Chapter Thirty-Three #2
Riegel shook his head. “So instead of fighting one wounded man now, you want to piss off Marc Laurent and a half dozen nations’ security services, fight our corporation and six countries later? I know you are insane, Lloyd; that’s been established. But are you suicidal, too?”
The Tech was looking back at his two bosses, waiting for instruction. Then he cocked his head to the side, put his hand to his headset. “Wait! All the teams are coming here anyway!”
“Good,” Lloyd said, glad the matter was settled.
“Why?” asked Riegel.
“Felix contacted them. He’s offering twenty million dollars cash from Abubaker to the team that kills Gray Man.”
“Perfect!” shouted Lloyd. “How soon till they—”
“Not perfect!” said the Tech. “He’s told them to kill anyone who gets in their way. Including the other teams! Including us. They are going to fight each other for Gentry’s head right here at the chateau!”
Kurt Riegel did not hesitate. “Pull all the Minsk guards inside the building! Alert Serge and Alain, and the three UK guards. We must defend these walls against all threats! The Gray Man or the kill squads.”
The Tech looked up at Riegel. “The Libyans will be here in moments! The Saudis are overhead now!”
Riegel looked out the window a final time.
“Call LaurentGroup Paris. Have an evacuation chopper scrambled to get us out of here! Then raise the kill teams, tell them we can still work together. Tell them Court is outside. Tell them we won’t let anyone in the castle.
They need to kill him before he gets in. ”
The Tech spun in his chair and placed the call to the home office.
—
Gentry had no intention of calling Riegel back. Every second he delayed his attack on the chateau was another second the defenders could ready themselves, search the grounds for him, bring in more reinforcements. And it was more time they could use to kill the girls.
No, he had to move now. The grounds were awash in the morning’s light as he lay in the apple orchard at the back of the property.
Through the gray mist he could just make out a faint outline of a large, looming structure on a rise ahead of him.
He’d covered a quarter mile since he’d dropped over the wall, and he was still easily two hundred yards from Chateau Laurent.
The open ground in front of him was his biggest concern.
Once he broke free from the coverage of the tree line and the thick fog hanging in the air, he would be completely exposed.
Also, there was a helicopter flying circles high in the air.
He could not see it, but its beating rotors announced its presence above the property.
This would be hard enough even without his multitude of injuries, but regardless of his poor personal circumstance, he knew there was no more time to waste.
Court rose to his kneepads, then slowly up to a crouch.
He felt blood on his left leg and knew it was again draining freely from the knife wound.
The heavy dose of speed he’d introduced to his bloodstream would increase his blood loss significantly.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He unslung the M4 and hefted it in his arms.
He stood.
Then ran forward with every ounce of strength he possessed.
—
As soon as the Tech alerted the security cordon around the chateau that the Gray Man was outside, Serge rushed from the kitchen into the library and flipped the monitors back on.
He knew the infrared cameras would pick up anyone hidden in the vapor.
Intently he stared at one display and then the next.
Back and forth he scanned. Soon his eyes locked on an image.
His hand lunged for the radio on his desk.
He broadcast to all elements in the chateau.
“Movement in zee back! Movement in zee back! One man, and he’s coming fast!”
Lloyd came over the radio. “Where? Where the fuck is he?”
“Coming through zee orchard. Mon Dieu, he can run!”
“Where in the orchard?” screamed Lloyd over the radio.
“He’s running right up zee middle!”
The spotter in the tower broke in over the same channel. His thick Belarusian-accented voice was calm, the antithesis of Lloyd’s shriek. “I do not have a target. We do not see any . . . Wait. Yes. One man, coming fast! We’ll take him!”
—
Maurice had left Gentry an impressive array of equipment, but Maurice was decidedly old school, and the gear Court was forced to use was not ideal to his needs.
The Colt rifle in his hands wore iron sights; there was no scope or holographic sight like the high-tech wizardry Gentry preferred on his weapons.
As he broke through the mist, the chateau forming clearer in front of him with each labored footfall of his sprint, he made out the turret of the tower above.
He knew this would be a sniper’s hide, and he knew this man would have the best skill and the best scope and the best rifle and the best chance to put a stop to Court’s ridiculous one-man assault.
So the Gray Man raised his rifle to his shoulder, still at a dead run.
Targeted fire with the iron sights while running was impossible; his goal was to simply pour as much lead as he could at the tower to keep his enemies’ heads down until he could make it to the building’s wall.
Court knew there was no one in the house with as much close quarters battle training or experience as he.
He just had to survive long enough to make it to close quarters to have any sort of chance of success.
—
The sniper saw the target shoot out of the fog in front of him.
Wisps of vapor swirled in a vortex behind him as he ran.
The thirty-year-old Belarusian adjusted his aim and placed his crosshairs on the sprinting man’s chest. He brought his finger to the trigger for a quick center-mass shot.
He noticed body armor under the tactical vest and lowered the buttstock of the big Dragunov a millimeter to move the crosshairs up to the sprinting man’s forehead.
As his fingertip began to press on the tight trigger, he sensed more than saw his target’s primary weapon rise in front of him.
Flashes from the muzzle of the weapon and the cracks of rifle fire.
The sniper heard pops and explosions in the stone and wood of the turret and smoky dust filled the air around him as high-speed metal jacketed rounds collided with hundreds-year-old masonry.
His spotter cried out to his left, but the sniper was disciplined.
He did not remove his cheek from the rifle; he did not remove his eye from his scope.
Confidently he pulled the trigger at the man storming towards him.