On target

THREE

Five minutes later Gentry left the Padraic Pearse. Slattery had gone first, just after rescuing the stranger from the two locals, who had returned to their table without another word. The bartender had not looked up from his paper through it all.

Court walked east on Pearse Street, moving deftly in the shadows a hundred yards behind the limping man with the drum on his shoulder.

Everything had changed now; the entire operation had been accelerated by Court's decision to walk through the front door of the pub. He could not just do a soft recon as he'd originally planned. No, his target was spooked, and his target would run or build up his defenses. It did not take a brilliant tradecraft mind to thwart an imminent attack from one man. Run away or circle the wagons and pass out the guns. It was page one from the How to Avoid Assassination manual, and Gentry had no doubt Dougal had read it.

If the Gray Man was going to complete his contract, he knew he'd have to do it tonight. Slattery turned right into the open front gates of a drab block of flats and did not look back as he began climbing up a slanting car park towards a door. Court moved on through the darkness, closer to his prey, a prey that would be expecting him, yes, but hopefully not quite so soon.

A thick young man in a black rugby shirt stepped into the street from his hiding place behind a large waste bin twenty-five feet in front of Court. Gentry slowed, stopped, faced the man, his hands down at his sides. It was one of the young men who'd been with Slattery in the Padraic Pearse. The Irishman exposed a long length of chain from behind his leg, began swaying it slowly like a pendulum.

"What the fek ya' doin' followin me mate?" His brogue was almost incomprehensible, but it hardly mattered. Court was not listening. Instead, all his attention was focused on softer noises, tuned to hear the footsteps that would be approaching from behind any second. This rugby boy's buddy was out there somewhere, and he'd make his move from the rear, Court had no doubt. He might go for a headlock or, more likely, swing a chain or a piece of metal at his target's exposed back. Normally, as an elite contract killer, Court dealt with more determined foes with better training and equipment. But in cover working in dockyards or hanging in seedy bars in scummy parts of shitty towns, he'd seen beatings and batterings by thickheaded ruffians often enough to memorize the standard operating procedure.

It didn't matter where you were, really. There was something of a universal language to an ass-kicking.

The man in the black rugby shirt shouted something else, this time fully indecipherable, and then there it was: soft footsteps, getting louder and quicker behind him as they closed in. Court made himself look straight ahead at black-shirt rugby boy and pretended to have no idea he was about to be jumped from behind, until the last possible moment.

The steps were on him now, and Court moved like lightning, executing his first force-on-force encounter in months. In one motion he sank low and spun and moved to the side, saw a bald young man in an orange rugby shirt move in a blur and swing a length of bent rebar at the empty space where Gentry's back had been three-quarters of a second before. The weight of the iron and the swing itself as well as the Irishman's own momentum carried him through the space, and he kept moving forward long after his mind had registered that his target had avoided his strike. Court stood quickly as the man passed by him, used his left hand to guide the flying man past him, shot a clenched fist through the black night like a firing piston, connected perfectly with the area just under the man's right ear, cracking the jaw and snapping the head to the side and rendering the man unconscious even as his out-of-control energy propelled him onwards.

The rebar clanged in the street and the Irishman followed, fell chest-first and rolled, all arms and legs flapping, to a stop at the foot of his mate.

He did not move. Blood on his face from the road rash acquired when his skin met the asphalt glistened in the cobalt streetlamps.

Black rugby shirt swung his chain wildly now, his eyes dropping to check on his friend and then darting back up, with equal measures of fury and terror, to the bearded man in front of him. Court walked towards the man, arms low, eyes and shoulders relaxed.

A man in his element.

The chain whipped forward.

The Gray Man stepped into the path of the chain, caught it deftly with his left hand, and yanked hard, knocking the young man in the rugby shirt off balance, bringing him closer with a jolt.

A right-hand spear to the throat knocked the Irishman to his back. He rolled in the street, gagged and wheezed, choking on his bruised and swelling airway as he stared at the bearded man who now squatted above him. When he spoke, the American sounded calm, in complete control, as if he were the one who had planned this ambush in the dark.

"Slattery's flat number, please. I will only ask you once."

Four minutes later the tip of a handgun's silencer pushed open the unlatched door of flat sixty-six of the Queen's Court Condominiums. Behind the silencer was a Russian Baikal Makarov automatic pistol. Behind the Mak was the Gray Man. All senses were alert, more so because the door had been left open invitingly, and that was odd, considering the fact that the man who lived there was surely aware that someone was coming for him.

As Gentry entered the well-lit living room behind the door, he did not have long to wonder about the location of his target. Slattery sat at a simple wooden table in the middle of the small room, facing the door, a bottle of Irish whiskey and three shot glasses in front of him. Court noticed that the man had changed shirts. He now wore a blue on black rugby jersey, open loose at the collar and straining tight around his thick midsection. Perhaps his favorite team?

Slattery looked up at him for a long time. He took one of the shot glasses and turned it upside down. He had been expecting two guests, no doubt the two left lying in the street. Dougal recovered, lifted a second glass slowly. "Care for a drink, lad?" He was nervous, clearly; his low voice cracked.

Court scanned the room quickly. His weapon remained pointed at his target's forehead as he did so. He spoke softly but with calm conviction. "Hands where I can see them."

Slattery complied. "Did ya kill 'em?"

"The rugby boys? No, they'll be okay." He added, "Eventually."

Slattery nodded. Shrugged. "Like a knife through butter, was it?"

"Not much trouble, no."

"They'd have been no match if they weren't pissed. Have a seat first, will ya? I have some grand whiskey here."

Court continued searching the room for threats, all senses alert. His target seemed oddly resigned to what was going on, but that could have been some sort of deception.

