On Target by Mark Greaney Read Free Book Online Page B

shoulder holster stowing an automatic pistol under his arm. Some wore typical Russian mobster suits, but most of them were in camouflage or army green, though not in any sort of coherent uniforms—more like the attire of survivalists or hunters.
    And they were all skinheads. Most stared up at Gentry with malevolence. He presumed it was his long hair and scruffy beard that served as indicators that he was not from the same club as they were. He even wondered if they thought he was a member of whatever particular ethnic group they blamed for all the problems in their shitty lives.
    Fuck ’em, thought Court. He knew he could kick any five of their assess without breaking a shine on his forehead.
    The only problem with his macho self-assuredness, he recognized, was that he’d seen at least ten times that number of men so far on the property.
    Sidorenko’s security setup clearly placed a much higher premium on quantity than quality.
    Finally Gentry passed through a massive gilded double doorway and into an outer office. A male secretary sat behind a desk. He was well-dressed and instantly appeared to Court to be incalculably more competent at his job than were the fifty or so other jokers lounging around this regal shit hole.
    “May I take your coat, sir?” the man inquired in English as he stood behind his desk and stepped around to greet Court.
    “I won’t be staying.”
    The secretary seemed momentarily nonplussed, but he recovered nicely. “As you wish, sir. Please, right through those doors,” he motioned with a gracious smile, but then he spoke to the four guards. “Stay close to him.” It was in Russian, but Gentry understood.
    It was another set of gilded doors, and on the other side it was dark, a large hall, the only light coming from a fireplace to the right of a massive desk at the far end of the wooden-floored room. There was no other furniture in the room, and it was as cold as a meat locker, even with a crackling fireplace. The room echoed like a cathedral as Gentry moved through the dark towards the man behind the desk.
    “Wonderful to meet you finally, Mr. Gray.” Gentry recognized the voice of Gregor Ivanovic Sidorenko. It was high-pitched and nasal, and it matched his face somehow. The man was small of frame, with tiny eyes and narrow features; his eyeglasses seemed as fragile as the rest of him.
    But he was younger than Gentry had imagined him to be. Maybe mid-forties, though he did not seem to be healthy. His thin face made him appear underfed, and his sunken cheeks were sallow even in the dim of the room.
    Sid reached out a hand to Court. Court ignored it. He knew everything since Gdansk—the men, the plane, the limos, the guns, the attitude—was all orchestrated to demonstrate Sid’s authority and control over Gentry. Small men with big power sometimes exert this power disproportionately to compensate for what they consider to be their shortcomings. Nothing Gentry had not seen before, but he knew that he had to fight fire with fire, to exert his own dominance on the situation.
    “We had an agreement. We were not to meet face-to-face. You violated this agreement. I am not like the others that you control. You can’t impress me with a third-rate crew of gold chains and poorly lubricated firearms. I only came along willingly to tell you this, and to tell you that I quit.”
    The young minders around Court could not understand his English, but from the foreigner’s angry and aggressive tone they moved closer to him and looked to their master for guidance. He stayed them with a raised hand, then wiggled his fingertips at them, as if brushing them back into the corners of the room. They complied. Court could hear their retreating footsteps behind him.
    Sidorenko did not take his eyes off of Court. Instead he slowly backed up behind the desk and sat down. He sipped purple tea from a gold-leaf glass. Court thought the man to be intimidated, but the next words out of the Russian mob boss’s mouth