The Hard Line (Gray Man #15)

Chapter One

One

October

Faint electronica music pulsed in the air, but the music was shit, much like his mood. His body stood rigid, not moving with the rhythm, his head not bobbing in time with the distant thumps of the backbeat, his face giving off no hint that he derived any pleasure from the repetitious melody.

He did not want to be here. He wanted to be home. More than life itself, he wanted to be home. But he was trying to be a man of principle, a man of honor; he was trying to be a man.

He had made his bed, and he would damn well lie in it.

He wanted a drink. But he’d made a promise to stay sober, and he was determined to keep it.

Three months. Pay bills. Get gone.

That was all that mattered.

The EDM music throbbed in his brain, unrelenting, like the ever-present disquiet in his soul.

He stood at the open top-floor window of the Cabacum Beach Residence, ignoring the cold air blowing in as he gazed down to the swimming pool below that flashed its underwater disco lights, not jarringly out of step with the unceasing music.

The crisp autumn evening had brought out hundreds of late-night revelers driving up and down Boyan Bachvarov, the twisty four-lane road beyond the pool: crowds heading to the various bars, restaurants, and nightclubs here in the Chayka district of Varna, Bulgaria.

And Charlie just stood there, a man apart from his surroundings.

Charlie Coyle was not yet twenty-five years old, and handsome, neatly dressed in a blue sharkskin suit only a little wrinkled and just slightly askew on his fit frame, evidence of a long day.

He wore a five-o’clock shadow on his chin and upper lip, his skin was fair, and his strawberry-blond hair was curly and only partially tamed with chemicals.

He’d cracked the window here in the suite so that the cold would invigorate him, but as he stood there, continuing his solitary vigil, he found the lively mood at ground level depressing.

A party raged all around the hotel and condo complex, and all this revelry stood in contrast to Charlie’s dark disposition and his brooding demeanor.

He glanced at his watch, an old Hamilton with a canvas strap, a reminder of his military service days gone by.

It was 12:17 a.m. now; a hurried room service attendant had brought him a club sandwich with soggy fries and two bottles of Coke around ten p.m., but otherwise he’d been alone up here since he’d arrived at eight.

The music from below was suddenly drowned out by a voice in his right ear. With a strong Bulgarian accent, the man spoke in English. “Coyle, it is Videv. Boss makes meeting with man in bar, then we come up to safe room.”

Charlie furrowed his brow. He knew of no meetings scheduled for tonight. But then again, he didn’t really have much of a clue what was going on. He didn’t speak Bulgarian, after all, so he might have missed something.

This job is bollocks, he thought for maybe the fiftieth time in the past thirty-six hours.

He reached with his left hand to his beltline inside his coat, his fingers dragging over the spare pistol magazine in a carrier on his belt, kept there should he ever need to reload the Walther PDP pistol he wore on his right hip.

His hand continued on until it found the small radio next to the magazine, and he pressed a button on the top of the device, opening the line to the microphone in his earpiece.

“Copy,” he said, his Northern Irish accent toned down so he could be understood by the non-native English speaker, and then he turned away from the window and moved over to a laptop on a table inside the plush suite, taking off his jacket as he did so.

He draped the coat over the chair and sat down, blowing out a long, defeated sigh.

Charlie pressed a couple of buttons on the laptop and then waited while a connection was made. His face hung impassive, a hint of pain around the eyes, but then he shook the expression away, brushed his hair back, sat up straighter, and hurriedly adjusted his tie.

Soon a window on the monitor opened, the screen changed, and so, too, did his visage.

He flashed a wide grin now, his pale green eyes sparkling as a towheaded baby looked back at him from the computer, drool glistening his lower lip, a onesie with a row of little camels stitched on it, well-splattered with baby food.

Hands under the baby’s underarms steadied him in front of the camera.

And with that, Charlie Coyle’s immediate predicament was forgotten. In spirit, at least, he was home.

With a bright and powerful voice, along with his now thick natural accent, he said, “There’s my big man! Bein’ a good lad for your ma, are ya?”

The baby did not respond—he was six months old, after all—but Charlie detected a slight narrowing of his green eyes and the hint of a wet smile, and this was all the proof he needed that his son recognized him.

And all was right with the world.

A beautiful redheaded woman in her early twenties appeared from the right, scooting into view in front of the camera as she put the child on her knee.

Her hair was down, her curls flowing, and Charlie knew Deirdre well enough to know she’d shaken her long locks out of the bondage of a hair tie the second his FaceTime call came through, and she’d done it just for him.

He smiled even wider.

If anything, Deirdre’s voice was even more accented than Charlie’s. “How ya keepin’, love?”

“Hullo, a stór.” It was a Gaelic term of endearment that translated to my treasure. He added, “It’s late. Surprised to see our boy awake.”

“Long nap this afternoon. Put him down at eight, but we’re just up for a wee feedin’.”

“Applesauce, by the looks of his onesie.”

“Pears. Managed to get some into his belly, but he spits it out when he’s ’ad enough. Just about to put him back down, but I’m glad he was up to see his da.

“Got your tie on, I see. Workin’, still, are ya?”

Charlie’s smile remained locked in place. It was real. And it was fake. “Aye,” he said. “Just ’ad a few minutes free, thought I’d check in.”

“Well, we’re glad ya did. How’s the new job?”

Charlie’s bright smile wavered now.

The woman picked up on his unease. “That bad?”

“It’s fine.” When she did not immediately respond, he said, “It’s early days, still.”

But Deirdre wasn’t having it. “What’s going on?”

He gave a shrug and said, “Whatcha think? I got sold a bleedin’ bill of goods by Marcus.”

