Back Blast (20 page)

I
t was just past four a.m. when Gentry pulled his gray Ford Escort into the parking lot of the Easy Market on Rhode Island. He was careful to park in the same spot as he did the last time he visited this store, and just as careful to pull his red ball cap down low and to walk where the cameras could not get a look at his face.

The same heavyset young woman with the lazy eye greeted him as soon as he came in the door. “Hey, baby. How’s your night goin’?”

“It’s goin’,” he said. He held his right arm down tight against his parka, as much to hide the tear and the little stain of blood that he’d been unable to clean off as to put a small amount of direct pressure on his painful wound.

“You must work nights, too,” she said, but she’d already turned her head back to the little TV behind the counter.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

He headed to a back aisle and found a small section with simple first aid items. He picked up an ACE bandage and two rolls of gauze, some tape, and a single off-brand bottle of antiseptic. He then stepped back to the cooler, where he hefted a six-pack of beer off a shelf.

LaShondra called out to him. “Oh, I see. You need you some beer for a big party over at your place. Suppose my invite got lost in the mail, is that it?”

Court smiled, then he scooped up a can of ravioli, a loaf of white bread, and a candy bar, and he brought his food and beer up to the register along with the first aid. He fished some bills out of his jacket with his left hand. “Nah. No party.”

“Mm-hm.” She said it in a playfully suspicious tone.

Court hoped she would be too occupied with her TV show to pay any attention to the other items he’d brought to the counter.

“Oh, baby, you done hurt yourself?”

So much for that.

“No.”

“Then what’s all this for?”

“Just stocking up on my first aid kit. Going camping this weekend.”

“
Campin’?
” she said, as if it were a preposterous concept. “I ain’t never been campin’.”

Court did not respond.

She began ringing up the items, scanning the gauze, the ACE bandage, the tape, and the antiseptic. Once she got to the canned ravioli she looked up at him again. Court kept his head turned from the camera on his right, pretending to be reading a newspaper on a rack to his left. The injury to his rib cage burned like hell.

“Hey, this ain’t yo dinner, is it?”

Court shrugged. “Yeah.”

She paused, stopped scanning the food, and Court glanced further to the left. He got the sense she was looking at his face.

She said, “You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nah, you sweating. Your skin is white. I mean like
really
white.”

“Allergies. Every spring.”

“You need you some greens.”

“Okay,” he said, thinking her comment to be rhetorical in nature.

When she kept staring at him, he glanced up quickly into her good eye.

She said, “I’m for real. Go get you a can of turnip greens or spinach or something. Don’t cost but two dollars, and you look like you need it.”

Court did as instructed, following LaShondra’s pointed finger to a shelf. He grabbed a can of turnip greens and brought it back to the counter, set it down, and went back to looking at the magazine rack.

“You know that’s real good with some vinegar. You got vinegar at home?”

Court did not. “Sure do. I’ll try it.”

A minute later he was on the way out the door, a little stressed about the level of questioning from the woman but ultimately satisfied he’d not compromised himself in any way.

Court realized that people here in the U.S. were nicer to strangers than in the other places he’d traveled in the past five years—when they weren’t
shooting you in the ribs, that was. And while Court had no problem with politeness, for a man who lived his life moving through society without leaving a trace, this was problematic.

As he struggled into the driver’s seat, the pain in his torso limiting his movement, he thought he might have to change his late-night shopping habits so he didn’t get any more probing questions from the ultra inquisitive cashier. He suspected LaShondra was a level of chatty not common among most late-night store clerks, so he could just find another place to make his purchases.

Court found this unfortunate, because he liked the slightly annoying woman. When she called him “baby doll” the first time he had realized it had been a very long time since anyone had called him by an affectionate name.

Court pulled out of the parking lot, a sense of sadness creeping into his normally mission-focused mind.

LaShondra would have no way of knowing it, of course, but she had become his best friend.

Too bad he would never see her again.

—

A
half hour later Court knelt in the alley that ran catty-corner to the Mayberry home on NW Quincy Street, and he eyed the area around his rented room. He’d been here for nearly ten minutes, watching the scene, his bags from the market by his side. It would be dawn in a little while, but he was using the security afforded by darkness to survey the neighborhood, making sure he had not been followed or his hide had not been otherwise compromised.

