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“Who the fuck is Cyrus?”
There was a long pause. “The code name of the person who employed you. Employed me. Employed all of us here.” Quickly the man said, “If you have a handler dealing with your contracts, contact them; they will know how to reach Cyrus.”
Kincaid thought it over. So the director of the operations center didn’t know who he was working for, either. Interesting.
“I will,” he said, momentarily taken aback.
“In the meantime,” the director continued, “Borislava Genrich is back in Mexico City. We need you to prosecute him there tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not doing anything until I get my—”
“Talk to your handler, get your money, but you need to keep working in the meantime.”
“Why would I—”
“Because this is a fast-moving operation. I’ll hire someone else if you can’t make the operational window in Mexico City, and if that person does a good job, I’ll send them to Boston, and then to Toronto from there. Not you. Your two million will turn into nothing if you don’t get yourself to Mexico City.”
Lancer felt his sore ribs through the cold packs and the bandaging. The thought of flying hours through the morning to Mexico, and then taking up a position in order to kill a man there, was anything but appealing, but he knew the pain would fuel him.
The director said, “We have targets Gama Seventeen and Gama Eight fixed in Mexico and will continue surveillance. You will act against them as soon as you arrive.”
Lancer reassembled his pistol, flipped up the takedown lever, and dropped the slide, making a loud click in the otherwise empty cabin. “Roger. Lancer out.” He tapped the earpiece, reloaded his weapon, and reholstered.
Five minutes later he was texting with his handler on this operation, the Welshman named Jack Tudor, and ten minutes after that, Tudor confirmed that Cyrus had agreed to the raise to two point five million per job, beginning with Palo Alto.
Kincaid began to stand up to go to the cabin to let the pilots know they were heading to Mexico City, but then he thought better of it. OC Gama would be communicating with them now; he didn’t have to do a thing.
He looked out the window, and in moments the aircraft began to move.
Tomorrow in Mexico City, two jobs. Then the next day in Boston, one job. And then up into Canada for another, and then he’d be done.
Or would he?
He wondered if someone else would be sent after Zakharova, or if he’d be facing her and Gentry again before this work was done.
He’d like another crack at both of them. A mission on his own terms.
But for now he made his way into the galley, yanked a full-sized bottle of Johnnie Walker Black from a tiny bar, and filled a plastic cup with ice.
Pain was his friend, this was true. But he had other things to focus on, so this was no time for friends.
•••
At Tactical Operations Center Gama in the Singapore Industrial Park, the director listened as one of his techs informed him that Lancer was in the air and on the way, and then he walked back over to his workstation in the spartan office suite, sat down, and typed a message on his computer.
Cyrus. Gama Actual. Asset Lancer identifies associate of target Gama 18 as “Gentry,” former CIA, currently a freelance contract agent.
There was a significant pause, and through it, the Norwegian rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his dark hair, then took a sip of now-lukewarm tea.
Eventually, a reply came.
The Gray Man. Interesting.
He cocked his head, eyes on the words in front of him. Of course he had heard of the Gray Man, a legendary assassin without peer, but even when he’d worked for Norwegian intelligence, he never found out if the Gray Man was real.
Rumors and speculation. Massive operations in Europe, in Africa, in North America, in Asia. The Gray Man was, as far as he could tell, like the bogeyman. Blamed for anything that happened that couldn’t be easily explained.
He typed an interrogative. You are saying Gentry is the Gray Man?
