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He knelt down even lower, kept his gun out, and pointed through the doorway.
“That you, Gentry?”
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, am I right?”
Just as Court expected, the ex–Navy SEAL fired several times in his direction. The bullets wouldn’t go through the exterior wall, however, so Court wasn’t worried as long as he kept himself shielded by the brickwork here.
When the shooting stopped, Court said, “I’ve got more cover than you do, asshole. I can ventilate that kitchen wall from here.”
“And shoot your friend? He’s alive, and I’ve got him by the neck. I’ll be honest, he doesn’t look too good. Might want to come give him mouth-to-mouth.”
Court didn’t know if Lancer was lying or not, but he couldn’t take a chance and fire towards the sound of the assassin’s voice.
Court said, “This standoff is going to land us both in a Cuban prison in about a minute.”
Lancer laughed loudly. “Think we’ll be cellmates?”
“You wish.”
•••
Jim Pace winced with each creeping movement he made as he slowly but quietly turned back around in the crawl space, trying to go back in the direction of the apartment he’d just fled.
Moving was hard in darkness, but it was harder still because one of Lancer’s bullets fired through the tiles had grazed his right shin, just above the ankle. He knew he was losing blood, but he also knew he had to go back and help Court, because he’d heard the gunfire, and now he heard two men shouting back and forth.
To his left he heard a new sound, however, and it took a second to identify it. Footsteps, a lot of them, men running along the metal catwalk along the wall two stories over the warehouse floor that served as the artisans’ market. Pace pulled out his phone, shone a light, and saw that the wall next to him was open to the warehouse below the roofing material, meaning he could climb out, drop down, and get free.
Except for the fact that it was probably a ten-foot drop to the catwalk, and the catwalk was presently full of people, presumably cops or soldiers.
He froze in place, uncertain of his next move, the blood trickling from his leg.
Slowly, he looked at his phone and he saw that he was still on the call with Gentry. He turned off the Bluetooth and put the unit to his ear.
Whispering, he said, “Gentry. I’m good. Get the fuck out of here.”
•••
Court heard the transmission where he knelt on the walkway by the door, but before he could respond he heard a noise behind him, and he swung around to see a Cuban police officer lean outside the door he’d come through moments earlier. He spun his pistol around, and the cop ducked back in the doorway. A second officer leaned out with a handgun, but Court fired a round into the open door above his head, and he, too, ducked back inside.
Now Court crawled on the walkway to the railing, then rose and looked over the side. Two stories down, on the concrete below his position, a dead Cuban in a guayabera lay facedown in a wide pool of thick blood, but Court didn’t concentrate on the gruesome sight, because he had something else on his mind. Directly below him, hanging off the railing from several metal rings, a two-story-tall Cuban flag hung down. It was roughly the same size as the two he’d seen inside the market, and just like inside, a second flag hung off the railing on his right, separated by the open bay doors below.
The stairwell door to the north opened now, and a group of Cuban police burst out onto the walkway. They saw him there and raised their guns.
Quickly, Court pulled out his knife, holstered his weapon, and rolled over the railing.
The snap of a gunshot to his left told him the cops at the northern door there had found a higher gear of bravery than they’d displayed seconds ago, but he quickly disappeared out of their view.
•••
Scott Kincaid heard the gunshot, then rose in the kitchen, well aware that Gentry must be shooting at someone else, because he would not be firing into this room sight unseen. He lifted his weapon and moved to the left to try to get a better angle to hit the man hiding behind the exterior wall, but just as he thought he was in a good position, the door behind him that led to the catwalk flew open.
Kincaid turned to find two, then three, then four uniformed police, their weapons pointed at him.
Kincaid dropped his big 10-millimeter pistol and held up his hands. While the police shouted at him, he shouted at Gentry, presuming him to still be outside. “Guess I’ll be seeing you in the slammer, brother! I call top bunk!”
But Gentry did not answer him. As Kincaid was tackled to the ground, he wasn’t bothered by a knee in his neck and another in his back, and he wasn’t bothered by the pain from the old gunshot wound to his ribs or when his hands were wrenched behind him and he felt the all-too-familiar sensation of handcuffs being snapped on his thick wrists. No, he was bothered by the fact that Gentry might have somehow managed to get away, leaving him alone to his fate.
“Gentry?” he called out again, a plaintive tone to his voice.
