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Court had decided he’d have no more dealings with the Mossad officer. Court knew personal relationships were points of vulnerability, so his plan all along had been to use the man as a conduit into the U.S. and then to break contact, to go his own way.

He’d done exactly that by leaving everything behind on the cargo ship
save for the clothes on his back. He hadn’t planned it exactly that way, but he heard the helicopters approaching, and he knew they were coming for him.

On shore he hotwired a car and drove it to the Greenbelt metro station on the outskirts of D.C. He used some coins he found in the car’s ashtray to buy a Metro card that got him as far as the Congress Heights Station.

He needed cash and a weapon, and he knew this area would afford him the most target-rich environment in which to obtain both.

He got what he’d been after and now he had a suitable base of operations, at least for the time being. He knew it was possible he’d have to relocate multiple times during the next few days, but he’d do what he could to keep his new safe house free of compromise.

Court’s mission here in Washington, as he saw it anyway, was very simple. His former employer, the Central Intelligence Agency, had spent the last five years trying to kill him, and he did not know why. He’d been running all that time, living abroad, off grid, staying away from relationships and ties. Looking over his shoulder all day, every day.

They’d almost caught him a few times, and during his flight from the Agency, other entities out there had come even closer to killing him.

He had grown tired of running, so he decided it was time to end this, once and for all.

In his years of small unit tactics training he had learned a great many truths, but one stood out from the rest. When the opposition attacked, it expected you to play your role; to run, to cover. But turning the tables, attacking
into
a threat, was often the most useful way of defending oneself.

Court’s principal trainer at CIA, a man he knew only as Maurice, used to say a mantra over and over, so often Court now heard it in Maurice’s gravelly voice. “You can run, but if you can’t run anymore, then you can hide. You can hide, but if you can’t hide anymore, then you can fight. There is
nothing
after the fight, so you fight until there is nothing.”

Court couldn’t run anymore, and he couldn’t hide anymore, so he came back to fight. To attack into the threat, to get answers and to get closure.

He knew he would not be leaving D.C. without a resolution to this nightmare. Either he would uncover the CIA’s motives behind the shoot-on-sight sanction against him and somehow end the sanction, or else he would die trying.

He had come up with a working theory as to what this was all about.
At the beginning of Court’s career with the CIA he had been part of a small initiative called the Autonomous Asset Program. He and several other young men like him had been given individual instruction by a cadre of the CIA’s best operations officers, and then they had been sent into the world, allowed to run solo ops, tasked with difficult, deniable missions, and left, in large part, to their own devices.

The program was disbanded, Court was folded into another unit, and other than the fact that he had been given better solo training than the other CIA Special Activities Division men, the Autonomous Asset Program was behind him.

But Court had just found out the previous month that he was the last man alive from this entire program. Seventeen other young men had all been killed in the intervening years and, by necessity, Court himself had killed the only other remaining singleton asset out there.

Court saw it clearly now. For some reason the CIA was erasing anyone who had been in AAP. All the others were gone.

And now it was down to Court Gentry. The last man standing.

What he did not know was why.

He could reveal what he knew about the program and the termination order for the assets, but first he needed proof. Without proof—if he just called up the
New York Times
and told them what he suspected—he’d be considered a crackpot and there would be no story.

The CIA would deny his allegations, and the CIA would win, because the CIA had significantly better media outreach than Court Gentry had.

He needed proof. If he found proof, he would find justice, and that was what he was after.

Not revenge, he told himself. Justice.

There were men here, in the area, who Court felt sure would have the answers he sought. He had no illusions that they would give up their answers willingly, but Court was prepared. He’d seek these men out, find out what they knew, and rectify the mess his life had become. He told himself it was doable, that he wasn’t naive, but part of him wondered if he’d just grown too tired of running, if he was racing headlong into his own death just to end it all.

He pushed the negativity out of his mind as best he could, and he drifted off just before ten a.m., and, for the first time in months, he slept the sleep of the dead.

D
enny Carmichael lay on the leather couch in his dark office, but his eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling. He’d stayed up working until past seven a.m., then he slept for a couple of hours, but only fitfully. Now he lay awake, brooding and plotting. Worrying and calculating.

The door opened slowly, letting a little light into the room. This startled the director of National Clandestine Service. No one walked into his office unannounced. He had a vision of the Gray Man, his face darkened with coal, a hooked knife with a flat black finish in his hand, his eyes cold and dark and dead like those of a snake.

Carmichael rolled quickly up to a sitting position and reached out in the dark, finding and then pulling the chain on the banker’s lamp on the desk.

Jordan Mayes stood over him with two cups of coffee. “Sorry. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

Carmichael rubbed his eyes and took a cup, and he motioned for Mayes to take a seat on the other side of the coffee table.

“What time is it?”

“About ten a.m.,” Mayes said. “I’d have given you another hour, but I just got word from the homicide detective in charge in Washington Highlands.”

“Talk.”

