After a loud explosion on the roof two stories above, Grandpa Donald called out to the guard, “McSpadden! McSpadden!”
Claire saw the boots of the Scottish guard move into the room. She heard the conversation above her, though she didn’t understand all of the words.
“Lad, best you do your runner now, but be a good chap and leave us a gun.”
“Fuck you, Fitzroy. It’s too late to run. I’ll need my guns to fight off your attack dog. Over the radio they say he’s already in the house.”
“McSpadden, if you see my attack dog, the last bloody thing that will save you will be a gun in your hand. You might take off your white underpants and swing them in surrender if you haven’t managed to soil them yet. Come now, lad. You understand what you’re up against. You can only save yourself by helping us.”
Claire saw the man shuffle his boots like he was going to run away, but instead he moved back to her grandpa. A hand reached down, lifted one of his trouser legs, and yanked a shiny silver gun from it.
Claire put her hand over Kate’s mouth to squelch a scream.
“I’ll leave you my backup. Just a little six-shooter.”
“It’s a fine one, laddie. Now, off you go, back out the door to guard us in case Riegel or that psycho Lloyd come to check. You see the Gray Man, tell him you’re with me.”
“Right, that’ll work just fine as long as he wants to chat me up first. I’m fucked, Fitzroy.”
The guard’s feet turned away and left the room. A few seconds later, Grandpa Donald slid off the bed and crawled under with them, the shiny gun clenched in his meaty hand.
“It’s all right, ladies. Won’t be long now. Jimmy boy is on the way.”
Riegel, Lloyd, and the Tech remained in the third-floor control room. Lloyd stood near the open door out to the hallway, his pistol dangling in his right hand, his dusky blue shirt collar open, and the knot of his tie hanging below it.
Kurt and the Tech were at the computers, near the shattered window and midway between the room’s two exits. They used radios to communicate with the remaining Belarusians throughout the building and the two French engineers on the first floor. One of the Scots was missing, but the other Scot and an Irishman were still on station.
Gunfire erupted suddenly on the roof. The big German presumed these would be the Saudis from the Eurocopter engaging the sniper team through the turret windows. He called the Scottish security officer and ordered him up to the third floor to cover the hall outside the room’s main exit.
Just then, one of the Belarusians announced that the Sri Lankans were here, coming up the front drive. A call went out to the sniper team on the roof, but there was no reply.
And no one knew where the Gray Man had gone.
Riegel knew his only mission now was his own survival. He did not need the Gray Man dead; that mission had expired. That said, if Gentry came through either the door to the hall on his right, or the doorway to the circular staircase to his left, if anyone came in from anywhere, he would put three rounds from his big Steyr into their face before he bothered to identify them.
He just had to hold out until the rescue ship arrived from the home office.
Court wanted to crouch low as he moved through the house, but the pain in his abdomen prevented it. If push came to shove, which surely it would, he could drop, roll, crawl, whatever he had to do. But he was afraid that if he had to squat low or dive to the floor, he might not be able to get back up. So he walked fully upright, nearly dragging his numb left leg behind him.
Into the huge kitchen now, he heard gunfire above him, on the third floor or the roof perhaps. On the first floor, near the foyer, it sounded to the Gray Man’s practiced ear like a one-versus-many battle had just ended, and now a new threat had arrived, maybe four-on-four. He recognized the distinctive reports of AK-47s and twelve-gauge shotguns, and shouts in what sounded like Russian on one side of the fight.
Court crossed the kitchen. He’d almost made it to a door towards the rear of the château, away from the shooting, when a black man in a brown suit appeared in the doorway in front of him.
Court trained his MP5 on the wide-eyed man. “Who are you?”
“Only the butler, sir. I have no part in this.”
Gentry grabbed the man by the throat and turned him up against the wall. With the hot muzzle of his weapon pressed against the thin man’s neck, the American frisked his prisoner quickly and found not a single weapon. Court tossed the man’s cell phone into a pot of water sitting on the stove next to him. He found no identification.
“What’s your name?”
“Felix.”
“Let me guess. Felix the Nigerian butler?”
“No, sir. I am from Cameroon.”
“Sure you are, buddy.”
Court pushed the man towards the door out of the back of the kitchen. The black man kept his hands in the air as he walked, Gentry several feet behind him. They crossed an ornate dining room with a fireplace with gilded trim and rounded the huge, oaken table. Tapestries and portraits lined the walls. Stepping into a small hallway with a door immediately on their left, Gentry whispered again to the man in front of him, “What’s in there?”
A hesitation. “It’s… it’s a bedroom.”
“Not sure? A butler who doesn’t know the rooms of the house?”
“I told you… a bedroom. I am new here, sir. I am scared.”
“Open it. Let’s see if you’re right.” Court drew his Glock and held it down the hallway behind him with his left hand, while he held the MP5 at Felix’s head with his right.
The suited man opened the door and turned back to the Gray Man. Court looked in over his shoulder. There were stacked sheets and blankets in shelves from floor to ceiling. It was not a bedroom; it was a large linen closet.
“If you are a butler, you suck.”
Felix said nothing. The gunfire at the front of the house continued without pause.
Court holstered the Glock on his hip and took his last fragmentation grenade off his vest. He pulled the pin and put it in his pocket, held the spoon down, and placed it in Felix’s sweaty hand. When the American assassin was certain his prisoner had a good hold, he said, “Don’t drop that. And don’t think you can use it against me. There is a six-second fuse. Plenty of time for me to shoot you dead and duck into a room to get clear of the blast.”
Felix’s voice cracked. “What am I to do with—”
“Just keep walking ahead of me. I’ll take it back from you and let you leave once I get to my objective. Don’t worry, you’ll be back home in Cameroon in no time.”
The corridor turned to the left and ended at a large set of double doors. Court shoved the confused man forward. Twice the man tried to speak, and both times Gentry hushed the strong African accent. “Open those doors,” Court demanded, still behind at the turn in the passageway.
“But I—”
Gentry pointed his submachine gun at his prisoner’s head.
Slowly, Felix turned back around, opened the door on the right, the grenade hidden behind his back in his left hand.
Almost immediately cracks of handgun fire echoed out of the room ahead, and oak splinters snapped off the heavy doors. Felix spun where he stood, fell facedown in the doorway.
Court spun out of the line of fire, dropped onto his kneepads with a grunt, and counted to six.
Serge and Alain moved towards the door to the library in a combat stance, their Berettas in front of them in outstretched hands.