge and Alain moved towards the door to the library in a combat stance, their Berettas in front of them in outstretched hands.
Alain ID’d the man they just killed. “It’s zee Nigerian.”
“Merde,”
said Serge, and he depressed the button on his walkie-talkie just as the grenade on the floor by the dead man’s body exploded.
said Serge, and he depressed the button on his walkie-talkie just as the grenade on the floor by the dead man’s body exploded.
Lloyd and the Tech both jumped at the sound of the hand grenade two floors directly below them. The noise came not from the raging gunfight in the foyer but instead back towards the rear of the building. The sound also came through the speakers of their radios. Kurt Riegel chanced a quick look out the window again. He saw the black Eurocopter drift in and out of the morning mist as it flew off to the south. Below, near the marble fountain in the garden, two men moved low in a crouch. They were black, small, they carried machine pistols, and they wore black ski jackets.
“The kill squad from Botswana has arrived, or maybe these are the Liberians.” Riegel said it to the room without emotion.
“It’s a virtual United Nations of assholes around here,” said Lloyd from behind.
The German watched the two Africans as they crossed the grass towards the steps up to the back door. He did not shoot at them. With the Gray Man in the building, Kurt felt there was a better chance these Botswanans would be more help than hindrance.
Riegel said, “Let’s barricade this room. The three of us will have to hold everyone off until the helicopter arrives from Paris.”
“Even if I survive this, you are going to kill me, aren’t you?” Lloyd asked.
Riegel answered as he slipped his pistol back into its shoulder holster underneath his jacket. “Gentry was right; you’ve got more to worry about than me right now. Come and help me.” He lifted a chair to put it in front of the door to the spiral staircase.
“Be that as it may,” said Lloyd, “I prefer dealing with any threat at the most advantageous opportunity.”
Riegel’s back was to Lloyd. He stopped, put the chair down, squared his shoulders, and turned slowly. The American attorney’s silver automatic was leveled at Kurt’s chest. They were twenty feet apart.
“Put down that damn gun. Come on, man! We don’t have time for this. There will be time enough for the af termath of the operation after we get out of here.”
The Tech sat at the desk and watched the two men intently. He said not a word.
Lloyd said, “I could’ve had the bastard. I could’ve saved the contract.
Your
operation failed, not mine.”
Your
operation failed, not mine.”
“If you say so, Lloyd.”
“No . . . I want
you
to say so. Take out your phone slowly. Call Mr. Laurent and tell him
your
plan was fucked up. Take responsibility for this.”
you
to say so. Take out your phone slowly. Call Mr. Laurent and tell him
your
plan was fucked up. Take responsibility for this.”
“And then you will shoot me? Think, Lloyd! He’ll know I was speaking under duress.” For the first time, they heard gunshots on the third floor, far down the corridor from their position. “We need to seal off the room now! We’ll talk after that.”
“Take out your phone. Make the call. No tricks.”
Kurt sighed and slowly reached into his jacket with his right hand. His eyes narrowed on Lloyd. Instead of the phone, Riegel put his hand around the butt of his Steyr. As he began to draw the gun from its concealment, prepared to dive to the side to duck the lawyer’s inevitable gunfire, he noticed Lloyd’s eyes had turned away from him and focused on something behind. Kurt took the opportunity to pull the Steyr, and he leveled it at the American’s chest. Just as he was about to fire at the distracted Lloyd, a voice called out from behind.
“Did I come at a bad time?”
THIRTY-FIVE
“You’re bleeding bad, Court,” said Lloyd. His pistol remained pointed at Riegel, his back remained to the open doorway to the third-floor corridor, but his eyes were on the bloody man in the tactical gear. The Gray Man had appeared silently through the door from the spiral staircase, and while Lloyd had been fixated on Kurt’s hand inside his jacket, Gentry had gotten the drop on him. He held a squat, evil-looking submachine gun at eye level, its barrel centered on Lloyd’s chest.
“Drop the gun,” said Gentry.
“Who are you speaking to?” asked Kurt, his back to the Gray Man. To see Gentry, he would have to take his eyes off of Lloyd, and he was not about to do that.
Court replied, “If you have a gun in your hand, asshole, then I’m speaking to you.”
Lloyd said, “You aren’t going to make it much longer, Court, old buddy. Your face is white. You’re weak. Your blood is staining the floor.”
“I’ll live long enough to kick your ass. Drop your weapons. You, at the table. Stand up slowly.”
The Tech was the first to do as he was told. He stood with his hands high over his head, shaking from fear.
Lloyd began lowering his pistol. Kurt Riegel followed suit. The German turned his eyes from Lloyd to look at the Tech for an instant.
And in that instant, Lloyd put a bullet through Kurt Riegel’s chest.
The big German grabbed the wound and then fell to his side. The Steyr bounced away on the hardwood floor.
The Tech screamed in fear.
The Gray Man fired a burst at Lloyd as he disappeared through the doorway to the hall.
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