Dead Eye (Court Gentry, Book 4) by Mark Greaney

By Mark Greaney

Ex-CIA grasp murderer courtroom Gentry has constantly prided himself on his skill to vanish at will, to fly less than the radar and exist within the shadows—to live to tell the tale because the near-mythical grey guy. but if he is taking revenge upon a former organisation who betrayed him, he exposes himself to anything he’s by no means needed to face before.

A killer who's similar to him.

Code-named useless Eye, Russell Whitlock is a graduate of a similar ultra-secret self reliant Asset software that informed and as soon as managed Gentry. yet now, Whitlock is a unfastened agent who has been directed to terminate his fellow scholar of demise. He is familiar with how his objective thinks, how he strikes, and the way he kills. And he understands tips on how to do the task is to make Gentry run for his life—right up till the instant lifeless Eye ultimately ends it

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Extra resources for Dead Eye (Court Gentry, Book 4)

Sample text

Obvious and inevitable. First lesson learned: Don’t go where it’s comfortable. Something bad will be waiting. I don’t remember any swear words yet, so under my breath I just repeat formless murmurs. Like grunting, only they would be words if I could remember. There was no swearing in the Dreamtime. How wrong was that? What could they possibly… “I want it to stop,” I croak. ” I begin to rant. I’m special, I have needs, I have a job to do—once I get my act together. I’m going to be important. I get so angry I start to feel weak.

We stand. We walk. One by one, beginning with Pushingar, we run forward—I think, I hope. I have no idea where we’re going and suspect neither does the little girl. Maybe Pushingar or the other two know something, but they’re not talking—just running. The floor is getting very cold. It’s starting all over again, variations on a nasty theme. Chasing heat, staying alive, seeking food—seeking answers really low on the list of my frustrated basic drives. Minutes of running. Maybe only seconds. But something visible ahead—a wall.

Last chance. I stretch my legs, connect solidly with the edge of the sheet, kick as hard as I can, and arrow toward the fistula. The sheet spins and moves off in the general direction of a new heaviness. … I glide toward it, arguably toward the safer option, hungry, scared out of my wits. I see it behind me again, the toothy snout and beak so close! I can smell its acid, sour-sweet breath— I’m through! I slam into the far surface of the tube, then scramble for purchase with my raw knees and feet and hands to get out of the way of what I know is coming— The rasp and head thrusts through the fistula, beak snapping, teeth gnashing, meshing, gnashing in reverse, then withdrawing behind thick lips, the whole apparatus sphinctering shut.

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