Mayes rubbed his own eyes, the all-nighter evident on his face. “Brandywine Street was Violator, no question.”

“We know this how?”

“Fingerprints left at the scene.”

Carmichael shook his head. “Bullshit. PD doesn’t have Gentry’s prints on file. None of the Ground Branch boys are in any domestic database. Only we have his prints.”

“I know that. The prints haven’t been analyzed yet.”

“Then how did the D.C. police—”

“Because Gentry
wanted
us to know it was him. He pressed his thumbprint onto a nightstand in the room where he left the bodies. Multiple times. Leaving clear prints in the shape of a six.”

Carmichael sat up straighter. “Sierra Six. Gentry’s call sign with the Goon Squad.”

“It was a message. ‘I’m back and I’m pissed. I want the Agency to know I’m here.’”

Carmichael sat back on the sofa and blew out a full chest of air. A chill ran down the back of his neck and into his shoulders. “Fucking brazen. He’s not going to skulk around then. I guess that means he won’t be running, either. What did he take from the Aryan Brotherhood?”

“According to survivors, he got a bag full of cash. No agreement on how much. The narcotics detective I spoke with guessed about ten grand, but that was just based on the size of the operation being run out of the house. PD recovered a lot of meth, apparently.”

“That’s it? Violator just took money?”

“None of the survivors copped to any more weapons than the half dozen or so found on the property, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could have walked out of there with a bazooka and they wouldn’t tell the cops, because that would mean they’d been keeping a bazooka in the house. The detective did find an empty ankle holster on one of the victims. It was sized for a subcompact pistol.”

Carmichael ran his fingers through his short hair. “Okay. Gentry’s in the wind with a mouse gun and enough money to finance a small op.”

Mayes asked, “What’s he after?”

Carmichael just looked into his coffee. “Revenge, I guess. I assume his next step is to make contact with known associates here in the area.”

“Well, we’re covered on that front. We’ve identified four possible contacts, people he used to work with in one capacity or another. We’ve put assets on them.”

“Just four?”

“Most everyone he worked with is dead. We’ve got everyone covered, all except you and me, because we’re here. Oh, and Zack Hightower, because he hasn’t been located yet.”

“What about Matt Hanley?”

“Right now I have four contract security officers watching Hanley’s house. When JSOC gets here I’ll put hard assets on him.”

“Good. Gentry
will
go to Hanley.”

Mayes hesitated a moment and said, “We need to get SAD involved in this. We can put twenty-five Ground Branch shooters in the mix with one call.”

Carmichael shook his head. “We can’t involve Ground Branch without involving Hanley. I don’t want anyone breathing a word to Hanley about this. We have enough armed assets without going to SAD.”

“You really think Hanley is a threat to the operation?”

“No, but he’s next in line to run NCS.”

“So?” asked Mayes. “When you take the directorship, he’ll move up here. But you’ll be the damn director, so why do you care?”

“I don’t like the guy, and he doesn’t like me. No Hanley. You have guys watching him. That’s it. Gentry will go to him, and that’s where we’ll get him.”

“So . . . we’re using Hanley as bait.”

“It’s the best way that prick can serve the Agency.” Something occurred to Carmichael. “We need to watch Gentry’s family, too.”

“His only close living relative is his dad. He’s sixty-four, lives in a little town in Florida. But they’ve been estranged since Gentry was a teenager.”

“I don’t care. I want him covered.”

“Agency watchers are already in place. Hard assets would, of course, need to fly down there if Violator shows, but we can move them out of Fort Bragg, and that’s no more than ninety minutes’ flying time.”

Carmichael’s secretary spoke over the intercom, telling him Suzanne Brewer was on the line. He asked her to put the call through, and seconds later the voice of the thirty-nine-year-old targeting officer emanated from the speaker.

Carmichael was customarily succinct. “Any word on the location of Zack Hightower?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll have him in hand in a couple of hours. Do you want us to put him in a safe house?”

“No. I want him brought up here. Put the intimidation of the seventh floor in him. Let’s see if he will play ball.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Carmichael hung up, Mayes said, “You want to stay here till he is brought in?”

“No.”

“Okay. I can schedule the movement to a safe house right now. You can get a little sleep before Hightower is brought in.”

Carmichael looked uneasy a moment, an expression Mayes wasn’t used to seeing. “What is it?”

Carmichael said, “I have to leave the building for a few hours. A meeting with an asset off-site. I need to go alone.”

Mayes stared at his boss for several seconds. Then he got up and closed the door. Standing back at the desk he said, “You’re joking, right?”

“I understand your concern, but it has to be like this. No one is to know but you and DeRenzi. I’m only telling you because you’ll have to cover for me, and DeRenzi because he won’t be able to shadow.”

Mayes remained incredulous. “Gentry’s out there somewhere. You
do
know that, don’t you?”

“You don’t think I can do low pro anymore?”

“You aren’t safe on the streets. Whoever you need to meet, we can set it up here with secure comms.”

