Ballistic(114)

He laughed a moment. “You didn’t hear any of that from me.” He laughed some more. “I am so fired.”

Court looked at his former boss incredulously. “Matt . . . for what you did back there in the basement, you aren’t just going to get fired.”

“Federal prison? A wet squad at my door? Nah, I’ll convince them you got away somehow. I’ve made a decent living bullshitting my friends and coworkers.” He smiled, but Gentry saw that he was nervous. “It was worth it to waste those carteleros.”

“Matt . . . Langley will kill you for saving me.”

Hanley shrugged. “I’ll have to sell it. You shot your way out of the basement, took me as a hostage, beat me up, and dumped me by the side of the road as you made your escape with that embassy douche.” He paused. “We’re going to have to make it look good. I’m thinking a pair of black eyes, maybe a cracked rib.”

Court just shook his head slowly.

“You have something else in mind?”

“You said it. We’re going to have to make it look good.”

Hanley blew out a long sigh, nodded as if he expected this. He drank another three swigs of tequila in rapid-fire succession, then backed up to the wall of the parking garage. He tossed the bottle underhanded, away into the dark. It shattered. Then he pointed to a place high on his shoulder. “Right there. Do it, Violator!”

Court pulled the Bersa Thunder .380 from his pants pocket. Took a few steps back and raised the weapon. Hanley watched him through eyes squinted in anticipation of the pain and agony that would come. “Please don’t miss, kid.”

Then Court looked away from his weapon’s sights and into the man’s tight eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

The pistol lowered.

“No!”

Court shot Matthew Hanley in the stomach. Hanley brought his hands to the searing pain in his right side. Warm blood oozed through his thick fingers. Softly, he gasped, “For the love of God, Court.” The heavyset case officer lowered to his knees, fell to the cold cement, rolled onto his stomach writhing in pain.

Court fired again, shot Hanley in the back of the right shoulder.

“Jesus!” screamed Jerry Pfleger. He’d sat up in the trunk and could see the action against the wall. Court turned to him, stormed over to the car with his pistol up, and Jerry ducked back into the trunk. Gentry slammed the trunk lid, then returned to the man rolling around on the bare concrete. Hanley was on his back now; he tried to scoot away from the Gray Man but could not.

As he stood over the big man, Court said, “Nobody was going to buy a textbook bullet hole in your shoulder. Not from a guy like me.”

“I could have sold it, you fuck! I could have made them believe!”

“C’mon, stop crying. The shoulder is through and through, and the gut shot is lodged in a shitload of fat. Are you the only guy in Haiti putting on weight these days?”

“I’m going to bleed to death!”

“No, you’re not. Listen, nobody at Langley is going to question whether or not you were helping me when they find out I shot you three times.”

Hanley was fighting shock. Still his eyes widened.

“Three times?”

Court stood, quickly pointed the pistol again, and shot his former boss in his left thigh.

“Motherfucker!” The thick man screamed, rolled to his side, and grabbed his leg.

“Listen, Matt. I am doing you a favor. Carmichael knows I don’t punch people in the jaw who are trying to kill me. I didn’t hit any organs, any arteries; you are going to be fine. Better than fine considering what Denny would do to you if he thought you and I were in cahoots. Put some pressure on your gut; don’t worry about your leg or shoulder. I didn’t hit anything vital.”

“That’s fucking easy for you to say! Fuck, Violator! I saved your ass!”

“And I’m saving yours! Okay, Matt, I’ve got to run.”

“You are leaving? I’m fucking bleeding to death!”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to be a stud around Langley. You survived a shoot-out with the Gray Man. How cool is that?”

“It’s not cool at all, you mother—”

Court knelt, patted him on the head. “You’re going to thank me, I swear.” Another quick pat. “Gotta go. Thanks again.” Court stood back up and pulled Jerry’s phone from his pocket, checked it for a signal. “Two bars. Call the embassy.” He tossed the phone on Hanley’s big gut, climbed behind the wheel of the Ford, and drove out of the parking garage.

Hanley lay in the dark, holding on to his stomach and his shoulder. “Fucking Violator!” he screamed it at the top of his lungs; it echoed back to him in the empty garage.