Chapter Forty
Forty
Court Gentry lay on the sofa in the salon of his boat in Marina Bay, a sweating bottle of Mexican beer all but untouched on the little side table next to him.
He listened to a soft rain outside, glancing occasionally at the monitor with all the security camera images displayed across the room by the table with the radio set, as he fingered the trigger guard of the pump shotgun propped up on the sofa next to him.
It was nearly midnight now. He’d lain here for hours; he imagined he’d eventually get the energy to climb up and head into the cabin, climb into his box with his shotgun, and catch some sleep, but for now he just tried to relax.
He’d talked to Zoya tonight over Signal, told her everything that had happened, not because he’d wanted to but simply because he knew she’d pick up on the fact that he was lying if he tried to keep info away from her to prevent her from worrying.
As soon as he told her what happened in Georgetown, she’d wanted to return to the field, to come help; she’d even reached out to Hanley directly, but he’d told her her services were not required and would not be accepted.
Physically, Court knew, she had a long way to go until she was one hundred percent, and mentally…
well, who could say how she was doing mentally?
The woman was tough as nails, but she’d been through so much.
Court had been happy talking with her, though.
He’d seen her just days earlier, but he didn’t see her enough, and already the longing was getting to him.
For much of his life he’d wondered what it was that made people settle down in one place, but he did not wonder about that anymore.
Now he wondered why there were people out there like Whetstone, people who struggled to find a home.
Court had a home now.
This boat wasn’t it, but this boat was good enough for tonight.
There had been two killings today related to the intelligence community.
A Department of Energy officer in the Office of Intelligence and Counterintelligence was murdered at a conference in Chicago.
Shot nine times in front of his hotel by a man in a latex mask.
No one had thought to give the Department of Energy officer security protection, his agency was so little known.
But Russia’s energy-related raw materials were its lifeblood, and Russia spied on the American energy sector, as did the Chinese.
The man killed today had set counterintelligence protocols at nuclear, oil, and gas facilities, and from what Hanley had told Court, he was something of a legend in his field, so it made sense that whatever bad actor was doing all this would want to take him out.
At roughly the same time, a DEA operative who ran several international investigations in Latin America was killed at his home in Landover, Maryland.
The cause of death had been a crude but effective car bomb, and it was a slap in the face of the U.S.
government that they still weren’t protecting their own.
First, the layoff or forced resignation of thousands of intelligence officials as a cost-cutting measure, to be replaced by a private company run by a billionaire friend of the president.
Then, a spate of murders of intelligence officials, on U.S. soil, perpetrated by assassins from abroad.
Court was glad he was in the private sector.
He’d also spoken with Sir Donald Fitzroy tonight.
His former handler told Court he’d spent the past day trying to track down Sir Allen Glazebrook, but the man had suddenly fled the Cotswolds, and even his butler Jeffrey didn’t know where he’d gone.
Jeffrey, worried about his employer, did admit to Fitzroy that two men from Northern Ireland had come into the home several nights earlier, and only one left alive.
It seemed to Court like Coyle had cajoled Glazebrook into making connections here in America with whoever was behind the assassinations, only so that Coyle could find out more information about Court.
Fitzroy promised to keep feelers out for Glazebrook, but the man seemed so scared he could be anywhere in the world right now, simply hiding out from Whetstone lest he return unsatisfied with the services Glazebrook provided him.
Court sat up slowly now, was about to head to his hidden sleeping quarters, and then the FibreNet secure communications app vibrated on his phone. He looked down, did not recognize the number, but answered it anyway, waiting until the tenth ring to do so.
“Yeah?”
It was the Northern Irishman again. His voice was gravelly but a little jovial. “Someone’s been a busy boy, eh?”
Court wasn’t in the mood. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“Of course ye do, chief. I’ve been watchin’ the news. Startin’ to recognize your handiwork.”
Court took a few breaths. “I imagine you’ve been busy yourself. I’m guessing the car bombs were yours. You IRA guys love a good car bomb, don’t you?”
“No, mate, I took the day off. Sharpening my blade. Yours is the next neck I’ll be sinking it into.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?”
“Because neither of us was raised to be the trusting type. Don’t worry, though, you’ll believe me soon enough.”
“Not soon enough,” Court said. “I’m in the mood to deal with you right now. You and your friends are killing a lot of innocents.”
“Right. Better I get back out there, go kill someone important, perhaps you’ll show up like you and your mates did in Georgetown today.”
“Why do you think I was there?”
“Snare, the Jordanian, was quite good, I hear. Not a contemporary of mine, really. I never knew of him, but I am hearing he’d done some good work back in Europe.”
Court said, “I’ve looked into you.”
“Woulda been surprised if you hadn’t.”
“I know your name is Campbell Coyle. I know you’re forty-seven, son of a terrorist named Roderick Coyle.
I know you were in the Legion, then you assassinated for the British, and then you turned into a killer for hire.
I know you went dark for a long time, only came back into the light to kill a guy in London along with two of his bodyguards. ”
Coyle said, “Very good, but you left out one thing. I was father to a lad named Charlie. And that’s the only thing that ought to matter to you, because that wee fact is why you’re dying at the end of all this.”
“I’ve thought back to that night. I killed a couple of men, injured several more. I don’t know which was your son.”
“One of the injured. I did some digging myself. He was pulled off the living room floor of a suite.”
“Right,” Court said. He of course remembered the man who shot him in his bulletproof vest.
“He died in the hospital a week later,” Coyle said.
“You going after the doctors next?”
“No. Yours will be my last killing. I’ve got this big, long to-do list from those that employed me here in America, but I’ll chuck it and go home once I’ve dealt with you.”
