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  With the report of the gunshot the murder of crows in the still-bare tree limbs above scattered into flight, drifting off to the east in the gray afternoon.

  Court grunted and screamed with the pain and the effort of pulling himself out of the jagged hole in the center of the pond. He pulled with his left arm, kicked a leg out up and onto the ice, and this helped him get the leverage he needed. He looked down at the pistol and saw that it had jammed after he fired it, no doubt because of his weak grip. He lay on his stomach, crept with his weak legs and his left arm, pulling and pushing his numb body away from the hole.

  He made it to Whitlock and then stopped, laid his face down on the ice. Even though Court’s blood vessels were constricted by the cold, blood dripped from the gunshot wound on his arm and fresh cuts on his face and neck, and this blood moved across the cracked ice around him, forming lines of red in the fissures and creeping away from him, as if his very life were leaving him.

  His lungs heaved, pushing moisture-laden warm air into the frigid atmosphere and it froze, fogging his field of view. Through it he looked at Dead Eye, saw the man’s thick blood pouring from his body from his chest wound, contrasting with the white ice as it moved along the same fissure lines on the pond’s frozen surface where Court’s blood traveled.

  Whitlock wheezed softly, and then his eyes rolled back and his lids lowered halfway. He froze in position like this, his mouth slightly open, his face still pointing straight up at the sky.

  Gentry rolled onto his back now, grunting with pain and exhaustion, then heaved the Glock through the air with his shaking arm and watched it splash into the hole in the center of the pond.

  Court knew he would die from exposure in moments if he did not get heat. He pushed himself on his back all the way to the edge of the pond with his waterlogged boots. His teeth chattered and he could barely see through the thick clouds of vapor that came out of him with every heavy, labored breath.

  He used the bare branches of a bush to hoist himself up to his feet and then he began climbing up the hill, slowly and awkwardly, using tree limbs and brush to pull himself along when his legs would not move properly.

  His right arm hung to the side, his white thermal shirt began to freeze on his body, and small icicles formed on the tip of his nose and his earlobes as he struggled to kick one foot, and then the other, through the forest, heading for the house. His teeth chattered violently and his knees wobbled.

  He walked for minutes; the entire time he tried to get his frozen shirt off his body, but he could not manage it with only one good arm, on the end of which was a swollen hand that had spasmed into a claw.

  Court never gave up trying, but he also never managed to even get one arm out of the thermal.

  He passed an old car on blocks in the backyard of the home, then made his way up a stone walkway toward the back door, almost falling twice along the way, struggling mightily to keep his balance.

  Gentry’s body had been wholly ravaged by the cold, but his mind retained the ability to recognize that falling down in the snow here, on the open ground and with nothing to help him back up, would almost certainly be a death sentence.

  But he did not fall; he made it to the back steps of the home and pulled himself up the railing.

  With a hand convulsing wildly from the shakes he tried to turn the door handle, but he could not grip it.

  He fell against the door, pushed his numb arm down against the latch, and found it locked.

  Court slid all the way to the doorstep now.

  “Help.” The word came out cracked and soft and nearly inaudible. He used the back of his head to knock at the door, feeling no sensation whatsoever by the action.

  “Help.” Softer now, almost a surrender to the futility of his situation. He banged his head against the door once more.

  The door opened, and Court fell inside on his back. He looked up; his view was upside down.

  Standing above him was an old man, and next to him a little boy, probably no older than five or six.

  Court said, “Help.”

  Both the man and the boy looked him over with fascination and no small amount of terror.

  Court’s mind drifted; he started to fall asleep.

  The last thing he felt before he slipped into unconsciousness was the thickest, warmest wool blanket he had ever felt in his life being placed over his body.

  EPILOGUE

  Twelve hours after shooting Russ Whitlock dead on a frozen pond in the Brussels neighborhood of Uccle, Court Gentry arrived in Amsterdam in his third hitched ride of the day.

  He wore fresh blue jeans and a new black thermal he’d bought at a shop a few miles from Brussels. Also there he’d found a pharmacy and he’d patched and stabilized his arm with gauze and Ace bandages and splinted it with four pieces of broken curtain rod he’d pulled from a garbage can behind an apartment complex.

  He’d done a good job with his injury, all things considered, though it hurt like hell and he knew he’d need a real doctor to work on it sooner rather than later.

  But not tonight. He had shit to do. Although it was one A.M. now, he needed to perform a proper SDR and then wander around until he could find a place to sleep here in Amsterdam.

  He had no trouble staying awake. Court knew from experience that the gunshot wound to his arm was going to make sleep difficult for weeks if not months.