It had been a shitty night—his covert B&E had turned into a mad run for his life, a leap from a rooftop, explosions and wild-assed, trigger-happy police officers, helicopters, and even a gunshot wound thrown in for good measure.

Jesus Christ.

Court had planned it very differently, to say the least.

He checked his watch, looked to the sky, and told himself he needed to be in the room well before first light, so he stood and crossed the street. All the while half expecting the pops of guns or the wail of sirens.

The neighborhood remained quiet.

He entered his room at six, peeled off his clothes, inspected bruises and scrapes that would get no more attention, and cradled his forearm in his hand. He’d not rebroken it—he was sure of this because he knew exactly what it felt like when it was broken—but the tissue around the injury had not appreciated the way Court had decided to spend his doctor-ordered convalescence.

He wanted to jump into the little shower, but he fought the urge for a few minutes so he could restage his booby trap by the front door. Once he had his device assembled and set, he headed for the tiny bathroom at the back of the apartment.

Court took a hot shower. The water stung like hell in his gunshot wound but he powered through it, careful to make sure he washed out any foreign debris lodged deep in the sticky mess. He then toweled off as well as he could with the wounded ribs and poured antiseptic onto a thick wad of gauze. Carefully he placed it over his injury, and he used the ACE bandage to secure it by wrapping it all the way around his torso several times.

That done, Court re-dressed in a fresh set of dark clothing and put on a pair of black running shoes. He pulled the one tray of ice out of his little refrigerator/freezer, and he moved into the closet. Here he lay on his back, the Smith and Wesson on his chest, and his right arm resting on the ice tray at the point of most discomfort.

He fell asleep like this at six forty-five and he dreamed of killer cops.

Z
ack Hightower entered the Violator Working Group’s tactical operations center promptly at eight a.m., clean-shaven for the first time in two years and professionally dressed in a blue suit with a regimental tie. He was feeling better than he had felt in a long time, because he was back on the job, part of the team, and operational. True, at this point he hadn’t worked out his official status or even whether he would be getting a paycheck for his services, but he didn’t care. Mayes and Carmichael knew what he did, and men like Mayes and Carmichael needed a man like Zack Hightower.

More work would follow; Zack was sure of it.

Hightower was not surprised to see Suzanne Brewer already hard at work in the TOC. She was that kind of executive. Hightower had seen the type a few times before, always from distance, because he was labor and they were management. Brewer would come early and stay late, and she’d make this operation her life for the duration of it, then she’d move on to something else. But wherever she’d go from here, she would always move up; she would always leverage her access and her associations to serve as rungs on a ladder.

She’d step on Zack’s head to help her climb if she needed to, of this he had no doubt.

Brewer wasn’t the type of person Zack looked up to, but he’d been around the Agency long enough to know a highflier with seventh-floor potential when he saw one.

That was who she was.

And, Zack being Zack, he couldn’t help but think about getting her glasses off and her smart business suit wadded up at the foot of his bed.

He pushed the imagery out of his mind and went back to business.

He imagined Brewer was the type who would keep her nose clean at all costs, and that meant, he knew without having to be told, that she would know nothing of his extracurricular activities the evening before. She was in Programs and Plans, but she wouldn’t dip her toe into non-sanctioned programs or plans such as an extrajudicial killing in the USA for all the money in the world.

“Morning, Ms. Brewer,” he said as she hurried over to him.

Brewer wasn’t a chatty person. She was all business. “Good. You’re here. I need to fill you in on what happened last night.”

“Please do.” Zack feigned surprise and interest, and the two of them stepped into a small glass-walled conference room.

As she sat down she said, “Around eleven p.m. yesterday Courtland Gentry murdered Leland Babbitt, director of Townsend Government Services.”

Zack just said, “I’ll be damned.” He smiled inwardly, thinking he deserved a fucking Oscar for his acting abilities. He wasn’t surprised in the least that Gentry was getting fingered for the hit. Denny Carmichael was a crafty old fox, after all.

