Gunmetal Gray

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Court hefted his numb and nearly useless left arm, and somehow he managed to find a handhold for his left hand. He started pulling himself up, using all his might, even pressing his bloody face into the wet cool rock as he did so. And as he did this he shouted, “Zoya?”

He’d heard her hit the wall, but it sounded way too hard, and then he clearly heard something fall, knocking against the wall as it went down. He didn’t know if it was a piece of a rock itself, or if it had been an unconscious woman.

There was no answer. “Zoya!”

For five more seconds he heard nothing. Then her voice, muted by the rock between them. “I’m here.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll live, but I dropped my gun.”

Court closed his eyes, thanked God as relief washed over him, and said, “I’ll lend you mine.”

After a few more seconds Zoya said, “Good news. I’m feeling the ceiling of this underhang. There are good handholds and footholds. When you get some strength back, you can climb down here and I can reach out and help you position your feet.”

“Okay,” he said, blinking away misting tears of joy because he was unable to wipe his face with the back of his arm. “I’ll need just a second.”

The rest of the descent went much faster as the angle of the cliff decreased, and they made it the final twenty feet down to the shoreline by scooting along on their backsides. On the rocky shore they embraced, and both of them wanted to fall over onto the rocks and just lie there, but there was no time. If there were boats here there must have been other ways down to the sand, and while neither Court nor Zoya saw any of Xi’s men, the glow of flashlights higher on the hills told them the Chinese guards were out in force and actively searching for them.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Pretty beat-up,” she admitted. “But I’ll make it.”

Court felt the same. His right shoulder hurt, his left hand hurt, his lip was fat and sore where he’d smacked it on the cliff, and his right shin was swollen and aching.

The two boats at the dock fifty yards from the cliff were wooden-hulled stern-drive twelve-footers. They clearly belonged to one of the private homes around, and quite possibly the Chinese safe house itself. Court ripped the wiring out of the engine of one boat then hot-wired the simple ignition system on the other in just a couple of minutes, while Zoya held the pistol and watched for trouble.

Finally the engine started, Zoya jumped off the little dock and into the vessel with the line in her hand, and Court went full throttle, fighting his way through both the darkness and the incoming waves.

As they raced off Court could barely hear the snaps of gunfire over the sound of the engine and the crashing waves, but Xi and his men had been armed with pistols, and they were a couple hundred yards away. It would take a hell of a good shot in this bad light to hit a bouncing and swaying target on the move at that distance.

Zoya and Court raced safely around a rocky point and back to the west, away from the Chamroon estate and back in the direction of their hotel.

Just ten minutes later they came ashore at the Trisara Phuket, docking quietly at the lighted pier and then jogging towards the buildings. It was still ten minutes to midnight, so there were quite a few couples at the bar, and still a few at the beachside restaurant.

Court said, “We need a phone and some diving gear.” Both of them had dropped by the dive shop at the resort the day before, and though it would be locked up now, Zoya insisted she could find a way in.

Court raced back to the suite, approached from the patio, and looked inside, making certain Xi hadn’t left anyone there. It was exactly as he’d left it, and he used the butt of the SIG pistol to break the window next to the back door so he could slip inside.

Here he changed into black cotton pants and a black T-shirt, then searched through his gear and discovered that one of Xi’s men had taken the Glock pistol. The .38 revolver was still in his backpack, however, so he dropped that into his pocket and put the SIG in his waistband.

He returned to the lounge and walked through, then out onto the bar area by the pool. He walked between several tables full of guests, eyeing them carefully. A woman took pictures of her group; one of her friends asked her to dance, and then she covered her phone with her napkin and followed him to the dance floor on the other side of the pool. Several others from the big table also went up to dance, so it was no great feat for Court to merely pass by and slide the napkin and the phone off the table.

Seconds later he stepped into darkness outside the lights of the sedate outdoor nightlife here at the resort, and he dialed Brewer’s number. There would be no encryption on his end of this call, which meant he’d have to be careful with what he said.

She answered on the first ring. “Brewer.”

“It’s me.”

“Is this Mr. Cavalcade?”

“No. It’s Carlsbad here.”

“I’m glad you called early. The time for the party has been moved up an hour.”

Court almost choked on his response. “No!”

“Yes. My friends found a ride that would get them there faster, so they—”

Court interrupted. “Bad idea! They need to skip this party, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, they’ve been looking forward to it.”

Court said, “Listen carefully. My old friend from Hong Kong is here with a huge group of his friends, and right now they’re walking through the front door of the same party your friends are heading to. Not sure there will be enough booze to go around.”

There was a long pause. “You’re sure?”

“You need to call your friends right now!”

“It’s too late.”

“Do it! It’s a surprise party.”

Brewer hesitated, then said, “I don’t follow you.”

“My friend from Hong Kong will be the surprise guest, and there will be a huge reception waiting for him.”

“Where… where is the man my friends were hoping to meet?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s nearby at another party, on a yacht. You could help me check on that.”

“Right. Name and registry?”

“No! Make the call first!”

