On Target

have a quick drink, you’ll see that I’m not here to put you in shackles, and I’ll take a look at you, just to make sure those cracks I was worried about haven’t gotten any bigger.”

Court smiled a little. He was not happy, but it was a moment of contentment.

“Please?” she pressed.

“Ten minutes. I need to make a call first.”

“Great. You probably won’t recognize me with a shower and clean clothes.”

Court smiled again. “I look pretty much the same, I’m afraid.”

She giggled. “See you in ten,” and she hung up. Court knew how to read voices. Ellen was happy, excited.

One drink wouldn’t hurt a thing.

He put more money in the phone and dialed a number written on a small scrap of paper taken from his pocket. When the line was answered, he put the scrap in his mouth and swallowed.

“Hey, Don. It’s done.”

Sir Donald Fitzroy said, “Did he believe the story about the woman being an intelligence agent?”

“He did.”

“That was a brilliant idea, lad. Put the fear of the FSB in him, did it?”

“No. He didn’t bat an eyelash. Nothing to hide, I guess.”

A pause. “I see. Then you used some other means to secure his help.”

“I did.”

Fitzroy’s voice was strong, more serious than usual. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I don’t feel happy. I told him I’d go after his kids.”

Another long pause. Gentry felt like the man on the other end of the line was judging him. But then, “You helped prevent a shooting war, Court.”

Gentry said nothing.

“No one wants to see the sausage made, but everyone loves the sausage. It is a dirty business, threatening one’s family. I should know. But it is damn effective. And it needed to be done.”

“Yeah,” Court said, again unconvincingly.

He leaned his forehead on the glass of the phone booth and watched the water some more, flowing faster by the minute as the rain picked up.

He just wanted to hang up the phone and go see Ellen. He was already thinking about two drinks now. Maybe they could even get in a cab, get away from the hotel, find a small place for dinner, some quiet local cantina without work for her or worry for him. He’d like that. He needed that.

“I need a vacation,” he said into the phone but mostly to himself.

“You need more than a vacation, lad. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. All over the world, they are after you.”

“Who?” Court lifted his head from the glass.

“Everyone. The Russian government, the American government, Sid Sidorenko’s Nazis. It’s not like before; this is full-time. The CIA is putting out feelers all over the earth. They’ll work with anyone, pay any price to find you. Please take my advice. Wherever you are right now, whatever you are doing . . . run. Get up and go and go and keep going. Don’t tell me where, for God’s sake. They will get to me to get to you. Don’t tell a soul. They are close, and they will find you if you do not run straightaway.”

“What about the ICC?”

“The ICC? I haven’t seen anything about the ICC hunting you. I would bloody well know it, too. International organizations are an intelligence sieve. No, that particular organization may be the only group not pursuing you at the moment.”

Court looked up at the lights of the Gran Melia up the street through the rain on the Plexiglas. He said, “I understand.”

Fitzroy continued talking, fast and nervous. He sounded as if he were the prey instead of Gentry. “And forget every stash you have; don’t access your bank accounts; ignore all the cash you’ve made that’s not in your pocket right now. They are putting their foot down on the Swiss, desperate for information on your finances. The Swiss will balk for a time, because that is what they do, but the Swiss will fold up soon enough, because that is also what they do. Do what you must for money, but stay off the grid. Run, keep going. Absolute paranoia is your only chance for survival.”

“Yeah.” The Gray Man’s head moved on a swivel now, up and down the street. The drugs in his brain seemed to evaporate with the infusion of adrenaline.

“Six months, nine months, whenever you have to, you don’t call me, but you contact someone who knows me, find some way to get in touch, and I’ll get back with you. If you want work, I will give you work. If you just need money, I’ll find a way to get something to you to help out.”

“Thanks, Don.”

“I’ve done nothing, Court. My debt to you is not paid by this. Run now, go, and don’t look back.”

“I’m serious, I really appreciate—”

“Run, boy! Hang up the phone and go!”

“I’m gone,” Court said, and he hung up the phone. He stepped out of the booth and looked up to the bright lights of the hotel for a moment, but only a moment, then he looked away.

Towards the darkness.

He melted into the foot traffic and disappeared in the evening crowd flow, like warm rainwater down the drain.

TURN THE PAGE FOR A STUNNING PREVIEW OF

BALLISTIC

THE NEW GRAY MAN NOVEL COMING FROM JOVE BOOKS IN 2011

PROLOGUE

The man hunter knelt at the front of the canoe, scanned the far bank as it emerged around the river’s bend. Thick green rain forest morphed slowly into a rustic brown village, a settlement of hard-packed dirt and wood and corrugated rust built along the water’s edge.

“This is it?” he called back to the Indian steering with the outboard motor. Only by necessity had his Portuguese improved in the past months.

“Sim, senhor. This is it.”

The man hunter nodded, reached for the radio tucked between his knees.

But he stayed himself. He needed to be certain.

Seven months. Seven months since the call came for him in Amsterdam. A rushed consultation with his employer, a flight across the Atlantic to Caracas, then a mad dash to Lima, and then south.

Ever south. Until he and his prey came to the end of the world, and then the chase wound back to the north.

Ever north.

He’d been on the target’s heels, to one degree or another, for all this time. The longest hunt of his storied career.

And it would end here. One way or another, the hunt for Courtland Gentry would end here.

ONE

Outside of Quito the man hunter had come close. He’d even called in the wet boys, but they’d gone wanting for a target. Foolish of him; a false start could dull their fervor the next time. He would not cry wolf again. He’d caught fresh wind of the target in northern Chile, and a hint of him farther down the Pacific coast, but then he’d lost