  He’d just been let out of the car, a few miles south of the city center, when his mobile phone buzzed in his backpack.

  This surprised him; he’d given the number to two people, and he was quite sure they were both dead. But he would answer it anyway; he’d grown confident in the power of MobileCrypt over the past few days.

  He fished the phone out and sat down in an alcove alongside an office building, lit only by a soft yellow halogen bulb.

  “Yeah?”

  It was a shockingly soft male voice on the line, thickly accented but understandable, even over the satellite connection. “I found this number saved on Ruth Ettinger’s mobile phone. Judging from the time stamps, I am reasonably certain I am now speaking to Courtland Gentry.”

  “Sorry, pal. Wrong num—”

  “Please! For Ruth. Just a very brief moment of your time.”

  Court hesitated. Then asked, “What do you want?”

  “We did not believe her. About you. We had information that we determined more credible than your denials. We were wrong. I was wrong. She . . . Ruth . . . was right.”

  Court flexed his jaw muscles. “Doesn’t do her much good now, does it?”

  “No. It does not.”

  The man was Israeli, Court could easily tell from the accent, and he seemed truly pained by what had happened.

  “Who are you?”

  After a weak cough the man said, “You and I met last night, actually. In Hamburg.”

  “You’re the guy from the stairwell.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to make it?”

  “You saved my life.” He coughed again. “And now . . . Mr. Gentry, I have the reports from Brussels. Obviously you killed the assassin near the cemetery. The man targeting Prime Minister Kalb.”

  Court did not respond to this.

  “My organization is thankful. We want to show our thanks.”

  Court sighed, leaned back against a window of the office building, and blew out icy steam visible under the halogen lamp. He said, “Why don’t you do what organizations do? Commission a plaque with Ruth’s name on it, and stick it on a wall.”

  “I’ll see to that, of course. But we want to do something for you.”

  Court thought about it a moment. “Commission a plaque with my name on it, and stick it up your ass. Good-bye.”

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “We can do better than that. We can do much better.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  After a pause the weak voice said, “Wherever you are right now, you might want to be somewhere else. We can help wit
h this.”

  “How?”

  A raspy cough delayed the answer. Finally, “We are Mossad. We can make it happen.”

  It was an early spring in Washington, D.C.; the sun was bright over the capitol building and the morning joggers circled the National Mall, taking advantage of the beautiful weather.

  On a bench in the trees in the Smithsonian Butterfly Habitat path, a thick middle-aged man sat alone wearing a black raincoat; anyone passing by who paid any attention to him would find he seemed uncomfortable and agitated.

  He checked the time on his phone for the second time in three minutes, and then he kneaded his thighs for a minute more.

  Finally he pushed a few buttons on his phone and held it to his ear.

  The call was answered after several rings, and Leland Babbitt looked up and down the path before speaking quickly and quietly, spending no time on pleasantries. “It’s a quarter after eight, Denny. You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

  Denny Carmichael replied. “I didn’t agree to come at all. I just said I’d think about it.”

  “Oh, come on, Denny. We need a face-to-face.”

  “No, we don’t. You and I won’t be doing any face-to-face meetings anytime soon. I don’t want you at Langley, of course, and I sure as hell don’t want to set foot at Townsend in light of all the exposure you’ve had in the past two weeks.”

  Babbitt’s voice rose and fell with desperation. “I get that. That’s why I proposed off site. A neutral location. You and me. We can put this to bed and move forward.”

  Carmichael said, “Lee. Let’s give it the time it needs to die down.”

  Babbitt gritted his teeth. His fleshy jowls rolled with the movement. “You aren’t going to leave me to swing in the wind on this.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing! Your man killed a Mossad officer. You don’t think there will be repercussions for that?”

  “He wasn’t my man, Denny! He was your man! You made him! You fucked him up! You fucked all those boys up. Now Dead Eye has caused a conflagration with the Israelis and Gray Man is still out there, somewhere. You can blame Townsend all you want for Brussels, but the fact remains both the bad actors of that operation were rogue CIA assets. That’s not Townsend’s fault.”

  Carmichael’s gravelly voice was low and fast. “Keep your mouth shut, swing in the wind for a few months, and you might still have a prayer of getting some sort of contract work from us in the future. But you breathe a goddamned word of any aspect of the events in Brussels, events I’m prepared to deny under oath, and you will never find work again. Public or private sector.”

  “You pulled our access to classified data. How the fuck are we supposed to stay in business?”

  “I have no doubt that Townsend will be able to find lucrative security contracts in the commercial sector.”

  “We’re American patriots! We’re not fucking mall cops!”

  Carmichael did not respond.