“Has to be in person.”

Mayes said, “Then send me.”

Carmichael just shook his head.

“Look, Denny, if you’ve got a mistress or some shit like that, you need to put a cork in it until this all blows over.”

Carmichael sighed. “If I had a mistress and you didn’t know about it, you’d be a sorry excuse for an assistant director. I’ll be out of pocket three hours, four tops. I won’t have a phone, so you’ll have to come up with something convincing.”

Mayes held the look of disbelief on his face. “Tell me you understand what’s in the balance here.”

Carmichael rolled his eyes. “Is this where you tell me Gentry is a dangerous man?”

“This is about more than Gentry, and you know it. You want the directorship. You’ve
earned
it. The one thing that can fuck that up is the Gentry story getting out. You won’t just lose the directorship. You’ll lose everything.”

“It’s not going to get out, because we are going to handle this.”

Mayes pressed one more time. “You keeping me out of the loop is not a good idea.”

“Some burdens are my own, Mayes. And that’s just how it’s going to stay.”

—

T
he U.S. Army UC-35A jet touched down at Joint Base Andrews and taxied into a hangar on the far end of runway 36 Right. Once the hangar doors were closed and the aircraft’s wheels were chocked, the hatch opened and a set of rolling stairs was positioned by the ground crew. Twelve men, all in their thirties and forties, stepped down the stairs of the U.S. Army’s version of the Cessna Citation V. Each man carried a massive black duffel bag over his shoulder and, as soon as they vacated the stairs, they dropped their heavy bags onto the hangar floor.

Although this was a military base and the UC-35A a military aircraft, the dozen men wore various styles of civilian clothing. Few soldiers would get away with such a transgression while on base and on duty, but this small force was no regular army unit. They were a cell of operators from Joint Special Operations Command; specifically an elite offshoot of JSOC with a mandate to assist the United States on Homeland Security issues.

There were two main direct action ground asset components of JSOC—the navy men of DEVGRU, otherwise known as SEAL Team 6, and the army men of the unit that for decades was commonly known as Delta Force. The unit members even used that name in open sources from time to time, but their classified designation had been changed.

It was thought by the brass at JSOC that their operations and abilities had been compromised in the past few years due to an unprecedented spate of books, movies, articles, and interviews about and by Joint Special Operations personnel, so when they were given their new name, the name itself was codeword-classified.

The army boys of JSOC were happy to leave center stage to the Hollywood-loving navy SEALs.

JSOC had been on the Gentry hunt for years, but not this crew, because Gentry had been outside of the United States. These twelve operators worked inside the USA by special arrangement with the Department of Homeland Security.

The twelve men in the hangar at Joint Base Andrews were tip of the spear of the military on domestic operations, so it only stood to reason they would get the call-up for this mission. Their brass had been contacted late the evening before by the CIA and told of the in extremis mission to eliminate a rogue CIA man gone mad in D.C., and a short time later these men rushed to their headquarters inside the wire at Fort Bragg, geared up, and boarded the waiting army transport jet.

Ninety minutes after that they were on the ground at Andrews, and now they unpacked and assembled equipment, loaded it into three nondescript Chevy Suburban SUVs, and headed to a safe house in the Capitol Hill section of D.C.

The dozen men in street clothes didn’t know much about the reasons behind the hunt, other than the facts that Violator was ex-Agency, he’d gone off reservation, and he had killed a bunch of his colleagues. The guys figured that was more than awkward and ugly enough to put you on a presidential kill list, so they didn’t see the need to know more than that.

The leader of this unit was a forty-three-year-old lieutenant colonel with the code name Dakota. Soon after he and his men arrived at their safe house, Jordan Mayes, Suzanne Brewer, and the security detail traveling with Mayes arrived at the front door. Mayes, Brewer, and Dakota met for a briefing in the living room while the rest of the JSOC team prepped and tested their hi-tech communications equipment in the dining room.

Dakota took notes on a pad and asked relevant questions of the CIA officials, and together they went down a list of surveillance assets at their disposal. They then discussed Violator’s known associates and the other CIA brass who would need to have their homes watched in case their target tried to make contact with them.

When Brewer indicated the briefing was complete, Dakota looked across the table to the two Agency execs. He said, “We’ve done lethal ops in the U.S. before. Rare, but it’s happened. Know this. If we go in, collateral damage will be limited or nonexistent. Any other means you might use—local PD, federal SWAT, even CIA shooters, whatever assets you have available to you—they aren’t going to be as precise as my men and myself. We have experience in doing this sort of thing quickly, cleanly, and quietly.”

Mayes said, “Believe me, you are our first choice. Gentry has already committed two murders in the city. We are concerned that local police
might run up on him before we do, but we will move you and your men to any sightings or possible sightings as soon as possible.”

Dakota stood, shook hands politely with the two CIA execs, and then said, “Very good. You get us to him, and we’ll put him down. For now we’ll kit up and hit the streets. Let’s stay in touch.”