"I'm a good soldier, Court. My orders are to make you dead. Not to make you dead, unless you can save me, at which point my mission is no longer valid. Look, man, you are a good guy. I'm rooting for you here, I really am. But I'm not lifting a finger to help you out. Can't do it. It would go against my op orders."
"You are fucking crazy."
Zack smiled. Gentry could see the pain on his face. "I just do my job. More sons of bitches should do their jobs. No offense, Violator."
"Dammit, Zack!" Court shouted it in frustration. He stood there over his former boss, thought for a long moment, and then he left the saloon and ran up two levels to the cockpit of the ship. Here he found a first aid kit. In seconds he was back, and he knelt down next to Sierra Six.
Zack turned his head slowly to face him. "What the hell are you doing?"
"You know what I'm doing. You are an asshole, but I can't just stand here and just let you die." Gentry ripped open Zack's shirt, exposed the wound. It was small, two inches below his right nipple, Court knew the bullet would have gone through the lung. He reached under Zack to feel for an exit wound.
"You patch me up, and I'll kill you!"
"No, you won't."
Hightower looked up at the ceiling with his half-mast eyes and shook his head slowly in disbelief. "You are a terrible judge of character, Court."
"Tell me about it."
Five minutes later, Gentry had Hightower stabilized, at least for the time being. There was no exit wound, which meant there was a bullet or fragments of a bullet somewhere in his damaged chest cavity. Court used a folded cover from a magazine from the bookcase and duct tape from the aid kit to create a valve over the chest wound that would allow air to escape from Hightower's lungs when he breathed out, but not allow air into the chest cavity when he breathed in.
It was all he could do at the moment.
Then Court left Zack and returned up two flights to the helm of the ship. Within minutes he'd turned all the systems on, ignored most everything except the engines and the compass and the wheel and the autopilot. He ran down to the deck and checked to make sure the anchor had not been lowered. He was sure there was some way to check from the helm, but he figured eyeballing it would be faster than trying to figure out which computer monitor displayed that nugget of information. He refrained from turning on any lights; he wanted to move as stealthily towards international waters as an eighty-foot luxury yacht possibly could. He knew he would not hit a shipping lane for some time, but he hoped that any civilian sea traffic out there in the dark had radar on board, because Court did not know how to operate that particular function of the big multifunction display at the center of the mahogany and brass helm, and he did not want a collision with some other boat.
Court pushed the throttle gently, and the big boat surged forward. When the craft reached twenty knots, he set the autopilot to hold the present course and then he ran back downstairs.
Court entered the lower saloon to find Hightower crawling on his side, halfway under a table that folded out from the wall. Court followed the wounded man's eyes to a titanium snub-nose revolver on the floor against the wall, just within Hightower's grasp. It was the same gun Zack had pressed to Gentry's forehead in Saint Petersburg. Slowly, Hightower's left arm crept out on the floor, reaching for the gun.
Court did not have to hurry; he just stepped across the floor and kicked the pistol away.
Gentry said, "I don't think your heart was in that attempt."
Zack nodded; his eyes closed again. "My heart has other pressing matters to attend to at the moment." He winced with pain. "Pulmonary pneumothorax. Air pressure in the chest cavity is stopping my heart."
"If you promise to stop trying to kill me for a minute, I can help you."
"No promises," Zack said, but he rolled back onto his back and cried out in pain as he did so. His breath was shallow and labored. Court quickly flipped open his knife, found a spot between the second and third ribs on the right side of Sierra One's chest, and then punched a shallow hole through the skin and muscle. Zack cried out. Immediately air escaped from the hole with a slight whistling sound. Court went to the fish tank in the corner, pulled some rubber tubing and a filter out of the water, and returned to his patient. He slid the tube in the fresher of the two chest wounds, stuck the filter in the open end and laid it on the ground next to Zack's arm. "When we get out of this, you and I are going to need most of the antibiotics in the Western world."
Zack coughed. A little blood appeared on his lips. "Seriously, dude. The gunboat will be here any minute. Just where do you think we are going?"
Court sat down next to Zack, exhausted and sore and sick from the infection in his back. He pulled the satellite phone out of his bag. "Time to kiss a little Russian ass."
Court got through to Sidorenko on the third try. "Hey, Sid. It's Gray. It's done."
"Yes, it is all over the news. President Abboud is dead. Everyone in Moscow is very pleased."
"The body has been found?"
"Yes. Near a resort sixty miles north of Suakin. Very curious."
Court breathed a hesitant sigh of relief. "Yeah. I'll explain everything when I see you. We need to move up the extraction, though. I've got to get out of here immediately."
"Do you?"
"Yes. Too much heat to lay low as we originally planned."
"Is that so?" Sid's voice held none of his earlier excitement. Gentry sensed trouble.
"Yeah. I'm wounded."
"Wounded?"
"Hey! Sid! Stop with the questions. Yes, I'm wounded. I need some help."
"I'm afraid your benefits package does not include health insurance, Mr. Gray."
Court said nothing. The muscles in his jaw twitched.
The Russian mobster continued. "Abboud is dead, this I know. But I also know that you did not kill him. He was killed by a sniper while you were trying to protect him, to get him out of the country to deliver him to the International Criminal Court. You used my operation to gain access to the president, in order to take him alive for some other actor."
Shit. "Where did you hear that bullshit?"
Sid's reply was delivered with a sudden scream, his Saint Petersburg accent more pronounced and the words less intelligible. "You take me for a fool! Well, Courtland Gentry, Gray Man, I am no fool. You can stay there and die for your treachery!"
"I'm going to kill you, Sid!"
"You just told me you could not survive without me, and now you make threats about what you will do to me? Ha. You were a dangerous man, Gentry, this is why I liked you. But you're not so dangerous, now that you are alone, injured, scared. Not so interesting, either. I had a man with a problem. Soon there will be no man and no problem!" Sid laughed as he hung up the phone.
"Dammit," said Court. He dropped the phone on the floor by his side and lay back against the wall of the saloon. The infection was sapping the last of his energy reserves.
He thought Hightower was unconscious, but his patient turned his head slowly. With his eyes still closed, he asked, "What did Sid say?"
"He said, in so many words, 'Fuck you.'"
Zack's dry, cracked lips tightened into a slight smile. His voice was soft. "Damn, dude. Your boss is an asshole."
"Yeah. Who knew?"
"Face it, nobody's coming for us. I'm disavowed, and you're the enemy. We are pretty much the definition of fucked. You can backstroke back to the beach; that's pretty much your only option."
Court reached above him to a small bar and grabbed a water bottle. His back screamed in pain while doing so. He unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs. He poured a few splashes over his head. Distractedly he drummed his fingers on the water bottle, his legs splayed out on the rising and falling deck.
Nothing was said between the two men for a minute. Court felt each second tick. He thought he sensed the boat pulling to the right slightly, but he pushed it out of his mind. The autopilot had been set, so the course should be true.