"No."

The big man shrugged again. "Then maybe you'll let me have a drink first." He didn't wait. He poured Old Bushmills into a shot glass, tossed it back into his open throat, placed the glass back in front of him, and refilled it.

Court moved to the window. He flipped the overhead off on the way. Shrouded in darkness now, he looked down into the street.

Slattery said, "There's no one coming. Just the two you met already. Even if they can still walk, they won't be walkin' this way, I promise ya that."

Court checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. They were alone. The Irishman just sat at the table, facing the doorway. He shot another whiskey. Refilled the glass again.

Waiting patiently.

When Gentry stepped back in front of him, Slattery put his hand around the bottle, tipped it towards his guest. He said, "Sure ya won't have a wee drop? I always found it helpful back when I was on the job." Court shook his head. Focused fully on his target, his Makarov rose. Dougal Slattery spoke quickly. "Look, pal. I know ya gotta do it. No argument from me. I was on the job once, and I know the score. There's just one thing. A little favor. I got a kid. Not a kid, he's 'bout thirty now, I guess. He's in Galway."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"He's got the Down syndrome. Good boy, but he can't look after himself. No ma-she was an aul whore in Belfast, OD'd twenty some-odd years back. I've got him in private care. I'm all the boy has."

"I could not possibly care less."

"I'm just sayin'. I send money, enough to keep him out of state care."

Court pulled the Mak's hammer back with his thumb.

Dougal kept talking, faster. "Without the money he'll go to state care. It's a fecking mess, believe me. Me boy is my punishment for me life. You can have me fecking life, mate, but don't make him pay for it."

It occurred to Court that he should have just put a bullet through the man's head when he walked through the door.

"Everyone leaves someone behind. I can't help you."

"No, you can't help me. But you can help him. I'm askin' for twenty-four hours. One bleeding day, and I'll knock over a bank or a currency exchange or something. There's an armored car that makes stops up and down Dawson Street in the afternoons. A lot of options for a quick job. If I just had time for a score, I could get some money to the home so he'll be set. If I had any idea you were coming for me, I'd have done it already, but this is a bit of a surprise. I've been off the job for a long time. I thought I was out of it. Look. I won't run. I'll send the home in Galway one hundred percent by wire tomorrow afternoon and then I'll come back here and you can drop me dead. I swear on me ma's grave. You'll get your payday for me scalp, I'll get me boy the money he needs so he can be looked after when I'm gone. I'm sitting here now showing you respect. Showing you that I'm not a runner. I'm not a fighter. Not anymore. I'm sittin' here handing myself over to you, hopin' you'll do the right thing and give me one bleedin' day to sort out some decent future for me lad." The man was near tears. Desperate. Court had no doubt the story was true.

Still, he steeled himself. He raised the weapon to eye level. "Sorry, dude. That's not going to happen."

Slattery's eyes began to water before he tossed down another shot. He did not refill the glass afterwards this time. "I figured you for a man with a soul. My mistake. So it's off to state care for me lad." He smiled a little. "All's not lost, though. There is some wee consolation. I know someday Sid will send some bloke after you."

Court lowered the pistol slightly.

"Sid?"

"You're Sid's new lad, yeah? I'm Sid's old lad, so you see your future before your eyes, don'tcha? He's sent you on this wee errand to make room for yourself in his organization. This is your audition to replace me, ya know." When Court did not speak for several seconds, Slattery's watery eyes widened. "He didn't tell you, did he? What a bastard he is! You thought he was passing on a contract from someone else that wants me dead? No, pal, this is Sid's doin', all of it."

Gentry lowered the pistol farther. "Why?"

Slattery poured another shot glass and tossed the contents down his gullet. "Five years back, Sid came to see me. I'd been doing some… some stuff for another Russian. Sid tells me he likes my work, wants me to come work for him. I say, 'What's the catch?' Everyone knows Sidorenko gets the juicy contracts. He tells me the only thing I have to do is rub out the guy holding the job I wanted. Create the vacancy myself, ya see? Seems this bloke, an Israeli, had outworn his welcome. Dunno why. Sid tells me once I sort out his Jew, I'll be top stallion in his stable."

"So you killed him."

"Bloody well right, I did. 'At's the business we're in, ain't it? And now I'm too old, too broken and beaten to execute the big contracts anymore. I'm not making the cash I once was, so he's sending ya to shut me off, so ya can take over. He figures if there's a one percent chance I'll talk, call a newspaper or Interpol and tell on him, then he might as well off me just in case."

Court was stunned. Sid had lied about the very existence of a contract on the target. It was only in the personal interests of his handler that he should kill this man. He recovered a bit and reminded himself of some of the dirtier parts of Sid's dossier on Slattery. "He told me you'd done some ugly hits in your past." The Makarov rose again with new resolve.

Slattery cocked his head, genuinely surprised. "Ugly hits? Ugly hits? What the feck is a pretty hit?"

Court took a moment. "You've killed innocents, I mean."

"Bollocks. You gonna sit there and judge me, based on what Sid has told you? A feckin' joke you are. Go on then, be done with it. Put a bullet up me nose and feel good about yourself! Ugly hits? Innocents? Aren't you the most pretentious fuck for a hit man that's ever soiled this godforsaken planet!"

Dougal Slattery's nostrils flared as he stared down the suppressor at the end of the barrel of the little Makarov. The alcohol showed in his eyes, but not a shred of fear.

After a long pause, Court lowered the gun to his side. He pulled out the wooden chair and sat slowly down at the table across from the Irishman.

"I guess I'll take that drink now."

Slattery did not take his eyes off the American as he poured for them both.