Ex-CIA master assassin Court Gentry has always prided himself on his ability to disappear at will, to fly below the radar and exist in the shadows—to survive as the near-mythical Gray Man.
But when he takes revenge upon a former employer who betrayed him, he exposes himself to something he’s never had to face before.
A killer who is just like him.
Code-named Dead Eye, Russell Whitlock is a graduate of the same ultra-secret Autonomous Asset Program that trained and once controlled Gentry. But now, Whitlock is a free agent who has been directed to terminate his fellow student of death. He knows how his target thinks, how he moves, and how he kills. And he knows the best way to do the job is to make Gentry run for his life—right up until the moment Dead Eye finally ends it.
“The various moves of each of the skilled and ruthless principals play out against a constantly shifting background of changing goals and allegiances. Fans of superhuman antiheroes will hope the Gray Man survives to fight another day”
“DEAD EYE. . . ”
“…happens to be Greaney’s best effort to date, worth sweeping aside whatever duties you have to steal several hours of your time and attention as it raises your pulse and blood pressure from first page to last.”
“A fascinating character with his own set of moral guidelines, the Gray Man is resourceful, resilient and determined to clear his name.”
Leland Babbitt shot through the doors of the Hay-Adams Hotel and ran down the steps to the street like he had someplace to be. The White House was just across Lafayette Square, awash in lights and radiant in the cold rainy evening, but Babbitt ignored the view, looked to his right, and began racing toward the limo waiting for him there.
The chauffeur hadn’t been expecting his passenger for another hour and a half, but he was a pro; he quickly extracted himself from the warm Town Car and opened the back door. He noticed that the man seemed to have forgotten his overcoat in his haste—to say nothing of his wife. The thickly built passenger folded quickly into the limo; the driver climbed back behind the wheel and looked into the rearview mirror for instructions.
In a voice commanding yet hurried, Babbitt said, “Sixteen twentysix Crescent Place. Break every law you need to break, but get me there now!”
The chauffeur didn’t know his passenger; he’d only been hired for the night to ferry Mr. Babbitt and his wife from their home in Chevy Chase to a black-tie gala here at the Hay-Adams, and then back home again. But the driver knew this town. He’d been shuffling VIPs around D.C. for a quarter century; this wasn’t the first time some suit had told him to blow through the lights to get to a destination on the double.
He started the engine. “You got a badge?” he asked, still making eye contact with the man in the backseat via the rearview mirror.
“Play like I said yes.” The chauffeur’s eyebrows rose now. He’d danced this dance before. “National security?” he asked.
“You bet your ass.”
With a shrug the driver said, “That’ll work,” and he shoved the transmission into gear and squealed the tires. Behind him, his passenger lifted his cell phone to his ear.
“En route.”
