I would like to thank James Yeager and his brilliant cadre of trainers at Tactical Response Inc. in Camden, Tennessee, for getting me up to speed on rifles, pistols, immediate-action medical, and team tactics, and most especially for having the decency to put me out after setting me on fire. God bless you; America is a safer place because of all you and your students do. Now go lay down some hate.
Many thanks also go to James Rollins, Devin Greaney, Karen Ott Mayer, John and Carrie Echols, Mike Cowan, Greg Jones, April Adams, Nichole Geer-Roberts, Stephanie and Abbie Stovall, and Jenny Kraft. Writers appreciate readers, and I appreciate you all.
My agent, Scott Miller at Trident Media Group, and my editor, Tom Colgan at Berkley, also receive my deep and eternal gratitude. This was fun, guys. How bout we do it again sometime?
MarkGreaneyBooks.com
EPILOGUE
There were only four days left until the Christmas break, and Mummy had told the girls they could wait until after the new year to return to school. Kate had taken Mummy up on the offer, but Claire declined. Routine is important for a child; she wanted to get back into the swing of things.
Maybe it would help her forget.
She would love to forget Daddys funeral, the chteau in France, the noise and the fear and the guns and the blood. She would love to forget leaving Mr. Jim behind. Grandpa Donald had promised her that Jim had gotten away, but she did not believe a thing Grandpa Donald told her anymore.
She knew that Jim, like Daddy, was dead.
She entered Hyde Park. She always cut through on her way to school, walked purposefully east on North Carriage Drive, turned down a footpath that led over to North Row, and then shortly to her school on North Audrey Street. Her mummy wanted to walk her to school, but Claire had said no. She wanted everything to be the same as when Daddy was around. Shed walk herself to school, walk herself home.
A man sat on a bench by the footpath. She paid him no attention until he called her name as she passed.
Hello, Claire.
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face Jim. Her knees weakened from shock, and she dropped her schoolbooks to the footpath.
I didnt mean to scare you. Your granddad told me you did not believe that I was okay. I just wanted to come and show you that Im fine.
She hugged him, her mind not quite accepting that he was there.
You... you were awfully hurt. Are you feeling better? she asked in a sob of joy.
Im all better. He stood and smiled and took a few steps up the pavement and then back to her. See, I dont even need you to help me walk anymore.
Claire laughed and hugged him again. Tears filled her eyes. You must come to the house straightaway. Mummy would so love to see you. She doesnt even remember you being there in France.
Jim shook his head. Im sorry. I have to go. I only have a few minutes.
She frowned. Are you still working for my Grandpa?
Jim looked off into the distance. I am working for someone else right now. Maybe Don and I will patch things up someday.
Jim? she sat down on the bench, and he followed her lead. The people who killed my father. You killed them, right?
They wont hurt anyone else, Claire. I promise.
Thats not what I asked. Did you kill them?
Many people died. Good and bad. But that is all over now. Thats all I can really tell you. I cant help you make sense of it all. Maybe someone else can. I hope so. But not me. Im sorry.
Claire looked across the park. I am glad Grandpa Donald wasnt lying about you.
Me, too.
It was quiet for a moment. Jim began to shuffle a little on the bench.
Claire said, You have to go now, right?
Im sorry. I have to catch a plane.
Thats okay. I have to go to school. Routine is important.
Yeah. He paused. I guess it is.
They both stood, hugged again. Take care of your sister and your mother, Claire. You are a strong girl. You will be fine.
I know, Jim. Merry Christmas. she said to him, and then they both said good-bye.
Court walked slowly out of the park and onto Upper Grosvenor Square. The limp he had managed to hide from Claire had returned, and he winced with each step. A black Peugeot sedan idled just outside the gate. He ducked into the backseat without a word to the occupants.
Two Frenchmen in suits turned to face him from the front. One handed him a satchel as the car pulled into traffic. Quietly, Court opened it, checked its contents, and zipped it shut.
The middle-aged Frenchman in the passenger seat said, The jet is waiting at Stansted. Three hours flying time. You should be in Madrid by early afternoon.
Court did not respond; he only looked out the window.
Abubaker will arrive at his hotel at six. Are you sure you have enough time to prepare?
Still nothing from the American.
We have arranged a room on the floor directly below his suite.
Gentry just stared at the park as it passed. Children walked with their parents. Lovers arm in arm.
The Frenchman in the passenger seat rudely snapped his fingers in front of Gentrys face, as if admonishing an inattentive servant. Monsieur, are you listening?
The Gray Man turned slowly to the man. His eyes were clearer now.
Understood. No problem. Plenty of time.
The older Frenchman barked, I dont need you fucking this up.
And I dont need your advice. Its my show. I call the time and location.
You are my property, monsieur. We have spent a lot of money on your recovery. You will do as you are told.
Court wanted to protest, wanted to reach into the front seat and break the passengers neck, but he checked his urges. Kurt Riegels successor was a bigger asshole than Kurt Riegel, but he was also Gentrys boss.
If only for the time being.
Yes, sir, said Court, though he wanted to say more. He turned his head back to the window, caught a final glimpse of the southern tip of the park, the lovers and the children and the families and the lives of others so incredibly different from his own.
The Peugeot turned left on Piccadilly, left the park behind, and melted into the heavy traffic of Londons morning commute.
ONE
The first gunmen arriving at the crash site were not Al Qaeda and had nothing to do with the shoot down. They were four local boys with old wooden-stocked Kalashnikovs whod held a sloppy morning roadblock a hundred meters from where the chopper impacted with the city street. The boys pushed through the growing phalanx of onlookers, the shopkeepers and the street kids who dove for cover when the twin-rotor helicopter hurtled down among them, and the taxi drivers who swerved off the road to avoid the American craft. The four young gunmen approached the scene warily but without a shred of tactical skill. A loud snap from the raging fire, a single handgun round cooking off in the heat, sent them all to cover. After a moments hesitation, their heads popped back up, they aimed their rifles, and then emptied their barking and bucking guns into the twisted metal machine.
A man in a blackened American military uniform crawled from the wreckage and received two dozen rounds from the boys weapons. The soldiers struggle ceased as soon as the first bullets raked across his back.
