Back Blast

37

Court drove through the trailing edge of the thunderstorm on his way back to his basement apartment, his mind twisted with plots, conspiracy, and guesswork. It was a bad time to think. It was midnight, there was a good bit of traffic even with the weather, and the old Fort Escort’s wipers were shit. He struggled to see the road, and he found this even tougher to do than normal because his mind was near capacity processing everything Matt Hanley had just told him.

Again, much the same as in his conversation with Travers, most of what he’d heard from his former boss sounded like secondhand disinformation. Court felt certain Operation BACK BLAST was nothing more than a red herring. He remembered the op as a two-day in extremis rush job that took place at least a full year before the shoot-on-sight sanction came out for him. Court didn’t think it was relevant to his problem now at all, other than the fact that Carmichael was using BACK BLAST as an excuse for the termination order, because he had to keep his real reasons under wraps.

If Denny wanted him dead for something that happened in BACK BLAST, why the hell would he wait a year to go after him?

No, Court’s original theory still made the most sense to him. He was being silenced because he was part of the Autonomous Asset Program, an extrajudicial initiative that, for some reason he did not yet understand, could not come to light.

Court had learned one piece of actionable intelligence from Matt Hanley, though, and this was the focus of his attention now as he pulled off of Massachusetts and onto Rhode Island Avenue. Max Ohlhauser, a man he’d never even heard of, had apparently signed off on the termination order. Court knew his next step was to look into this guy to see where he was, and if there was some way he could get his hands on him.

The chief legal counsel for the CIA sounded to Court like someone high-profile enough to warrant at least perfunctory security, but it also sounded to Court like this would be a guy whose detail wouldn’t be expecting their protectee to face an attack here in the city.

If he was even still the chief counsel, and if he was even still here in the city.

With all the obfuscation at every turn, Court felt his frustration growing. He didn’t know what Ohlhauser would be able to tell him about the origins of Denny Carmichael’s shoot-on-sight sanction, but at this point, Court found himself looking forward to the opportunity to extract any information he could get.

Court squinted through the water on his windshield and noticed a familiar sign just up ahead. He had no real operational reason to stop in the Easy Market on Rhode Island this evening. In fact, just yesterday he’d told himself he would never return. The woman behind the counter was nice but nosy, and although nice was good, his current situation couldn’t allow him to hang around with inquisitive people.

But as he neared the market, he began to slow.

He told himself that he needed provisions, that there wasn’t enough in his room at the Mayberrys’ should the heat on him in the city get so intense he had to stay inside for more than a day or two.

But honestly he just felt like stopping in. He wasn’t ready to go back to his tiny room; he wanted to prolong his evening, even if for just a couple minutes more, and he couldn’t think of another place to go where he’d find a smiling face and sixty seconds of kindness without the risk of paying too high a price.

He justified his decision from a PERSEC standpoint. He had reconnoitered the Easy Market and he knew it was secure. Why go to some other shop or bar somewhere, and deal with new cameras and camera angles, new dark corners and blind spots, new personalities and unknown subjects?

Tonight Court decided he would just stop in here, grab a few more items to store at his place, listen to LaShondra talk for a minute, and then go home.

The rain remained steady as he pulled into his same spot in the parking lot, but it was no longer slamming down in whipping sheets. The loud thunder and lightning had abated as well, but he could still hear it rolling off in the east. He flipped the hood of his raincoat over his baseball cap, and he climbed out of the car.

As soon as he walked into the market he lowered his dripping hood, but he kept the cap down low. He knew the camera angles in here without looking, although he did perform a fast scan to make sure the broken cameras remained broken.

They hung there partially disassembled, just as before, so Court started for the refrigerated shelves.

He’d only made it a couple of steps before LaShondra called out to him. “Honey, ain’t nothin’ in this here place that’s worth comin’ out in this rain for.”

“Yeah,” he said. He walked to the dairy section with his head down, and he selected a pint carton of milk.

