In the past five years Court had been a man without a country, and, for some reason he did not really understand, he seemed to keep seeking out new things to hate.
What am I doing? he asked himself. That was no long-term plan. He wasn’t making a difference, it had ceased to provide sufficient motivation, and Court just did not want to fucking do it anymore.
He made a decision then and there. He would lie low here in Tallinn for a couple of days, then push off, find a quiet place where he could do something productive other than kill, do something other than spin his wheels until the inevitable happened.
Court forced himself to focus on the snow blowing against the window, trying to put greater thoughts out of his mind and fall back asleep.
Whitlock sat at the desk in his little room, thinking about the man directly above him.
On the desk in front of him was a Glock 19 pistol and two extra fifteen-round magazines. Russ was not a Glock man himself, but he had reason to carry one tonight. Next to his pistol lay his smart phone and his backpack. And next to these, an open half-liter and half-consumed bottle of A. Le Coq beer dripped a ring of sweat on the desk.
He checked the time and saw that it was four A.M. He reached into a pocket of his bag, then pulled out a small white medicine bottle. From this he fished out two pills. They were Adderall, a psychostimulant, an amphetamine. He downed the pills with a long swig of the A. Le Coq.
The Bluetooth headset in his ear chirped. He touched a finger to it.
“Go.”
It was Trestle Actual, and he initiated the identity check. When this was complete he asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m in room 201. The target is still upstairs, directly above. He used the toilet at oh two hundred, then went back to bed. He hasn’t moved since.”
“Understood.”
“You sure I can’t help?”
“I’m not telling you again. You do not leave that room.”
Whitlock sighed. “Fine. I’m packed and ready to exfil as soon as you give me the all clear.”
“Good. I’ll be with the breach team. We hit in five mikes. I’ll notify you when it is over and safe for you to leave.”
“Roger that. Good luck.” Russ disconnected the call.
As soon as the conversation ended, Russ Whitlock began moving. He unzipped his backpack, and from it he pulled a tiny pinhole camera with a wireless radio attached to it. The entire device was no larger than a matchbook, and it had an adhesive puttylike backing. He stuck it on the wall by the desk to test its hold, then pulled it off again. He picked up his smart phone and opened an app on it. In seconds the screen on his phone was displaying the image from the pinhole camera. He then pocketed both devices.
Russ stood up from the desk, slipped his gun into a holster inside the waistband on the right side of his jeans, the two extra magazines into a mag carrier inside the waistband on the left, and then he put on his black coat. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, chugged the rest of the beer, then dropped the empty bottle into a pocket on the outside of the pack. Finally, he put his hand on the door latch and paused.
Russ would not be following Trestle’s instructions. He would not sit quietly in his room. His upcoming course of action had been decided by Russ himself, and he was not following the orders of his company. He had concocted his plan, labored over every detail, refined and revised it as time went on.
And then he put the plan on hold, waiting for the day Townsend Government Services would lead him to the most infamous assassin on the planet.
The Gray Man.
Russ was out for the biggest game on earth, the hardest target.
With a long breath and a determined mind-set helped on by the Adderall, he opened the door and exited his room, leaving not a trace behind.
Gentry had not fallen back to sleep; he lay fully clothed and faceup, still listening to the whipping snow on the window. But his head jolted from his pillow when the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside caught his attention. The footsteps weren’t tentative, but they slowed a little as they approached his door, and Court found their cadence unnatural and suspicious. His right hand shot out and wrapped around the cool plastic grip of his Glock 19 as he sat up.
The footfalls stopped. Court aimed his gun at the door, ready to open fire.
There was a knock, and Court started moving, low across the hardwood, moving close to the walls to minimize the creaking of the floorboards. As he passed the single window in the tiny room, he glanced out across the park. The snow was heavy and he couldn’t see past it to the ground.
Another knock. This time it was louder, faster.
Shit. Another phrase oft uttered by his trainer Maurice popped into his head. “Nothing good ever happens at three A.M.”
It was four now, but the concept was no less valid.
In German Court called out, “Wer ist da?” Who is there?
Russ Whitlock stood in front of the door to room 301, his hands empty and high over his head to show he posed no threat. He did not speak German, and he did not know Court Gentry’s voice. He faced the door in the dimly lit hall, wondering suddenly if he had made a mistake. He thought quickly back to all the intel on Court he’d studied over the past months. Language skilclass="underline" Russian good, Spanish very good, French good, German fair.
Yep. Court spoke German.
Russ replied in English, “Court. I am a friend. And I am alone. I need to talk to you. It is extremely important.”
There was a pause. “Wer ist da?” the man on the other side of the door repeated.
Russ leaned close to the door, still keeping his hands up in case the door opened. “There is no time to fuck around, Violator. I’m on your side. You have to trust me.”
After a moment he heard the lock retracting, and he saw the latch turn. The door creaked open and Russ kept his hands raised, displaying his empty palms.
The chain caught the door when it opened three inches. It was dark inside. Russ peered in, could see faint light coming from the window, and he could tell that whoever had opened the door had stepped to the side.
“Who are you?” It was English now. The voice came from behind the wall on Whitlock’s right, not from behind the door.
Whitlock looked back over his shoulder quickly, then said, “Right now, I’m the guy holding your life in his hands.”
From the darkness came the response. “And right now, I’m the guy pointing a gun at your dick.”
Whitlock cocked his head, then looked down. He saw it now, the square tip of a Glock pistol, low in the dark, held by a hand that disappeared around the side of the doorjamb. He looked into the room farther, searching for a mirror or some other reflective surface that Gentry could be using to target him while keeping himself out of the line of fire. He saw nothing, but he knew the lights of the hallway had him well silhouetted.
He said, “My name is Russ. It looks like you and me better make friends.”
“Or you could just back the fuck up and leave.”
Russ said, “You’re going to find this hard to believe, but I’m not your biggest problem.”
A figure stepped into the middle of the room from behind the wall. In his hand the gun was raised now, level with Russ’s chest. “I’m listening.”