“Got it.”
Hightower said, “No kit but what you’ll pick up in Trieste at a dead drop cache left by local Agency assets. They’ll leave you a suppressed pistol and the image of the Israeli asset you’ve got to recover. Remember, this is simple if you make it simple. Your job is to go save some asshole who can’t know who you work for. If anyone gets in your way, you are cleared hot to schwack them. We want you back in seventy-two hours, max.”
Court nodded with earnest. “Roger that, One. I’ll make it happen.”
40
Jordan Mayes stood in his superior’s office briefing the stone-faced director of National Clandestine Service on the early-morning convenience store shooting in the center of Washington, D.C. The killer had clearly been Gentry; no one had any doubts. From the description of events it seemed to Denny like Gentry had just happened to stumble upon an armed robbery and then do the only thing he knew how to do, which was shoot dead all the threats.
Carmichael didn’t need to see the video. He knew his ex-operator’s capabilities. A man of Gentry’s caliber against untrained bandits was as sure as a knife cutting through butter.
When Mayes finished with the play-by-play of the Easy Market shoot-out, Carmichael asked, “What do we know about his escape?”
Mayes said, “Analysts monitoring traffic cams tracked a Ford Escort away from the scene. Lost it when it passed a neighborhood where the cams were down for repairs, but they found the vehicle this morning in a lot at Howard University.”
“Did the cameras pick up anyone on foot leaving the area where they found the car?”
“Negative.”
“Dammit.” Once Denny realized the events of the previous evening would not lead to Gentry’s imminent capture, he switched to the fallout. “How is the media reporting it?”
“Local PD has done a good job locking it down. You can expect them to squelch any ‘good Samaritan with a gun’ narrative since it happened in D.C. All guns are equally bad to them and, by extension, all shooters are equally bad. As long as the video doesn’t get out this will probably get reported as gang v gang violence.”
“Good,” Denny said.
“There is one problem. The reporter from the Post published a story about it.”
“Catherine King?”
“Not King. Andrew Shoal.”
Carmichael said, “Is he looking to connect this to the others?”
“He put an article online forty-five minutes ago. He ties this shooting to the Brandywine Street shooting, but he leaves out Babbitt. I think we might have dodged a bullet with that.”
“Not at all. Catherine King is cooking something up. She’s probably scrambling all over, interviewing former intel officials, trying to get some kind of a guess about who is here in town that has us so interested.”
Mayes said, “We can play it two ways. We can try to shut her down by saying all is well, or we can—”
Carmichael interrupted, “Or we can pitch her a story that has enough elements of truth to where Gentry knows she is getting intel about the hunt. If we do that I think there is a fair chance Gentry might try to make contact with her. We use her as bait, put a team on her, and then we terminate Gentry when he makes his play.”
Before they could go any further, Carmichael’s secretary came over the intercom, her voice agitated. “Sir, Director Hanley is here and he—”
Carmichael’s door flew open and the large frame of Matt Hanley entered the office like a running back charging to the end zone. He stepped past Mayes without a glance and stared Carmichael down as he approached.
Carmichael yawned. He looked down at the papers in front of him, not at the intrusion. “Unless you are here to offer up Ground Branch assets for the Violator operation, I really don’t have time for you today, Matt.”
Hanley dropped down in the chair in front of Carmichael’s desk. “You will never, ever guess who showed up at the foot of my bed last night.”
Carmichael took off his reading glasses and looked up.
From behind Hanley, Mayes said, “Bullshit! Not possible! You were monitored by multiple teams.”
“Gentry got past them. Even told me where they were and what kind of scopes they had on their rifles.”
Carmichael tossed the papers in his hand across the desk. Another opportunity lost. “What did he want?”
“Same as with Travers. He’s searching for answers. Court Gentry is a sad, lost guy, just looking for someone to tell him what he did wrong. CIA was his family, and he wants to know why his family doesn’t love him anymore.” Hanley added, “And he’s got the skills to kill a hundred people to exact revenge, if it comes to it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you want him dead for fucking up BACK BLAST.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I fucking know, isn’t it, Denny?”
“Did you tell him about Ohlhauser?”
Hanley didn’t hesitate. “Not a word.”
“Bullshit.”
Hanley said nothing.
Carmichael growled. “You’re lying. Goddammit, Matt! Whose side are you on?”
“When a trained killer is in my bedroom with a gun to my nuts, I am firmly on the side of my nuts.”
Carmichael stared him down. Slowly he turned to Mayes. “We have anyone watching Ohlhauser?”
“He’s a private citizen now.”
“I don’t give a damn. Put contracted security on him. Keep them back, but close enough to report contact if Violator turns up.” Carmichael looked back to Hanley. “Gentry is lying. He knows what he did.”
Hanley shook his head. A fierce look in his eyes. “Clearly he doesn’t. He just wants this to end.”
Carmichael sniffed. “He can end this by shooting himself in the fucking mouth.”
Hanley stood back up from the chair. “From our discussion last night I take it he would not be receptive to your terms of surrender.”
“Whatever, we’ll get him, sooner or later. He’s killed half a dozen people so far here in the U.S.”
Hanley looked Denny over a long moment. Then said, “And he’s just getting started.”
The director of the Special Activities Division turned his back on the director of National Clandestine Service and headed out of the office, pushing by Jordan Mayes as he did so.
The sun pouring through the little window into Court’s basement room created a narrow shaft of bright light that shone on his black wound. Court looked at it for a moment, poked and prodded it with his finger, and finally decided that, although it looked nasty, it didn’t look any nastier than it had the day before.
It was shortly after ten a.m. Court had only been up for a few minutes but already he drank instant coffee while he worked on his dressings. Over his right shoulder as he sat on the bed the TV broadcast CNN’s mid-morning news hour. Court was using it mostly for audio; he’d only glanced around once or twice to watch the latest action in Syria between the Islamic State and the Syrian government. Court wasn’t much interested in politics or international diplomacy, and he was no fan of war in most instances, but this was a war he could get behind, because he fervently wanted both sides in the conflict — despotic regime and nihilistic Jihadi alike — to kill the other.
The news went to commercial. He was only halfway listening when the CNN anchor came back on air.
“Welcome back. From the ongoing violence in Syria we are going to shift to a shocking display of violence at home. Two nights ago, the brazen murder of a Washington, D.C., businessman tied to the intelligence community has many wondering if an assassin is on the loose in the nation’s capital.