The woman shifted the baby on her knee. “The job’s not what he said? Again?”

A defeated sigh. “It’s bloody gangster shite, love. Same as Macedonia.”

The young woman lowered the baby completely out of frame now. “Dammit.”

“Aye.”

“Drugs, girls, guns? What’s Marcus gotten you into this time?”

A pause. Then, “Dunno, to be honest.”

“Ferfucksakes, Charlie, I don’t believe ya.”

“I’ve been here a day and a half, haven’t I? I seen fuck-all so far. The back of a car, a hotel, a couple of nightclubs, a restaurant. And everyone’s speakin’ Bulgarian other than the one that tells me what to do, so I don’t know what the rest are on about half the time.”

“Then how do ya know—”

“I know, Deirdre. These blokes have the same hard eyes that those blokes I worked for in Macedonia had. Down there it was drugs. Might be the same here, but nobody’s tellin’ the new lad, are they?”

“Who are ye guarding?”

He waved a hand in the air. “Some wanker. Sasho Minchev. Young fella, for a capo, I mean. Looks like a nepo baby crook. He didn’t make his own bleedin’ money, that’s fer certain.”

Just then, Videv’s voice came through Charlie’s earpiece again. “Coyle?”

Charlie held a finger up to his wife, then tapped the radio on his hip, opening his microphone for a transmission. “Go for Coyle.”

The Bulgarian said, “Minchev is talking to an American. Be ready to come down if it is trouble.”

Trouble? “What kind of trouble?”

“Boss give me signal. We may have problem. Stand by.”

“Aye, sir.”

Once he was off the radio, he looked back to his young family on the screen.

Deirdre said, “What’s ’appenin’?”

Coyle hadn’t a clue, but still, he brushed away any of his wife’s concerns. “The principal is meeting with some American, and maybe there’s a disagreement. I’m on standby.” He shrugged. “Minchev is a hot one; he doesn’t like anybody, so nothing new in that.”

She looked worried, so he said, “It’s fine, love. Regardless of what the boss is into, my part in this is easy. I’m the junior here. They got me securin’ the safe room, is all.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means I’m sittin’ in a suite we took for the night, and I’m talking to you and Ronan.” He smiled a little. “The four other blokes are down with the boss in the bar. I’m sure they can manage.”

The baby made a few sounds, but Deirdre did not speak.

Charlie noted her silence. “What’s wrong?”

She said, “Sounds like you’re around a lot of alcohol. You’re not on the lash, are ya?”

“I’m dry as a bone, love. We’re not going back to that. Those days are behind the both of us.”

The young woman didn’t seem certain, but she let it go. Said, “Ya think anyone’s going to come after your protectee like they did in Macedonia?”

Charlie shrugged. “I’m ready, come what may. One thing I can be sure of is this: anyone who comes at Minchev is bound to be a right big bastard, same as he. I won’t think twice about dropping somebody who poses a threat. Down here, it’s crook against crook. No good guys to worry about.”

“You’re a good guy, and I worry about you. Look.” She hesitated, then said, “Why don’t ye just come home? We’ll figure something else out for money. This sounds like a bad situation to put yerself—”

“No, love. A man’s word’s got to stand for something. I took this job, I promised to protect my principal. That’s what I’m goin’ to do.”

After a pause, she said, “All right. I understand. But…after this…after this, I want you to find honest work.”

In his left ear Charlie heard the men on his team transmitting to one another. It was all in Bulgarian again, so he didn’t suppose it had anything to do with him.

He turned his attention back to his wife. “I’m down here just ninety days, we’ll make what we need to make, pay some bills, and I’ll move on to something better.” He smiled a little. “And no more takin’ work from Marcus bloody Maragos.”

“You know,” she said now, “there’s always another option. Isn’t there?”

Charlie cocked his head a little, then made a face of displeasure. “No. No, there’s isn’t.”

Deirdre said, “You could ask your da.”

“I’ll be makin’ my own way, love. Don’t need my father’s money.”

“But—”

Quickly, he said, “Lemme see my son again.”

She held Ronan back up. The baby’s eyes were softening; he looked like he was about to nod off, but his father wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

He feared Deirdre was going to bring up money again, bring up his issues from the past, his relationship with his father, his dirty job down here in the Balkans, all subjects Charlie Coyle was not in the mood to talk about at present, but before she began to speak, he held a finger up, because another call came through his earpiece.

Bulgarian again, but the words sounded rushed, stressed.

A man answered back quickly. Another barked into his microphone.

Deirdre saw the surprised look on Charlie’s face. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer her; instead, he pressed the mic button on his radio. “Coyle for Videv?”

On the laptop, his wife said, “Charlie?”

More transmissions in a foreign tongue came through the earpiece, then Charlie again. “Coyle for Videv. What’s happening?”

Now the team leader returned the transmission. His words came out quick and clipped. “Coyle. Come down. Escort boss back to safe room.”

“Copy that. En route.”

Videv added, “Meet us in the back alley, door off kitchen.”

The back alley?

Charlie acknowledged the order without question, then ended his transmission. Looking into the camera, he said, “Darlin’, I have to go collect the protectee, bring him back here.”

“Why don’t they just bring him to—”

From the balcony behind him came the unmistakable sound of a gunshot cracking in the night; the crowd by the swimming pool below his balcony screamed, and Charlie Coyle launched to his feet.

Deirdre lowered the baby quickly. “Was that a bleedin’ gun?”

“Love you both,” he said, and he slammed his laptop shut, grabbed his suit coat, then rushed to the door of the condo. Into his earpiece he shouted, “What’s happenin’, Videv?”