Then he reached into his waistband for his folding knife. He retrieved it and flicked it open, the maneuver executed in an impossible blur of speed and proficiency.
He spun around, took a single step back the way he came, leapt into the air to cover as much ground as quickly as possible, and plunged the three-inch blade hilt-deep into the throat of the first man following him.
The man was thick and hard and tall and broad. His meaty right hand grasped a stainless steel automatic pistol. Gentry grabbed the wrist of the gun hand and held the muzzle down and away, lest the dying man’s spasms cause the weapon to fire.
Court took no time to look into the square-jawed man’s eyes; had he done so, he would have seen shock and confusion long before the onset of panic or pain. Instead, the Gray Man pushed the man backwards to the tunnel’s corner, slammed him into the second would-be assassin, and caught this man as he was rounding the turn and pulling his gun. Court held the knife’s grip with his right hand. It was still stuck in the first man’s throat, and he used it to push the first into the second, used his other hand now to fight for the handgun in the first’s dying grip. The gun would not come free. Court could now see the third man behind the second’s falling form, and the third’s gun was rising to fire.
Gentry ducked his head into the chest of the man with the knife sunk into his throat, pushed forward over the goon falling back to the floor, and advanced quickly towards the last in line.
An ear-splitting gunshot rocked the tiled tunnel, the cacophonous explosion amplified by the low ceiling and narrow corridor. Gentry felt the bullet slam into the back of the bloody man in his arms. A second round barked and punched into Court’s dance partner. Still the American pushed the man backwards, finally shoving him as hard as possible. As the operator’s bloody body was flung at the third man, Gentry pulled his knife out of the throat and made a final reach for the pistol in the beefy right hand. He managed to hold on to the knife, but the corpse slammed into the third operator with his dead hand still firmly clutching the gun.
Now Gentry stood between two living assassins, both armed, each less than ten feet from him. Behind Court was the armed man on the ground. Surely by now he was rolling around to get a shot off. And in front of Court was the standing man, now shoving his blood-spewing partner out of his way to resight his weapon on his target. Court flicked his knife so that he was holding the blade and quickly threw it overhand at the standing gunman. The blade struck perfectly, buried itself in the man’s left eye socket. Blood erupted, and the operator dropped his gun to bring both hands to the knife. He fell to his knees.
Gentry did not look to the threat behind him. Instead, he dove forward, both arms outstretched, desperate to get his hands on a firearm. Just before he hit the ground, another gunshot cracked through the passage. He did not feel an impact, assumed the operator behind had aimed at his back but missed due to his leap to the ground.
Court slammed into the cold tile floor, slid forward, and lifted the third gunman’s pistol. The man with the knife in his eye was on his knees now, dying but not yet dead, screaming bloody murder. Gentry rolled onto his back next to him and turned to fire back at the last enemy still in the fight. This man had a half chance to shoot but hesitated; Court was alongside his partner.
The Gray Man, however, did not hesitate. From his prone position he poured round after round between his splayed legs into the armed man and watched him spin and die.
When Court was certain the only man alive was the hit man next to him with the knife in his eye, he placed the barrel of the gun to the wounded man’s temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The American stood over the bodies of three men sprawled in the bright, white corridor. Blood splatters stained the wall, and pools grew from the corpses at his feet. His ears rang, and his thigh wound stung and throbbed.
They had compromised themselves back at the coffee shop. He’d pegged them as operators in just over one second as they came through the door and he noticed the unmistakable flicker of recognition in the first man’s face as he met Gentry’s glance.
After identifying the threat these three men posed, Court had watched them in the reflection of the handbill of the poetry reading, in the reflection of the cafe’s windows, out on the street in the windshields of the few passing vehicles. In the stairway down to the metro, he sensed them closing. They closed further in the tunnel, and by the last turn before the trains, he knew the time had come to act.
Court had been faster, better-trained, colder-hearted, but as he stood over the three bodies, he knew good and goddamn well there was only one reason they were now slaughtered meat and his racing pulse continued to pump blood through him.
Dumb fucking luck.
These assassins just decided to stop in for coffee before taking position outside of his hotel, and Court just happened to be at the cafe when they got there.
Everything else just fell into place after that.
Court was lucky.
He knew it was good to be lucky. But he also knew his luck could turn in an instant. Luck was fleeting, arbitrary, fickle.
Court scavenged the bodies quickly and without a shred of remorse. He knew the morning’s first commuters would be rounding the corner either towards or away from the trains in moments. Less than thirty seconds after the last gunshot, the Gray Man had collected a Czech-made CZ pistol and a small wad of euros and crowns.
One minute after that, he was back at street level and wearing a canvas jacket taken from one of the men. The blood on his dark brown pants was concealed by the morning’s shower. Through the mist he walked, purposefully but without haste, towards a bus stop near the Charles Bridge. A slight limp in his gait, but nothing else differentiated him from the ever-increasing throngs of people on the street, each beginning their workday commute.
Fitzroy had been offered a small room with a cot to rest, but he refused on principle. Instead, he dozed fitfully in the conference room in a high-backed executive chair. Around his slumped form, the Tech moved from terminal to terminal, and Lloyd made call after call on his mobile. The security men stood both inside and outside the door throughout the night.
Sir Donald awoke at six thirty and was just sipping black coffee when the Tech called across the room to Lloyd. “Sir. The Albanians are not checking in.”
Lloyd had been sitting in a chair across from Fitzroy, drinking coffee and staring at a map of Prague. He looked up at his man, shrugged his shoulders, and pursed his lips. “Hard to do when you’re dead.”
The Tech remained hopeful. “We have no way of knowing—”
Lloyd wasn’t listening. He spoke mostly to himself. “One down. Eleven to go. That didn’t take long.”
Fitzroy smiled behind his coffee cup, and Lloyd noticed this. He rose to his feet, circled the mahogany table, and kneeled in front of Sir Donald. In a soft voice he said, “You and I may seem like adversaries, but we have the same goal here. If you are secretly celebrating the Gray Man’s victory, remember that as he gets closer to his target, the stakes will rise. The quicker he is put in the dirt, the better it is for you, your son, your daughter-in-law, and your precious little granddaughters.”
Sir Donald’s smile faded.
Over an hour later, Fitzroy’s satellite phone chirped. Lloyd and his men immediately went into silent mode. Sir Donald pushed the speakerphone button just after the third ring.
“Court? I have been trying to reach you. How are you?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Another kill squad just tried to zap me.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I joke?”
“Admittedly not. Who were they?”
“I’m pretty fucking sure they were not Nigerians. Three white dudes. Looked Central European. Didn’t have
