“Do it. We’re all going to disembark, but I’m going on alone.”
“What are you doing?” One of the targeting officers was listening in on the transmission from the rear of the cabin.
“I can’t risk having a dozen men enter that building without knowing what the hell is going on. Especially with the Townsend gunmen hitting it at the same time. I’ll go in alone, stay low profile and assess the situation. I’ll call in the team once I have Ettinger.”
After another minute of prodding, Court still had gotten nowhere with Ozgur, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “If you direct me to someone who can get me what I need, I’ll happily pay you a finder’s fee.”
Ozgur said, “You don’t listen, man. I’m out of that. I went to prison, got out, and just want to live a normal life. Not have to deal with crazy bastards like you showing up at my door, scaring my kid and my wife. I want no part in you anymore. Just leave—”
The Turk stopped talking and looked up. The thumping of the helicopter outside the building increased.
Court could tell it was hovering just above the roof. “Is that normal?” he asked.
Ozgur looked back at the man in the dark hallway. “You see? You just bring trouble! I don’t want no trouble!”
Court grabbed Ozgur by the collar of his T-shirt and shoved him up against the wall. “I need a fucking gun!”
“I don’t have no gun! None! Zero! Let go of me and get out of here, you crazy American fuck!”
Gentry slammed the Turk once more against the wall in frustration, turned, and sprinted toward the stairwell.
The Sikorsky landed next to light eleven P.M. bridge traffic, and the twelve-man team climbed off, along with Yanis Alvey. The Metsada operators wore their handguns only, as their rifles would not go unnoticed in the thick urban neighborhood. As the helo turned and skimmed the water of the lake, departing to the north, Alvey instructed the younger men to disperse themselves quietly throughout the St. George neighborhood around the target building, and to keep comms open between themselves. Alvey had his mobile phone and would contact the Metsada assault team leaders if he had a target for them.
Gentry made it down two flights of stairs before he heard a noise far below him at the ground floor. Men had entered the stairwell; he thought he heard at least two, but he could not be certain, because above him now he heard more men, coming into the stairwell from the seventh floor.
Court left the stairs on the third floor, opening the door to find the space totally involved with construction. It was dark, a warren of half-formed rooms and open ceilings exposing metal girders and insulation. Building material and equipment were positioned all around.
The door behind him shut with a loud click.
Court stopped and looked around. There were good places to hide, but Court knew time was against him. He had to get out of the building before his opposition had a chance to seal off the exits and begin a comprehensive search.
He moved forward, into the dark, wishing like hell he had a fucking gun.
Yanis Alvey headed south through St. George. For the first minute or two he received a few open stares from passersby and shopkeepers who’d seen him climb out of a huge helicopter, a novel enough occurrence around here, but soon he was blocks away and he’d melted into the foot traffic in the seedy district. Drug dealers openly offered to sell him their wares, prostitutes bundled against the cold stood in stoops and called out to him as he passed, and Middle Eastern thugs eyed him as a potential mugging victim as he made his way confidently and unafraid, causing them to look elsewhere for easy prey.
His thoughts were focused on Ruth Ettinger. He had no idea if she was here or not, but he was operating under that assumption. Clearly Townsend suspected Gentry was here, and Yanis worried that Ruth would not extricate herself safely from an altercation between a crew of gunmen and the most infamous freelance assassin on the planet. He was not sure he would be able to rectify the situation with merely his presence, but coming alone had been an easy decision for him.
He was certain he did not want to add one more ingredient to the dangerous concoction by calling in a dozen more gunmen just yet.
Jumpers Seven and Eight had been set as a blocking force on the ground floor of the building, and originally they had planned to stay in the lobby, but the noise of the door clicking shut came from the stairwell near the lobby, and this sent them in search of their target. After peering into the first— and second-floor hallways and finding them to be quiet, they entered the third floor of the apartment building and found it to be an unlit construction area.
“Jumper Seven to Jumper Actual.”
“Go.”
“We’re going to clear the third floor. It’s open construction. No locked doors. We’ll keep the stairwell under observation.”
“Roger that. Seventh floor is clear and the helo is watching street level. I’ll send two more your way via the southeast stairwell.”
Seven turned back to Eight and whispered, “I don’t think he had time to get too deep back there. Cover me from here, but keep a lookout on the stairs in case he’s not here.”
Eight nodded, and Seven shined his light on the end of his pistol and began searching the area.
He saw a complicated framework of metal beams, plumbing pipes, and heating ducts. The entire floor was a large skeleton, free of wallboard and full of dark recesses. He sniffed the air for a hint of another human’s presence, but his nostrils only filled with the scent of plaster and dust. He moved slowly in a firing stance, listening closely for noise, but heard nothing but the sound of his own heart.
Eight called over the interteam radio. “I can’t see you. Come on back and wait for the rest of the team.”
Seven did not reply; he just moved deeper into the darkness. He stepped quickly around a pallet of building materials, shining his light on the empty space behind. Where the fuck is he? He jacked his pistol away from the floor and back up the hallway. He took one more step forward and concentrated his attention on the far reaches of his light, an unfinished flat at the end of the hall.
With neither sound nor warning a black form swept in front of his face. Close, not two feet from the tip of his nose. His pupils all but spun to change focus from lighted distance to darkened closeness, but before he could identify what had fallen from the ceiling he felt an impact on his hands. He lost his grip on the pistol as something slammed against his wrists. The dark figure had swept through the air from above, swinging from his left to his right. The pistol flew across the room and out of sight, the tactical light going dark as his forefinger came off the pressure switch.
The dark movement whipped back in front of his eyes again, this time from right to left. He heard a whoosh and felt another impact, just a soft tugging below his chin. He lurched back, away from the moving shadow, and reached up to put his hand to his throat.
Jumper Seven felt the spray of his own blood before his fingertips were within a foot of his neck. The figure appeared again, and he saw it was a man, hanging upside down by the knees from a crossbeam. He righted himself nimbly and silently, and he dropped to the ground.
Seven wanted to call out to Eight behind him, but he could not make a sound. He took one more step back, away from the target, but slipped in his blood and fell on his back. Then the target disappeared in the dark. Seven looked to the ceiling and tried to understand what was happening to him; soon he realized he had not taken a breath in several seconds, tried to, and choked on a mouthful of blood.