“You one of my regulars now. Three nights in a row.”

“Guess so.”

“I bet you came in just to tell me how good them greens were with vinegar. Ain’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Court said. Then he added, “They were really good.” In fact he hadn’t even opened the can yet, but she was a nice lady and he wanted to make her happy, and this seemed like the easiest way.

She squealed in delight. “I done told you!”

“You did.” Court smiled a little, glancing up at her over a low shelf of bread.

“You gettin’ you some more?”

He hadn’t planned on it. “Sure am.”

Court grabbed two cans of greens and started to turn away, then he scooped a third off the shelf before he began heading up to the counter. His little kitchenette had only one small exposed shelf over the sink; now that shelf would be lined halfway across with turnip greens.

He grabbed a loaf of white bread and some packages of ramen noodles, and he turned for the front.

At the register he kept his face angled to the left to position it away from the camera. He repeated his now-customary ruse, pretending to look down to the newspaper rack.

LaShondra started ringing up his items, and she continued talking about what Court had come to suspect was her favorite subject. “They good for you. Make you feel better. Hey, you look a little better than you did last night.”

“Feel a little better,” he replied.

The door clanged open to Court’s left, and a short man walked in wearing a thick black jacket over a dark gray hoodie. Court eyed him for a half second and saw he was way too young to be an operator or a cop. He was Hispanic, he might have been twenty, and he didn’t even glance up as he passed by.

“Hey, baby,” LaShondra called out to the man as he walked behind Court on his way to the back of the little store.

The young Hispanic made no reply.

Court put his change in his pocket while LaShondra bagged his groceries. She spoke softly to him. “Lots of folks ’round here don’t speak no English.” It was her explanation for why the man had not replied to her, as if Court were wondering.

He wasn’t. The Hispanic went back to the beer cooler, and Court now had his eyes on two new people coming through the door. A male and a female, both African American, both in their late twenties. They were athletic-looking, and Court could imagine either one of them being undercover law enforcement or even FBI surveillance types, although he knew he was paranoid, and they could also be nothing more than civilians who liked to go to the gym.

Behind them a burgundy Monte Carlo rolled up and stopped at one of the gas pumps.

“What’chall doin’ out in this rain?” LaShondra called out to the couple like she knew them, but this did little to allay Court’s suspicions, since she had spoken to him the same way the first time she set eyes on him.

But the female spoke to LaShondra by name and with obvious familiarity, so Court relaxed.

LaShondra handed Court his plastic bag now. “Now you go home and get to feelin’ better, you hear?”

“I will,” he said with a little smile.

As he started towards the exit, he saw that two men had climbed out of the Monte Carlo and were approaching the store.

This market had been completely empty the first couple of times he’d been in, but those visits had both taken place later in the evening. Now, just after midnight, even in this storm, the Easy Market felt like Grand Central.

Court held the door open for two young men, both in their late teens or early twenties, just like the first guy through the door.

The young man in front was white and he wore a black skullcap and a black jacket. He nodded his thanks to Court.

The second man, on the other hand, looked at Court with rapidly blinking, searching eyes. He was Hispanic, his jaw was clenched tight, and he passed through without a word.

Something was wrong with this dude; Court saw it immediately.

Once the two newcomers were in the market, Court stood there an instant holding the door, then he stepped back into the store, walking a couple of steps to a magazine rack.

He picked up a copy of Car and Driver, but he didn’t really look at it. Instead he remained tuned in to his surroundings.

That last guy’s vibe was not good.

Not good at all.

Dammit, Court thought. I don’t need this shit.

Court knew how to identify pre-assault indicators, and he’d seen clear examples of this phenomenon on the last man through the door. And, although he’d detected nothing out of the ordinary in the behavior of the nervous guy’s partner, they were obviously together.

Now Court glanced up to the first young Hispanic to enter the market, wondering if he might also be with the other two, even though he had not arrived in the same car. The man in the gray hoodie was in the back corner, in the exact opposite end of the room as Court. But the man wasn’t shopping. Instead he stood there, facing the entire room, looking over the shelves, his head moving back and forth.