Brewer put Court on hold. Many times in his career as a CIA paramilitary he’d been one of the guys in the helicopter racing into a target only to get the word to turn around and go home. More than once he was in sight of his objective when the order came. It sucked when it happened, but sometimes it sucked more when it didn’t happen. When he wasn’t recalled even after intelligence pointed to a problem at the objective.

Brewer came back on the line. “People are trying to reach my friends now.”

“Good.” Court couldn’t hear any helicopters in the distance, but he knew SAD might be flying in helos with noise reduction technology, so he couldn’t say for certain they weren’t over the Chamroon property right now.

Brewer next said, “The boat you mentioned?”

“The Medusa. Out of Genoa.”

There was a pause while Brewer typed that in. It only took a few seconds for her to say, “Got it, running a check on the ownership.”

Just then, Court heard the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors, somewhere in the night. As a warning he said, “I hear a helicopter.”

Brewer snapped back, “I’ve done what I can. The message has been passed.”

Court had no idea what was waiting for whoever was the first to breach the Chamroon property, but he was sure whoever entered was not going to swoop in and snatch up Fan Jiang and then skulk away. No, Kulap Chamroon had had two days to prepare a reception for the Chinese.

Now Brewer said, “The boat. Uhh… well… I hope he’s not there.”

Court said, “I’m pretty sure he is.”

“The boat is owned by some gentlemen from the nation of registry.”

Italy? Some gentlemen. Court said, “Any chance these gents would have a business relationship with the people throwing the party on land tonight?”

“There is a significant chance of that. In fact, I’d say it’s a given. Cut from the same cloth, if you know what I’m saying.” Court realized Brewer was telling him the yacht was owned by the Italian mafia. He remembered from his reading on the Chamroon Syndicate that they had ties to the ’Ndrangheta, one of the largest criminal organizations on the planet. They were based in Calabria, in the toe of the Italian boot. It was the poorest region in the nation, but the ’Ndrangheta controlled a large amount of drug trafficking coming into and through Europe, as well as much of the human-trafficking corridors.

“The Italians. Where in Italy?”

“Tip of the boot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Court mumbled into the phone.

Brewer seemed momentarily confounded. “I wish I could just tell my friends they need to drop in on the boat party instead of the other one. Especially since it’s just a couple of minutes away, and they are already dressed for a night out.”

“But?” asked Court. He didn’t want SAD hitting the Italian boat, because he’d lose any chance he had at getting Fan himself.

Brewer replied, “I’ll have to talk to some other people first, and that will take time.”

Court translated this to mean Brewer couldn’t just change the target package for the SAD hit. The kidnapping/rescue of Fan Jiang had been okayed when the ones holding him were Thai gangsters, but now that the target was Italian, men that would be known to most as European businessmen, on a massive yacht no less, she couldn’t just land a couple of helos on the deck and have the CIA gunning down anyone who got in the way.

The helicopter sounds were louder now; there were multiple birds inbound.

In his utter frustration, Court dropped any pretense of a cover. “Jesus Christ! Do I have to find a fucking flare gun?”

Brewer was off the line for several seconds, then came back on. “I’ve just been told our friends are turning around and heading home.”

Court breathed out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

“What about you? Are you where you can stay the night without anybody bugging you?”

“No,” Court said with finality. “I need to go to the party on the boat.”

Brewer’s voice lowered an octave. “Disallowed.”

Court ignored her. “Sorry you and your friends can’t make it. I’ll be sure to send all your love to everyone I see.”

Brewer shouted into the phone. “You listen to me! You are not authorized in any way, shape, or form to—”

Court hung up, partially to save Brewer from continued security breaches over an open line, but mostly because he was tired of getting yelled at.

Above him, the sounds of helicopters began to recede, and he muttered a brief prayer of thanks. He couldn’t help but wonder if he knew any of the guys flying overhead, but he also couldn’t help but wonder what they might be ordered to do to him tomorrow if this plan of his somehow came together tonight.

He was officially off reservation now, and he figured the SAD helos would probably come after him next.

Court met Zoya back at the wooden boat by the dock. She had two scuba rigs as well as flashlights and knives that would strap to their legs, a mesh bag filled with a few tools, duct tape, and other odds and ends she’d picked up in the dive shop. Court was impressed with what she’d accomplished in the past fifteen minutes.

They fired up the boat and took off, probably not too far ahead of the hotel’s security realizing someone had stolen a phone and two sets of scuba gear.

As they raced out into the placid bay and away from the lights of the resort, Court and Zoya both turned to look to their left. There, around the rocky point and up the hill not far inland at all, a large flash of light lit up the green canopy of jungle. Within an instant, a second, similar flash came from near the same location as the first. Smaller firefly-like sparkles erupted in the trees. Both Court and Zoya knew this was gunfire, but neither had a clue what had caused the big flash preceding it.

When the first rumble rolled over the sound of the outboard motor behind them, they both knew a pair of massive explosions and fully automatic gunfire had kicked off the battle at the Chamroon property.