The Gray Man

appeared silently through the door from the spiral staircase, and while Lloyd had been fixated on Kurt’s hand inside his jacket, Gentry had gotten the drop on him. He held a squat, evil-looking submachine gun at eye level, its barrel centered on Lloyd’s chest.

“Drop the gun,” said Gentry.

“Who are you speaking to?” asked Kurt, his back to the Gray Man. To see Gentry, he would have to take his eyes off of Lloyd, and he was not about to do that.

Court replied, “If you have a gun in your hand, asshole, then I’m speaking to you.”

Lloyd said, “You aren’t going to make it much longer, Court, old buddy. Your face is white. You’re weak. Your blood is staining the floor.”

“I’ll live long enough to kick your ass. Drop your weapons. You, at the table. Stand up slowly.”

The Tech was the first to do as he was told. He stood with his hands high over his head, shaking from fear.

Lloyd began lowering his pistol. Kurt Riegel followed suit. The German turned his eyes from Lloyd to look at the Tech for an instant.

And in that instant, Lloyd put a bullet through Kurt Riegel’s chest.

The big German grabbed the wound and then fell to his side. The Steyr bounced away on the hardwood floor.

The Tech screamed in fear.

The Gray Man fired a burst at Lloyd as he disappeared through the doorway to the hall.

Court fought a dizzy spell, an inevitable consequence of his dropping blood pressure. He wobbled on his knees, and his eyes glazed over. His brain seemed to reboot, and when his head cleared, he realized he’d lowered the MP5 to his side. Quickly he raised it at the man with the ponytail and the headphones who stood by the desk with the computers. The man had not moved a muscle apart from the quivering in his shaking hands over his head. Gentry realized he could have been knocked down with a feather there for a few seconds. He was glad the man in the ponytail was too terrified to try it.

“Who are you?” Court asked.

“Just . . . just a technician, sir. I run the comms and whatnot. I have no quarrel with you.”

“At least you didn’t try to tell me you’re the butler.”

“Sir?”

Court crossed the room to the man. On the way, he kept his weapon trained on the open door to the corridor, and he kicked the Steyr pistol farther away from Riegel’s body as he passed. On the Tech’s desk Court found the classified SAD files. “Is this everything?”

“As far as I know, sir.”

“No backups? No copies?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Court scooped them up and tossed them into the fireplace. He ordered the Tech to set them alight.

Once the files began to burn, the Gray Man turned the technician around and pushed him back down to his seat, facing the equipment in front of him. “You’re the one who communicates with the men hunting me?”

“Oh, no, sir! Not me! I just maintain the elect—”

“Then I guess I don’t need your ass, do I?”

The Tech began nodding quickly. Changed his tune in a single note. “Yes, sir! I am in charge of all communication and coordination between the pavement artists and the government operatives.”

“Good. Call them all. Tell them I just jumped out the window, and I’m escaping through the orchard in the back.”

“Right, away, sir.” The Tech’s hands shook mightily as he flipped switches on his radio console to bring up every radio channel at the same time. “All elements, this is the Tech. Subject has exfiltrated the chateau. He’s moving to the north, through the orchard on foot.”

“Well done. Now, take off your belt.”

The Tech did as he was told quickly and offered it to the Gray Man.

“Bite down on it hard.”

“Sir?”

“Do it!”

Wide-eyed, the Tech put his belt in his mouth.

“You biting down?” asked Gentry.

The Tech nodded.

“Good.” Court smashed his rifle’s butt into the man’s temple. The Tech started to fall from his chair, but Gentry caught his unconscious head and laid it facedown on the table in front of him. Gentry then fired a full magazine into the computers and radios on the desk.

Court reeled from another dizzy spell, but recovered and reloaded the rifle. He checked on the burning documents in the fireplace. Satisfied that this part of the operation had been successfully completed, he exited into the third-floor corridor, his small rifle out in front of him.

Claire Fitzroy was the first to hear the footfalls outside the door. There’d been some close shooting, right outside even, a few minutes earlier, but since then it had been quiet. But now someone else was coming. She squeezed Grandpa Donald’s shoulder tightly from fear. Her little eyes blinked hard from the stress, but they stayed focused on the bottom of the door to the hallway.

She heard the clang of metal on wood, more shuffling, and then the rattling of the latch. The door opened slowly, and Claire felt her grandpa’s thick arm squeeze tighter around the gun in his hand, now pointed at two sets of feet entering the room.

The left boot of the man in the back was wet and red.

“It’s Ewan, Sir Donald. Don’t fire.”

Claire started to crawl out with Grandpa Donald, but he pushed her back. He’d no sooner stood up when she heard talking.

Grandpa said, “Bloody good to see you, my boy!”

“Where are the girls?”

Claire recognized Mr. Jim’s voice, and now nothing could have stopped her from crawling out from under the bed. When she stood, she ran to him, crashed into his leg and waist, and hugged him tighter than she’d ever hugged anything in her life. It was a few seconds before she backed away and looked up at him. He wore a black vest on his chest and guns and bags on a belt and hanging off his legs. In his hand was a rifle, and his face and bald head were white as parchment paper and his brown pants were covered in blood.

His eyes were red and watery.

Sweat dripped from his face like rainwater.

Grandpa Donald noticed the stains on Jim’s clothes, too.

“Is that your blood, lad?”

“No, it’s not. But I was borrowing it.”

“Bloody hell, man. You need a doctor.”

“I’m good.” Gentry motioned to the Scottish guard standing next to him. “This guy says he’s with you.”

“Ewan has been quite helpful.”

“You trust him enough for me to hand him a weapon?”

There was a slight pause. “I do.” And then, “Just watch yourself, McSpadden.”

“Aye, sir.”

Court unslung the MP5 from his neck and handed it to McSpadden. Gentry pulled his Glock from his hip rig, kept it in his hand at his side. “Where’s Lloyd? I think I hit him, but he got away from me. I figured he’d be down here taking hostages.”