Scanning. Another pre-assault indicator. Court now knew all three of these assholes were a team, and he was pretty sure they were not here for him. No, they were about to rob the convenience store.

Although he had an accurate headcount of the bad guys inside the Easy Market, Court knew there easily could be a driver, or a spotter, or both, outside in the parking lot. He glanced out to the Monte Carlo but couldn’t see anyone else through the tinted back windows. Nor did he see any other movement in the rain-swept parking lot.

Court scanned again over the top of his magazine, up to the counter. The heavyset African American clerk was oblivious to everything happening around her. She had been chatting happily with the black couple, but they had moved away to choose some soft drinks from the cooler, not far from the gray-hooded man in the back corner. LaShondra had her good eye back on her little TV, and the two new men stood at her counter, pretending to look over some small shots of energy drinks on a rack. Casually LaShondra asked the men if it was still raining outside. She was just making conversation; she could see the rain through the glass if she just glanced back over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” the white guy muttered, the one whose jaw didn’t look like it was wired so shut he would need bolt cutters to speak. While Court focused on him this same man moved his right leg back behind him a little, and he turned his body at an angle to the cash register.

This was called blading, and Court knew it meant he probably had a gun on his hip and was about to go for it.

Fuck.

Court desperately tried to think of something he could do to ward off this impending event before it started. He tried to come up with a way to scare off the three robbers before they committed to their act, but he knew if he stepped any closer to the register he would show his face on the camera, and if he shouted out he would only draw attention to himself, ensuring all three guns would sweep in his direction first.

Short of drawing his own piece right now, Court didn’t see any options.

Other than one. He knew he could simply turn around and push through the glass door. He could be in his car before this robbery began.

It was his only safe play, the one sure way he could get through this unscathed.

But Court Gentry stood his ground.

He looked the men over quickly, trying to figure out who would be the quickest on the trigger.

Determine the will — determine the skill.

He knew if any of these three young men pulled a gun, then all three of them would die. He wouldn’t wait around to see if anyone wanted to drop his weapon and pray to Jesus for mercy.

Nope, if this went down, Court was determined to kill every threat in front of him.

Loud and messy.

He flitted his eyes up again to LaShondra, and he willed her to go ahead and pop open her register’s till and hand over all her money to the two men standing there—before things turned violent.

But she just watched her TV while they pretended to shop.

The African American couple standing at the cooler each had a six-pack of soda, and the man selected a bag of potato chips. They had just turned to head up the aisle to the counter when the man in the back corner behind them began moving quickly towards them. Court couldn’t see the man draw a weapon because of the shelves between his position and the back corner of the market, but the female’s shout of alarm made it clear something was terribly wrong.

Court heard yelling at the front counter, then a flurry of movement there. The two men at the register pulled their knit caps down, revealing them to be ski masks, and they each produced a chrome automatic pistol from their jackets. The weapons reached out across the counter, nearly into LaShondra’s stunned face. The third man racked a pistol grip shotgun he’d strapped to his shoulder under his black jacket and he held it high, then he shoved the couple away from the freezer and pushed them ahead of him to the front of the store. He forced them down onto the ground, and they huddled together with their hands on their heads at the opposite end of the front aisle from where Court stood.

Now gray hoodie pointed the twelve-gauge directly at Court, thirty feet away.

“On the floor!” he screamed, his Hispanic accent prevalent.

Court squared his body towards the man and he raised his hands. But he did not drop to the ground.

“Get on the floor!” the man shouted again.

The woman lying facedown on the linoleum just beyond the counter wailed in terror. Her boyfriend put his arm over her to both shield her and hold her there, lest the panic in her voice translate to the rest of her body and she try to run.

The two men at the counter kept their pistols on LaShondra. She stared back at them through her right eye, but she kept her hands down low, right in front of the cash drawer.

