Fitzroy’s organized support structure was called the Network, and the Network was Gentry’s only lifeline in the field. It was made up of legitimate doctors who would patch up a wounded man, no questions asked, legitimate cargo pilots who would take a stowaway on board without looking over the gear on his back, legitimate printers who could alter documents. The list went on and on, grew over time. Gentry used the Network as little as possible, much less than the other men in Fitzroy’s stable. The Gray Man was, after all, a high-speed, low-drag operator. But everyone who works in Gentry’s arduous profession needs a little help from time to time, and Court was no different.
Gentry had worked for Fitzroy for four years, beginning within a few months of the night the CIA indicated that they no longer required the services of their most experienced and successful man hunter. Court thought back to the night. The indication of their dissatisfaction was followed immediately by a bomb in his car, a hit squad in his apartment, and an international arrest warrant processed from the Justice Department, distributed through Interpol to every law enforcement agency on the planet.
At that time, Gentry was desperate for work to fund his life in hiding from the U.S. government, so he contacted Sir Donald Fitzroy. The Englishman ran a seemingly aboveboard security business, but Gentry had had dealings with the black side of Cheltenham Security Services when performing hits and renditions with the CIA’s Special Activities Division, so it was a natural place for the recently unemployed gunman to seek work.
Since then, he had become something of a star in the world of private operators. Although virtually no one knew his real name, or the fact that he worked for Fitzroy, the Gray Man had become a legend amongst covert operators across the Western world.
As with any legend, many of the details were enhanced, enriched, or wholly fabricated. One of the details of the myth of the Gray Man that was true, however, was his personal ethic to only accept contracts against targets that he felt had earned the punishment of extrajudicial execution. This was entirely novel in the world of killers for hire, and though it enhanced his reputation, it also caused him to be extremely choosy about his operations.
Gentry took the toughest of the tough ops, went into bandit country alone, faced legions of enemies, and built a reputation and a bank account that was un rivaled in his admittedly low-profile industry. In four years he had satisfactorily performed twelve operations against terrorists and terrorist paymasters, white slavery profiteers, drug and illegal weapons runners, and Russian Mafia kingpins. Rumor had it he’d already made more money than he could ever need, so the inference was that he did what he did for the purpose of righting wrongs, protecting the weak, making the world a better place through the muzzle of his gun.
The myth was a fantasy, not reality, but unlike most fantasies, the man at the center of this one did exist. His motivations were complex, not the comic-book stimuli that had been ascribed to him, but at his core he did consider himself one of the good guys.
No, he didn’t need the money, nor did he have a death wish. Court Gentry was the Gray Man simply because he believed there existed bad men in this world who truly needed to die.
Lloyd and his two Northern Irish henchmen put Fitzroy into a LaurentGroup limousine and motored through the city in a driving rain. There was no conversation. Fitzroy sat quietly, holding his hat in his hands between his knees, looking out the window into the rainy night like a beaten man. Lloyd worked his mobile phone, making and taking call after call, constantly checking in with Riegel, who was contacting men all over the globe to set their rushed plan into motion.
The limo arrived at LaurentGroup’s UK subsidiary just after one in the morning. The French corporation’s local office was housed in a three-building campus in Fulham. Lloyd, his men, and their cargo rolled through the front gates, past two rings of guards and guns, and down a road towards a single-story structure alongside a helipad.
“This will be home for a while, Sir Donald. I apologize if it’s not up to the standards of that to which you are accustomed, but at least you won’t go wanting for company. My men and I will not leave your side until we get everything settled and we can take you back to Bayswater Road and put you right back where we found you with a pat on your bald head.”
Fitzroy said nothing. He followed the entourage through the rain into the building and down a long hallway. He passed two more men in suits standing in a little kitchen, and he immediately identified them as plainclothes security officers. For a moment Fitzroy had a flicker of hope, and it showed on his face.
Lloyd read his thoughts. “Sorry, Sir Donald. These are not your boys. A couple of heavies from our Edinburgh office. These Scotsmen hold allegiance to me, not you.”
Fitzroy continued down the hall. He mumbled, “I know a thousand chaps like that. Those blokes hold no allegiance. They’re in it for the money, and they will turn on you if the price is right.”
Lloyd waved a card key over a reader alongside the last door in the hall. “Well, then, lucky for me I pay so well.”
It was a large conference room, with an oak table and high-backed chairs, the walls lined with flat screen monitors, computers, and a big LCD display showing a map of western Europe.
Lloyd said, “Why don’t you take the head of the table? Considering your knighthood, I apologize we couldn’t arrange something round for you. I’m afraid oval was the best we could manage.” The American chuckled at his own joke.
The two Scottish security men took places near the door, and the Northern Irishmen found corners in which to stand. A thin black man in a chestnut brown suit entered and sat at the table with a bottle of water in front of him.
“Mr. Felix works for President Abubaker,” Lloyd explained. It was far short of an introduction. “He’s here to verify we kill the Gray Man.”
Mr. Felix nodded to Fitzroy from across the table.
Lloyd conferred with a young man with a ponytail and a nose ring whose thickly rimmed glasses reflected the light from the computers on the desk in front of him. He looked up to Lloyd and whispered.
Lloyd turned to Sir Donald. “Everything is on schedule. This man will be in charge of all communication between the watchers, the hunters, and myself. We will call him the Tech.”
The young man stood and proffered a hand politely, as if he had no idea he was being introduced to a kidnapping victim.
Fitzroy turned away.
Just then the Tech took a call in his headset. He spoke softly to Lloyd in a British accent.
Lloyd replied, “Perfect. Get assets there immediately. Pin down his location.”
Lloyd smiled at Fitzroy. “It was time I had a little luck. Gentry was spotted in Tbilisi, boarding a plane to Prague. The flight has already landed, so we can’t tail him from the airport, but we have men checking the hotels. Hopefully, we’ll have a hit team there waiting for him when he gets up in the morning.”
An hour later Lloyd sat at the table opposite Fitzroy. The lights were dimmed, and the Tech placed a backlight behind the American. A camera on the ceiling spun under motor power to face him. A monitor displayed a silhouette of Lloyd so obscured that the young attorney had to lift his arm in the air in a wave to be sure he was looking at himself in real time.