  After a moment to calm himself, Babbitt said, “You aren’t the only game in town, you know.”

  “Was that some sort of a threat?”

  “It is what it is.”

  Carmichael growled, “Fuck you, Babbitt.”

  “No, Denny, fuck you. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll do just that right now.”

  Lee Babbitt hung up the phone, stood up from the bench, and reached back like he was going to throw the phone into the trees. But he stopped himself, slipped it back in his pocket, and began walking up the path toward the National Mall.

  He never looked back as he marched angrily through the joggers and commuters, but had he done so he never would have seen the man following him, because the man following him had the skills to blend into his environment.

  Babbitt walked up the steps to the Capitol, disappearing after a minute in the shadows under the East Portico, where he entered a doorway.

  Far behind him, secreted in the shadows of a cherry tree not yet in full bloom, the follower turned to his right and crossed the Mall, heading south.

  As he walked he took his hand off the small Ruger pistol he carried in the left-hand pocket of his jacket, and he used the same hand to pull his baseball cap down lower over his eyes. His right hand remained in his pants pocket, which kept his arm from swinging while he walked.

  Court Gentry headed back to his car, parked just two blocks south of the Mall in an underground garage near L’Enfant Plaza. Today had been a bit of a waste; he’d come for answers he did not get from a target who did not show, but nevertheless, it felt good to be operational again after his lengthy period of recovery.

  He stopped at a hot dog cart, bought a bottled water, and drank a few sips while he stood there, allowing himself one last glance at the Capitol building. Despite the emotions welling inside him, it would not do to stop and stare. He was in cover, and his cover wasn’t some wide-eyed foreign tourist.

  Unlike many of his operations, in this rare case his cover identity matched his true identity. He was American. He’d been gone for a while, but he was still American, and now he was home.

  TITLES BY MARK GREANEY

  The Gray Man

  On Target

  Ballistic

  Dead Eye

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2013 by Mark Strode Greaney.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63249-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Greaney, Mark.

  Dead eye / Mark Greaney.—Berkley trade paperback edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-425-26905-3

  1. Assassins—Fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.R4285D43 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013008943

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / December 2013

  Cover photograph of Gargoyle © Alexsvivid / Shutterstock; photograph

  of Street of City of Tallinn © Igor Sokolov (breeze) / Shutterstock.

  Cover design by Jae Song.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Praise for Mark Greaney and the Gray Man novels

  BALLISTIC

  “The story is so propulsive, the murders so explosive, that flipping the pages feels like playing the ultimate video game.”

  —The New York Times

  “Greaney once again pumps new life into familiar thriller conventions in his third Gray Man novel . . . An extremely capable warrior with multiple tricks and tradecraft, Courtland has a complicated past and a long list of mortal enemies, so readers can look forward to plenty of dangerous adventures.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ON TARGET

  “Court is endearing in his perseverance even as his schemes are undermined by sympathetic vic
tims, misleading information, outright lies, poor planning, betrayal, conflicting agendas, and simple bad luck . . . An action-filled yet touching story of a man whose reason has long ago been subsumed by his work ethic.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fine characterization, witty dialogue, breathtaking chase and battle scenes, and as many unforeseen twists and turns as your favorite Robert Ludlum or Vince Flynn novel—combined. Moreover, author Mark Greaney supplies verisimilitude as well as anyone in the writing business, along with singular attention to detail that doesn’t merely bring the exotic locales to life: You will feel the bullets whizzing past.”

  —Keith Thomson, New York Times bestselling author of Twice a Spy

  “Greaney writes smart, sharp, perfectly-paced thrillers. Intense, intelligent, and loads of fun. Pick one up and you won’t want to put it down until the last page.”

  —Steven James, bestselling author of Placebo

  “Discovering The Gray Man was like falling in love for the first time. Reading On Target is like going on a second date and realizing this relationship might last the long haul.”

  —Eric Wilson, New York Times bestselling author of Three Fatal Blows

  THE GRAY MAN

  “There’s probably a cheetah on the Serengeti who can get a gazelle moving faster than Mark Greaney gets The Gray Man into overdrive . . . Greaney keeps this vengeance story red-lined and blistering as a hired killer known as the Gray Man burns like det cord through a small army of trained killers in Prague, Zurich, Paris, and beyond as he zeroes in on the wealthy French aristocrat who betrayed him . . . Writing as smooth as stainless steel and a hero as mean as razor wire . . . The Gray Man glitters like a blade in an alley.”

  —David Stone, New York Times bestselling author of The Skorpion Directive

  “Hard, fast, and unflinching—exactly what a thriller should be.”

  —Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Never Go Back