“Get down!” Gray hoodie shouted it again at Court, and as one, both men at the counter turned to look at the noncompliant man by the door.

The white gunman said, “Don’t be a hero, man! Get your ass down!”

Court did not reply. He just began very slowly lowering to the ground. He kept his hands at shoulder height as he knelt.

Gray hoodie with the shotgun relaxed noticeably when he saw the white man across the room begin to obey his instructions.

His confidence was misplaced, however. Gentry had never willingly turned his back on imminent danger in his life, and he wasn’t going to start by lying facedown and obedient on a dirty floor in a goddamned D.C. convenience store.

He’d go to his knees, but he’d keep his eyes on the three men. If it looked like they were going to murder him for refusing to lie flat, then Court would make a play for the Smith on his hip.

As Court made it down into a low squat his eyes flicked off the shotgun across the room, and onto movement ahead on his left. To his astonishment, LaShondra had taken advantage of all the attention elsewhere, and she had produced an aluminum baseball bat. It rose quickly above the counter.

Oh, hell no.

Court saw the bat before anyone else because all three armed men still had their eyes on him. But he knew in less than a second one of the three gunmen would notice the woman behind the counter, and then, even if she managed to crack one of these kids’ heads wide open, she’d still die for her bravery.

Court was in a full squat with his left hand out in front of him as if to help him to the floor, the bag of groceries hanging from it. In full view of the three men he dropped the bag, fired his right hand down inside his open jacket, wrapped his fingers around the butt of the Smith and Wesson pistol, and began drawing it out of his waistband.

Simultaneously to this his legs spread a few inches wider and his knees softened, and he dropped to the floor in a kneeling position. As his pistol rose in front of him he lowered his body behind the gun.

The shotgun thundered, spitting fire and smoke across the front aisle of the market, over the backs of the prostrate couple. It sprayed hot lead the length of the room at a speed of 1,200 feet per second. The shot pattern expanded one and a half inches for each yard along its flight path, so when the buckshot reached Court’s position they passed inches over his head in a pattern the size of a large pizza. The lead then exploded through the glass door just above and behind him.

Gentry knew gray hoodie would have to rack a new shell before he fired again, so he shifted his sights to the men with pistols. Both were swiveling their arms to get a bead on the armed man in the raincoat on his knees in front of the door.

Just as LaShondra hit one man in the shoulder with her aluminum bat, Court fired two rounds without pausing, one into the upper torso of each man, left to right. Then he swept further right to gray hoodie, and pressed off another round. His pistol rose in recoil and arced back to the counter in a blur and he fired two more shots, hitting the first man in the left temple as he dropped and spun and the second man dead center in his throat.

Court returned his aim to gray hoodie, who was stumbling backwards into the stockroom of the market with a nine-millimeter hollow point bullet lodged in his heart.

Court shot him again, this time high in the stomach as he tumbled back.

All three men lay still, but the six spent shell casings from the Smith were still moving, either in flight or rolling, spinning, and bouncing on the linoleum. The tinkling sound of brass was the only sound in the market for several seconds. Then the casings stilled and quieted, and their sound was replaced by an audible prayer from LaShondra, who had stood her ground by the cash register, her bat still high as if she were standing at the plate at Nationals Park.

Slowly the panicked sobs from the lady facedown on the floor grew, and then the sobs morphed into the same prayer LaShondra was reciting.

Court’s ears rang. The couple on the ground climbed slowly to their knees. She wept openly now as she prayed, and he tried to comfort her. LaShondra lowered the bat and she turned, just stared at the man with the gun by the door. Blood and brain and bits of bone dripped off the rack of pastries next to her.

And Court just stood there. Taking it all in.

Loud and messy.

Without a word he turned and stepped through the shattered front door, his weapon high in front of him, his eyes flitting up and down, close and far, seeking the dark places on the street and between the other buildings, actively hunting for threats.

The maroon Monte Carlo squealed away from the gas pumps. Court watched it go, then he headed for his car.