She continued, “Shot him in the chest, then led Babbitt’s security detail on a chase across Chevy Chase and Bethesda.”

He blinked. “Oh.” Zack’s surprise was authentic now. Apparently they had hard evidence Gentry was there at the scene. But Zack still had to employ his acting talents, because it was becoming clear Gentry had been in range of Zack’s Remington, and Zack had failed to see him. “That is very interesting.” He said it as slowly and flatly as he could. “Any idea where he went?”

“He was tracked from Babbitt’s house, and was cornered for a short time, until he blew up a McDonald’s.”

“He did
what
?”

“Yeah. Tossed nearly a hundred rounds of ammo into a fry cooker.”

Zack burst into laughter. “Holy shit. Kill anybody?”

“No, luckily. Two Townsend men are going to have some pretty bad sunburns for a while. Another security officer was shot in the legs.”

“And then Violator just vanished?”

“For ninety minutes. He then turned up on the Capital Beltway, where he first caused a traffic accident and then carjacked a taxi. The cab was
discovered just twenty minutes ago in Bethesda. No sign of Gentry, though there was blood at the scene of the carjacking, and significant blood in the vehicle.”

Zack said, “So he’s hurt, but apparently not so badly he can’t ninja his way across the greater metro area.”

“Exactly. Since about three a.m. we have been monitoring hospitals, all-night pharmacies, and minor emergency clinics, expecting him to show up for supplies. Nothing so far.”

Zack shook his head. “He won’t go to a hospital or a clinic. He’ll treat himself. If he didn’t already have wound management supplies, he’ll get them at a grocery store or a corner market or a vet clinic because he’ll expect you to monitor video feeds at pharmacies. There can’t be more than a dozen that are open all night around here.”

Brewer nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Any other suggestions?”

Just then, Jordan Mayes leaned into the TOC. “Sorry, Suzanne. I’ll need to borrow Zack for a few minutes. I’ll send him back down when I’m done.”

—

Z
ack followed Mayes up to seven, neither man speaking the entire way. The older man with the white hair looked exhausted, which Zack found hilarious, because
he
had been the one in the field the night before, not Jordan Mayes.

Zack was late forties, Mayes was just a few years older, but Mayes was a suit. Zack told himself he wouldn’t let himself go to pot like Mayes when he hit his fifties; hell, not even when he was eighty-five.

They entered a small private conference room, and Zack expected to see Carmichael waiting for him. But the room was empty. Mayes motioned for Zack to sit, and Mayes then took the chair next to him.

Hightower understood now. Denny was using Mayes as a cutout. Mayes would provide a barrier between the shooter and the man who gave the term order.

He’d expected instant and profuse gratitude from Mayes for killing Babbitt, but what he got was something quite different.

Mayes began, “You had eyes on the rear of Babbitt’s property. How is it you didn’t see Violator?”

Zack wasn’t ready to go on the defensive, so it took him a moment to
answer. Finally he said, “I guess that’s why they call him the Gray Man. He probably got into position before I arrived. He had a secure hide site. I was focused on the target, and the target’s security.”

“And after? Babbitt’s men saw him. Why didn’t you?”

Hightower’s square jaw flexed. “After I smoked my target, I hit the bricks. Nobody said anything to me about Babbitt being a potential Gentry target.”

Mayes sighed. “Still, you knew Gentry was on the streets. A little vigilance on your part and you could have killed two birds with one stone last night. This op would be over.”

Hightower was no longer on the defensive—now he was pissed. No seventh-floor suit was going to tell him how to do wet work. “Look, if you’d integrated me into this op a little bit more, let me know about the connection between Gentry and Babbitt, whatever it was, I could have done your analysis for you.” Zack shrugged. “You just brought me into this to be a trigger puller, so I just pulled the fucking trigger.”

Mayes let it go. “Very well. Denny and I are satisfied with the Babbitt termination.”

Zack wanted to say, “I killed the motherfucker for you, why
wouldn’t
you be satisfied?” but instead he forced out a “Glad to hear it. Next time, send me after Gentry, and I’ll get Gentry. It’s as simple as that.”