This entire night had been a disaster, and the whole thing had gone to hell about two minutes after sitting down in front of Sasho Minchev.
Court asked himself, not for the first time in the past hour, just how the hell he was supposed to have known that a buddy of the Bulgarian mobster had gone to prison for a killing Court had copped to?
Bad luck for Court.
Worse luck for Minchev.
Court’s entire body hurt now, but nowhere more than his chest, where he’d been shot. He’d not really felt it much at first; adrenaline had a pain-killing effect that Court had put to good use countless times in his career, but as the adrenaline seeped away, the dull throb in his chest, directly over his heart, had morphed into a sharp and burning sting. He’d spent most of his walk ignoring the vicious pain, focusing instead on getting out of immediate danger, then focusing on lying low while the multiple sweeps of law enforcement passed him by.
He was clear enough for now, he determined, so he retrieved an extra key fob from a small magnetized box in the front driver’s-side wheel well, opened his car door, looked around quickly to make sure no one was watching, then took off his suit coat and removed his tie.
His dress shirt came off next, and under it, he ripped the Velcro closures off the thin body armor he wore there, pulled the vest off, and quickly looked at the impact point, high on his chest on the left side. The Hyperline level IIIA armor that had saved his life tonight was the thinnest available on the market, and inspecting it, he saw that the fabric was deformed below the left clavicle, deeply indented, and Court didn’t have to feel his chest right now to know he had a nasty bruise that was only going to hurt more tomorrow.
He’d caught the round while entering the suite and engaging theasshole in the kitchen; he’d not detected an enemy lying on the floor behind some furniture in the living room, and if the shot had been about three inches higher and three inches to the left, it would have hit him right in the throat.
But instead, it had struck his soft armor. He’d paid an arm and a leg for the Hyperline in Hungary a couple of months earlier, but at the moment, it seemed like one of his better investments.
But perhaps not his best investment.
The spring-loaded stiletto he’d bought in Tirana, Albania, five months ago for two hundred euros had provided an even better return on investment, in his estimation. He’d sliced an artery of one of the goons in the alleyway, left him bleeding there, snatched a gun, shot a guy, sent the others retreating for cover, and then snagged a radio, dropping another asshole inside the building as he made his way up to the top-floor suite, where he knew he’d find the mobster who’d just stolen his phone with his face on it.
On the way, he’d detonated a remote charge in the building’s basement electrical room, plunging the facility into darkness, then he’d moved from the south stairs to the north stairs on the second floor to keep his adversary guessing, fucking with their radio transmissions in the process so that the situational awareness of the guard escorting Minchev would be less than ideal.
He would have liked to have walked away, not to have engaged a half dozen men tonight, but Sasho Minchev had taken his phone with his picture on it, and then he’d told Court to his face he was going to make it so that he could never get into Russia.
Court had to get into Russia, which meant Sasho Minchev had to die, and everyone who got between Court and Sasho Minchev had to be swept out of the way by the fastest means available.
Court Gentrywasgoing to Russia; he had a job to do there, and no second-tier Balkan gangster and his goon squad were going to stop him.
He sighed now in the dark, in the cold air blowing against his damp T-shirt, and then he dropped the body armor on the ground.
The Bulgarians had taken his key fob, but he had the spare. He grabbed the key, tossed the box, climbed behind the wheel, and fired up the engine.
As he drove to the north, leaving the Chayka district of Varna, Bulgaria, behind, he thought about his next move.
He’d go to Romania, start from scratch with a new batch of asshole smugglers, see iftheywould be willing to help him get into Russia.
His spirits were low, damn low, and he had a lot to worry about, but he didnotworry about what had just happened.
Bad men had gotten in his way. Some of them, he’d killed. Minchev for sure, probably the guy in the top-floor hallway, as well. Maybe the first guy on the stairs and the other one in the alley.
But the dude he’d stabbed in the wreckage of the coffee table in the penthouse might live, as would the second guy on the stairs. He didn’t really care either way; he only cared that he’d retrieved his phone and his image.
Now all he thought about as he drove north was getting clear, licking his wounds, re-arming, regrouping for his next attempt.
Court Gentry had left dead and wounded in his wake many times in his life.
And there were many ahead of him to deal with.
The Kia drove on, with a killer behind the wheel.
Five
St. Malachy’s Church sat on the intersection of Carrickcroppen Road and Carrickcloghan Road, on a hill surrounded by a Catholic cemetery that was bathed in rare sunlight on this frigid Sunday morning.
Inside the wooden doors of the church, Father Sean ended his mass with the Concluding Rites, turning to thank the other priests, then raising his hands towards the choir as he gave them a word of appreciation, and finally he addressed the congregation gathered in front of him.
There were fewer than eighty-five parishioners, the pews one third empty today, and this was a disappointment to Father Sean, but such were the times.
