Scardino said, “I’ve lost ten men already. I have the men to lose, and we have help in the government so that we can spin their deaths, make it look like they were trying to stop the hitters, but this can’t keep happening.”
J.W. nodded. “Hanley is fucking everything up. As soon as we have location intel from Shaw, you need to send a full strike package down on him.”
“Agreed,” Scardino said, and then he left the room again to check in with his forces in the field.
Forty
Court Gentry lay on the sofa in the salon of his boat in Marina Bay, a sweating bottle of Mexican beer all but untouched on the little side table next to him. He listened to a soft rain outside, glancing occasionally at the monitor with all the security camera images displayed across the room by the table with the radio set, as he fingered the trigger guard of the pump shotgun propped up on the sofa next to him.
It was nearly midnight now. He’d lain here for hours; he imagined he’d eventually get the energy to climb up and head into the cabin, climb into his box with his shotgun, and catch some sleep, but for now he just tried to relax.
He’d talked to Zoya tonight over Signal, told her everything that had happened, not because he’d wanted to but simply because he knew she’d pick up on the fact that he was lying if he tried to keep info away from her to prevent her from worrying. As soon as he told her what happened in Georgetown, she’d wanted to return to the field, to come help; she’d even reached out to Hanley directly, but he’d told her her services were not required and would not be accepted. Physically, Court knew, she had a long way to go until she was one hundred percent, and mentally…well, who could say how she was doing mentally? The woman was tough as nails, but she’d been through so much.
Court had been happy talking with her, though. He’d seen her justdays earlier, but he didn’t see her enough, and already the longing was getting to him. For much of his life he’d wondered what it was that made people settle down in one place, but he did not wonder about that anymore. Now he wondered why there were people out there like Whetstone, people who struggled to find a home.
Court had a home now.
This boat wasn’t it, but this boat was good enough for tonight.
There had been two killings today related to the intelligence community. A Department of Energy officer in the Office of Intelligence and Counterintelligence was murdered at a conference in Chicago. Shot nine times in front of his hotel by a man in a latex mask. No one had thought to give the Department of Energy officer security protection, his agency was so little known. But Russia’s energy-related raw materials were its lifeblood, and Russia spied on the American energy sector, as did the Chinese. The man killed today had set counterintelligence protocols at nuclear, oil, and gas facilities, and from what Hanley had told Court, he was something of a legend in his field, so it made sense that whatever bad actor was doing all this would want to take him out.
At roughly the same time, a DEA operative who ran several international investigations in Latin America was killed at his home in Landover, Maryland. The cause of death had been a crude but effective car bomb, and it was a slap in the face of the U.S. government that they still weren’t protecting their own.
First, the layoff or forced resignation of thousands of intelligence officials as a cost-cutting measure, to be replaced by a private company run by a billionaire friend of the president.
Then, a spate of murders of intelligence officials, on U.S. soil, perpetrated by assassins from abroad.
Court was glad he was in the private sector.
He’d also spoken with Sir Donald Fitzroy tonight. His former handler told Court he’d spent the past day trying to track down Sir Allen Glazebrook, but the man had suddenly fled the Cotswolds, and even his butler Jeffrey didn’t know where he’d gone. Jeffrey, worried about his employer, did admit to Fitzroy that two men from Northern Ireland had come into the home several nights earlier, and only one left alive.
It seemed to Court like Coyle had cajoled Glazebrook into making connections here in America with whoever was behind the assassinations, only so that Coyle could find out more information about Court.
Fitzroy promised to keep feelers out for Glazebrook, but the man seemed so scared he could be anywhere in the world right now, simply hiding out from Whetstone lest he return unsatisfied with the services Glazebrook provided him.
Court sat up slowly now, was about to head to his hidden sleeping quarters, and then the FibreNet secure communications app vibrated on his phone. He looked down, did not recognize the number, but answered it anyway, waiting until the tenth ring to do so.
“Yeah?”
It was the Northern Irishman again. His voice was gravelly but a little jovial. “Someone’s been a busy boy, eh?”
Court wasn’t in the mood. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“Of course ye do, chief. I’ve been watchin’ the news. Startin’ to recognize your handiwork.”
Court took a few breaths. “I imagine you’ve been busy yourself. I’m guessing the car bombs were yours. You IRA guys love a good car bomb, don’t you?”
“No, mate, I took the day off. Sharpening my blade. Yours is the next neck I’ll be sinking it into.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?”
“Because neither of us was raised to be the trusting type. Don’t worry, though, you’ll believe me soon enough.”
“Not soon enough,” Court said. “I’m in the mood to deal with you right now. You and your friends are killing a lot of innocents.”
“Right. Better I get back out there, go kill someone important, perhaps you’ll show up like you and your mates did in Georgetown today.”
“Why do you think I was there?”
