Someone ripped his shoes off, and this pissed Court off greatly. He wasn’t particularly mad at the man who did it; rather, he was angry at himself. He should have assumed they would take off his shoes, and he would have enjoyed his nap a little more comfortably if he’d been sleeping barefoot all along.
A bag was pushed over his head — there was always a bag with these things, and Court wondered if this bag had been washed since they’d bagged their last victim.
He told himself not to think about it.
He was yanked into a standing position, swiveled around towards the door, and guided forward with multiple pairs of strong hands holding his arms on his left and right. Still no one had spoken, and this continued to impress Court.
He was dealing with well-trained individuals. They were still goons, to be sure, but they’d clearly graduated with honors from a top-flight goon school.
They guided him down the stairs; he assumed he was moving past the massage parlor, but none of the men in line there spoke, nor did he hear anything from behind the counter in the lobby as he was pushed along at the bottom of the stairs.
Court hadn’t seen uniforms on these men before they’d hooded him; he guessed either this crew was brandishing weapons or badges, or else they just carried themselves in that special way only secret police in a semi — police state carried themselves. While Hong Kong was supposed to be a separate entity of China still, the civilians in view of this spectacle would have no trouble guessing who was orchestrating this operation.
Either an organized crime group of some sort, or a government entity of some sort.
And either way, the civilians would do well to keep their mouths shut and their eyes averted.
Court was tossed flat in the back of a vehicle, which made the wound in his side ache. Three doors shut, almost all at once. Assuming the driver had already been at the wheel, this meant there were at least four in the vehicle with him now, although there could have been more than that.
Two pairs of feet settled on top of him: one on the back of his thighs, and another on the back of his head.
Court was utterly helpless. The men over him could stick a syringe in his butt or a knife in his spine or, at any moment, he might feel the cold steel of a silencer pressed against the back of his neck. They could take him out to a field and bury him alive, or they could torture him with battery acid to find out what he knew about their operation.
And there wasn’t a damn thing Court could do about it.
Being the Gray Man didn’t mean being in control at all times. Sometimes it meant relinquishing all control, playing the game, and dealing with fucking bullshit like some asshole standing on the back of your head.
Court told himself not to worry; he’d figure out his situation soon enough, and then he would adapt and overcome. In the meantime, he closed his eyes and did his best to enjoy the ride.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
He failed.
The drive lasted over an hour and through it all Court was hot as hell on the floorboard, especially with his face hooded, and much of the drive took place in stop-and-go traffic, bringing the American with the two men resting their feet on him to the brink of nausea many times.
But at least they were heading in the right direction. A half hour into the drive Court could feel the vehicle begin to ascend as it took winding and steep roads, which told Court they were on Hong Kong Island, south of Court’s hotel in Kowloon, and it also meant they were heading exactly where he wanted to go.
They were going to the Peak.
The air cooled as they ascended, but much less so under the hood, which was soaked with perspiration and stifling. Court felt a wave of nausea coming on, and he had a panicky vision of choking to death in his own vomit, but before he could either calm the fear or succumb to it, the vehicle lurched to a complete stop on a steep incline. Court was pulled out and onto his feet and led forward again. He had another brief moment’s panic as the disembodied image of himself being walked off a cliff flashed in front of his eyes, but the image was dispelled when he heard a door open. His soaking-wet hood was slapped by icy air-conditioning as he was led forward, and then he was helped slowly down a spiral staircase.
He felt like he was being led through multiple doorways, and then he was pulled to a stop and pushed down into a comfortable leather chair. Here he sat quietly for a few seconds, listening to the sounds of men moving around him.
The bag came off his head abruptly, and he blinked because of the sweat, but not the light, because quickly he saw this room wasn’t especially bright. He was in a small parlor, with a pair of chairs facing a sofa, and a wooden table between them. Court sat in one of the chairs, his back to the entrance of the room, and in front of him on the sofa sat another man, a steaming mug of tea on the side table next to his chair.
Court rubbed the sweat out of his eyes, focused on the man, and then faked surprise, because he wasn’t surprised; he was pleased. He found himself exactly where he’d hoped to be, sitting in front of exactly who he’d hoped to be sitting in front of.
Sir Donald Fitzroy was in his early seventies, but at the moment he seemed older than that. He was drawn, tired-looking. Though he wore a suit and tie, his wispy gray hair was slightly askew, as if he’d been lying down.
Sir Donald looked at Court as if he were seeing a ghost. When the older man recovered enough to speak, his voice was even more gravelly than Court remembered it, though admittedly, it had been a couple of years since they had spoken. “Good lord, lad. I didn’t know who they’d plopped in front of me, but I certainly did not expect you.”
Court looked around a little more now. There was no one else in the room, and the door behind him was shut.
“Quite a taxi service you’re running.”
Fitzroy shook his head, waved a hand in the air. “You know the way the world turns, so I’m sure you sussed out the fact that those aren’t my men that brought you here.”
Court knew Fitzroy was a prisoner in this home, just as Court himself was. He knew much more about what was going on than he was letting on, but for operational reasons, he needed to play dumb.
“You look a little tired, Fitz, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Fitzroy shrugged; Court could tell the old man was still sizing up Court, trying to figure out himself just what was going on. He joked, “You know… it’s Hong Kong. Twenty-four-seven nightlife and nonstop revelry for me.”
Court made no reply.
“How long have you been in town?”
“Got here yesterday on a freighter from Singapore.”
“Why?” The question was a challenge. Fitzroy seemed suspicious of Court turning up like this.
Court looked back over his shoulder at the door to the room, outside of which he was certain several of the men who kidnapped him still stood. “I came for the legendary hospitality.”
Fitzroy turned his nose up at this. “Looking for me, were you?”
Court nodded. “Heard a rumor you were here.”
“A rumor?”
“I was in London; I know a guy who knows a guy. I’d rather not say anything else about that, but I was told you moved your operation here.”
“Temporarily,” Fitzroy confirmed.
“How temporarily?”
The older man coughed. Court could see intense strain on Fitzroy’s face. He glanced quickly to his right, towards an ornate cloisonné planter with a leafy bush growing in it. While looking at the planter Fitz said, “That remains to be seen. Not up to me.”
Court looked at the greenery himself while he replied, “You aren’t running the show here, are you?”