Court said, “You know you’re working for the Russians, or maybe the Chinese. You feel okay about that?”
“I’m working for meself.”
“You’re working for Gauntlet, a private military company with ties to China.”
“Maybe I am, I have no idea. But I couldn’t care less who they’re tied to. They are bringing me to you. That’s all I wanted out of them.”
“And what did they want in return?”
“They know you’re one of the ones tryin’ to stop them, so they want you done, as well. I came here to kill you for free. I’d have paid all my money to do it. Now there’s those that actually want to pay me to do it. Ain’t life grand?”
Court thought this over a moment. Finally, he said, “I went to Bulgaria to ask that mob boss for some help. I had no ill intent. Then he ordered his men to beat the brakes off me, maybe even kill me, and he took a photo of me that he was going to send to some people, and that could just not happen.”
“So?”
“So if the situation had been reversed, you’d have gone through his security team to get to him, just like I did.”
“Again…so?”
“So…you have to acknowledge I was just doing what I thought was right. You have to acknowledge your boy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What difference does that make?”
“You could just let this all go.”
“Unfortunately, chief, I just can’t do that.”
“Why can’t you? You sound like a man who’s been around long enough to know that vengeance never produces the satisfaction that one—”
“This is not about vengeance. I’ve no need for that. Charlie lived in a world where this was the only outcome.”
Court looked down at his phone a moment, then brought it back to his ear. “Then why the fuck are you—”
“Because Charlie himself had a child.”
“Charlie had a…What does that have to do with anything?”
“Family is everything. Would you not agree?”
After a moment, Court spoke softly. “I wouldn’t know.”
Campbell surprised Court with a little laugh.
“To be fair, neither would I.” But then he added, “But ’ere’s the problem, chief.
Twenty years from now, Charlie’s boy, my grandson, might not see it the same as me.
Family might be everything to him. So much so that maybe he’ll take it on himself to avenge his father. Just like I did.”
“You’re saying some kid is going to come after me?”
“Might do. Except he won’t be a kid.”
Court understood now. “You’re telling me that if you kill me, you might be saving your grandson’s life in the future?”
“Could be just that, yeah.”
Court dropped his head into his hand. Still holding the phone to his ear, he said, “Fuck, dude. This isn’t the twelfth century.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Coyle said. “We humans have not progressed; you and I are God’s living proof of that.”
Court now said, “The problem is, you have to know that if you come after me now, there’s a chance I could kill you. What’s your grandson going to think about that?”
“Doubt he’ll ever know that I was alive.”
“But isn’t there someone who cared about your son who would care that they lost you, as well?”
The pause was brief. “As a matter of fact, no, chief. No man, woman, or animal would care if I died.”
Court sighed. Shit. “Well then, maybe we should just go ahead and get this over with.”
“Pragmatism. That, I can respect. Problem is, I don’t believe you.
You give me an address, and you’ll hold all the cards there.
We’re going to have to meet out there on the field of battle, won’t we?
You’re goin’ through those Gauntlet lads like butter.
But I have my own team. When I see you out there, I’m going to—”
Court cut him off. “When you see me, Coyle, it’ll be too late.”
Both men breathed into the phone.
Finally, it was Court who spoke. “I think you are calling because you don’t have anyone else who can understand you, except the man you want to kill.”
“I don’t want to kill you.”
“You could have fooled me.”
It was quiet a moment, and then Coyle said, “What I do, what you do…it’s not about what we want. It’s about what we are.”
“You can decide to do whatever you want, Coyle.”
“Just like you did? Just like you decided to put a knife in my boy? To kill those men in Georgetown?”
Court did not respond.
Coyle said, “Ya know, mate…I’ve a brother in Belfast who has a wee shop, sells school uniforms. An uncle there, he’s dead now, but from cancer, not a bullet.
Lived to be sixty, worked his life for the phone company, never missed Sunday church.
I’ve an aunt who became a financial advisor.
Took in stray kittens. Not a dangerous bone in her body.
Not an ounce of her that wanted anything more for her life than peace and love.
“Got a cousin, we’re the same age, he grew up on the same streets as me. He’s a fecking’ florist in Derry. A florist.”
Court sighed. “What on earth does this have to—”
“You have siblings?” Coyle asked.
Taken aback, Court responded honestly. “I had a brother.”
“Yeah? Bet he turned out, didn’t he?”
Court shrugged. “He was a cop. He died.”
“What kind of cop was he?”
“He was a good cop, as far as I know.”
“Ya see? Some family…the bloodlines, they’re not all bad.
Some are soft. Most are soft. Good. You and me.
We’re from the hard lines. The thorny leaves in the family tree is what we are.
We can’t help it. We can’t change it. We can wish it weren’t so, but you, me, Charlie, my da. His da. We’re part of the hard line.”
Court took this all in, then said, “But why would your grandson be one of us? Maybe he’ll be a florist. A cop, a doctor.”
“Dunno that he would be like us. Dunno that he wouldn’t. All I can do for him, all I can ever do in his whole life, is right now, stoppin’ any chance he goes after the bloke that took his da from him.
“I’ve a bloody righteous mission, mate. And the man with the most righteous mission, nine times out of ten, is the man who’s gonna win.”
“Win? You’re not going to win, Coyle. Whatever happens to me, you’re working for some people who aren’t just going to let you walk away when you’re done.”
“I’m thinking you’re right, mate. But I’ve made peace with that. I help my grandson stay off the hard line, and then everything that comes after will be what it will be.”
“Well then,” Court said. “I’ll see you out there. In the meantime…go fuck yourself.”
He hung up the phone, feeling angry and depressed and tired.
He climbed to his feet and headed into his cabin to get some sleep.