The dead operator wore his rifle around his neck on a one-point sling, essentially a necklace with an automatic assault weapon dangling as its charm. Court tried to remove it, but the sling was caught on the operator’s load-bearing vest. Court pulled the gun up to the dead man’s shoulder, tried to quickly sight on the last remaining extraction team member, who was using the legs of the long bench as a ladder to climb up the cabin to the forward bulkhead loadmaster’s galley.
Court pulled the trigger, but the weapon clicked empty. He fumbled around Markham’s chest rig for another magazine and slammed it into the MP5’s magazine well. He readied to fire at his target just as the man disappeared into the galley. The plane leveled off again, and Court’s gravity returned to normal. He stayed low behind the pallet towards the rear hatch, waiting for Barnes to peek back around the door.
Without warning, Gentry heard a loud noise and felt the rear cargo ramp behind him move. The wind roared.
Barnes had activated the ramp from the front of the cabin. A second later, the aircraft began another steep climb.
As Court scrambled to grab on to the netting over the pallet on the floor in front of him, Barnes appeared near the bulkhead. The dark-clad operator had slung a parachute rig onto his back. Apparently he figured this plane had taken all the damage it could, or perhaps he worried the pilots were dead from stray gunfire. Barnes held the bulkhead webbing with all his might and fired burst after burst in Gentry’s direction, one-handed, with his M4 as the ramp opened fully behind the Gray Man.
Court reached behind him with his free hand and stripped the gun off Markham’s neck just before the dead man rolled out of the plane and into the darkness. The pilot continued his climb, and soon McVee’s body slid past Gentry and out into the night. Perini’s body was lashed into his seat, and Dulin’s corpse was still secured in the bulkhead webbing.
Gentry and Barnes were the only two left alive.
Court held on to the submachine gun with his right hand, and his left hand squeezed the net on the pallet. His glove had twisted on his fingers, and he knew he could not hold on much longer. His boots kicked at the deck of the plane to try to find purchase as the climb angle grew steeper and steeper.
He was seconds away from falling backwards down the ramp.
But Gentry had one last chance. He lifted Markham’s rifle and fired a long burst over the pallet at Barnes, hitting him squarely on his chest plate, slamming his head back against the bulkhead hard enough to knock him out cold. The aircraft’s incline was forty-five degrees now, and the wounded Barnes lost his hold of the webbing, dropped to his knees, and rolled down the length of the plane towards the rear hatch.
This was Gentry’s ride off the damaged aircraft and he did not want to miss it. As the incapacitated operator bounded past, Court let go of the pallet and pushed off the floor with his boots and kneepads. Gentry leapt to his right and grabbed hold of the unconscious man by the parachute harness, and they sailed together out the open hatch and into the night sky.
Gentry hooked his arms around Barnes and crossed his legs behind his back. The L-100 disappeared above them, and soon the roar of the engines was replaced by the howl of the wind.
Court grunted and screamed with the effort of holding on as tightly as possible. He did not dare reach for the ripcord of the chute. If he lost his tenuous hold, he would never find it again in the black night sky. He was reasonably sure this rig would have a CYPRES automatic activation device that would pop the reserve at seven hundred fifty feet if its occupant was still in free fall.
Gentry and his would-be killer tumbled end over end through the cold blackness.
One of Court’s hands found a good hold on the parachute’s shoulder strap, so he released the other hand to find a similar grip. Just as he let go, he heard a one-tone beep that lasted less than a second.
Then the reserve chute deployed.
Court held on with one hand. This parachute was not meant for two people, one of whom was kicking and yanking, desperate to get a firmer grip, so the men fell too fast and spun around like a whirligig.
This continued for just a few seconds before Gentry began to vomit from the vertigo. He did not have far to fall, but his nausea had already turned to dry heaves before they slammed together on the ground.
Court’s impact was muted by landing squarely on the man in the chute. He checked on the other operator. He’d landed hard, face-first, with Gentry on his back. Court found no pulse.
Once on terra firma, Gentry got control of his heaving stomach, grabbed his thigh and writhed in pain for a moment, and then recovered enough to sit up. The first hues of morning were glowing to his left, showing him the way east.
Now that he had his bearings, he took stock of his surroundings. He was on flat ground, at the bottom of a gentle valley. There was a brook close enough to hear and goats bleating in the distance. The dead operator lay broken, the reserve chute flapping behind him in a cool, predawn breeze. Court searched the man’s gear and found a medical blow-out bag on Barnes’s hip.
He sat down on the grass and did his best to treat his wound in the dark. He assumed he had a long walk to reach the border and wanted to patch his injured leg so it could stand the trek. It was a clean wound, in and out, no major vascular or orthopedic damage, nothing much to worry about if you treated it early and well and did not mind days or weeks of throbbing discomfort. Gentry puked bile once more, his body and his mind just catching up to the chaos of the past five minutes.
Then he stood and slowly began walking north towards Turkey.
SEVEN
Fitzroy sat across from Lloyd on the couch in his office. Even as the older man listened to the other end of the satellite connection, his angry eyes did not flicker away from the young lawyer.
“I see,” said Fitzroy into the phone. “Thank you.” He terminated the call and placed the phone gently on the table in front of him.
Lloyd stared back, hopeful.
Fitzroy broke the staring contest with a gaze to the carpet. “It seems they are all dead.”
“Who’s dead?” asked Lloyd, the tint of optimism ever growing in his voice.
“Everyone but the flight crew. I am told there was a bit of a dustup in the aircraft. Courtland did not go down easily; no surprise there. The pilot found two of my men’s bodies in the back, no sign of the other four. Blood on the floor, walls, and ceiling, over fifty bullet holes in the fuselage.”
“My firm will compensate you for the damages.” Lloyd said it matter-of-factly. He cleared his throat. “But they did not find Gentry’s body? Could he have survived?”
“It appears not. There was a lot of gear lost, the plane flew for miles with its rear cargo door open, and among the unaccounted-for items is a parachute, but there’s no reason to assume—”
Lloyd interrupted. “If our target is missing out the rear of an airplane along with a parachute, I can hardly convince the Nigerians the job is done.”
“He was outnumbered five to one against a tier-one crew, all ex-Canadian Special Forces. Clearly I have fulfilled my end of our bargain. I ask you to now kindly carry out yours. Stop your threats to my family.”
Lloyd waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Abubaker wants proof. He demanded Gentry’s head in an ice chest.”
“Dammit, man!” said Fitzroy. “I did as I was told!” Fitzroy was angry, but he was no longer fearful for his son’s family. Shortly before Lloyd arrived, Sir Donald had called his son, had him collect his wife and children, and rush to St. Pancras Station in time to make the morning’s second Eurostar train to France. At this very moment they should be settling into the family’s summer villa just south of the Normandy beaches. Fitzroy felt confident Lloyd’s men would not find them there.