The girls covered their eyes and shrieked.
Court lifted his head slowly when it was all over. He had not even been aware of the threat. Quickly, he spun his head back around him, certain Lloyd would be standing behind him, but there was no one there.
Court’s knees weakened, and he fell backwards, stumbled into and over a narrow table, and smashed it to the floor. Fitzroy and the two girls ran to him and pulled him back to his feet. They steadied him while he regained his balance.
“I’m all right. Keep moving.”
The six of them made it out a side door to a pathway that led around to the graveled parking circle in the back. Still, the Scotsman led the way, the unconscious woman over hisshoulder. In the distance of the misty apple orchard, they could hear a smattering of gunfire. Apparently the kill squads were engaging one another in the fog. Sir Donald found a large, black BMW sedan, saw the keys in the ignition, and instructed everyone to climb in as fast as possible. Court had lagged behind; Claire turned and ran back to him, held him up, and this time he did not protest. Twice Gentry looked back over his shoulder for any sign of Lloyd. Both times his head spun and reeled with the movement. At a snail’s pace, he staggered, only able to do so now with the nominal assistance of an eight-year-old girl.
—
Claire struggled to hold Jim up. It seemed as if with each step he put more weight on her shoulders. He grunted and winced as they moved along the gravel towards the big, black car. The guard from Scotland gave his gun to Grandpa Donald and put Mummy in the backseat, and Kate climbed in with her. The guard got behind the wheel, and Grandpa sat in the front passenger seat. The engine started, and Jim nudged Claire in front of him, urged her to run on ahead to the car. She did as she was told, climbed into the backseat, and turned to help pull her rescuer in behind her. Jim was a few steps back but nearing. He smiled weakly as their eyes met.
A single gunshot rang out from the château. Claire was looking at Jim as his eyes widened and his body lurched forward, nearly propelling him to the vehicle but not quite. The American dropped to his kneepads on the gravel, looked up to the Scotsman behind the wheel, and cried out “Go!”
The big car lurched ahead. Claire’s door slammed shut with the movement. She shrieked as she spun around to lookout the back window. She banged her little hands against the glass.
On the gravel behind them, Jim teetered forward off his knees, then fell hard on his face.
A dust cloud from the car’s wheels in the gravel whited out Claire’s view of the man left behind.
THIRTY-SIX
Court pulled himself pitiably across the gravel drive with his arms. His legs barely moved, and pebbles stuck to the blood on his forearms and face and in the sweat on his scalp. It was five yards to the wet grass. From there it was two hundred yards to the edge of the apple orchard. At the pace he was moving, it would be night-fall before he reached any measure of cover.
It was hopeless, but he moved without rationale, only instinct.Get out of the kill zone.Destination unimportant.
“Yo! Tough guy? Where the hell you think you’re going?” Lloyd’s shout came from behind. It was followed by the crunching of shoes on gravel. The footfalls closed quickly.
“I have to admit... you’ve lived up to your hype. You torched the SAD filesandyou got the Fitzroys. Looks like you managed to save everyone’s ass but your own.”
Court kept crawling on his bloody forearms, into the cold, wet lawn. Lloyd finally stepped on his back to stop him. The Gray Man looked over his shoulder with a wince. The lawyer held a small Beretta pistol out in front of him. His left arm and shoulder were bloody and limp. Lloyd seemed unfazed by his wounds.
“I shot you in the back. Not terribly noble, I suppose. I didn’t know you had a vest on. Bet that still hurt, huh?”
Court rolled slowly on his back. The morning sky had blued considerably since he’d entered the château, maybe fifteen minutes earlier. Lloyd stood over him and looked straight down. Court knew his Glock had skidded away somewhere when he fell. He had no strength to lift his head to look for it.
“I still don’t remember you, Lloyd,” Gentry said it through a raspy cough.
“Well, you’ll remember me in hell, won’t you? My face will be the last fucking thing you see.”
Lloyd lifted the pistol to Court Gentry’s face, and a shot rang out.
Lloyd cocked his head, a show of confusion. The young lawyer staggered forward a half step. Blood appeared on his lips and in his nostrils. His eyes remained on Court, though the lids narrowed. He steadied himself and again raised the gun to Court’s chest.
From behind came another shot, then another. Lloyd spasmed with each crack. His Beretta fired, but it was low by his side now. The bullet kicked up a spray of white stones between Gentry’s legs as the Gray Man just lay on his back and watched.
Lloyd dropped his pistol in the gravel, then crumpled down on top of it, dead.
For several seconds Court just stared at the sky. Finally he forced his head up, looked back to the château. Riegel was in a third-floor window, the glass shattered in front of him, his pistol now trained on Gentry.
Slowly, the German lowered his gun to his side.
The two men just looked at one another for a few seconds. They were both too weak for words, too far apart for eye contact. But the long acknowledgment showed a sense of mutual respect: two warriors, each recognizing the efforts of the other.
Kurt Riegel fell backwards and disappeared from view.
Court dropped his head back in the grass. Through the ringing in his ears he noticed the distinctive sound of a helicopter. It was not the black Eurocopter; it was a bigger ship, steadily approaching from the east.
