GRAVAGLIA
• 51 •
After a thoroughly depressing luncheon during which he had to be civil, pretending to remember relatives he had never met or couldn’t recall, and was unable to have a private word with George. Then Dorian felt tears burning at the back of his eyes, and then his throat closed up as if a vise were tightening on it.
For the first time since he heard of his mother’s passing, Dorian Gray cried.
DORIAN GRAY
• 52 •
CHAPTER FIVE
Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.
Humphrey Bogart.
NEW YORK
PRESENT DAY
In his black combat suit, Dorian Gray—Pretty Boy to the other nine members of his elite covert insertion team—was spotlighted by a full moon that shone like a mighty alabaster beacon. He was tall and lean, and had a head of thick brown hair and open eyes that seemed incapable of hiding a lie.
He perched like a hawk on top of the building. The rooftops were by far the quickest and easiest way to get from one area or the city to another. He moved swiftly along the shadows. Slowly, Dorian scanned the train yard, searching for any sign of hostiles that he knew would be patrolling this sector. Finger on the trigger of his weapon, he was prepared to shoot at anything that moved.
Nothing did.
The aged structures, many decorated with old-world flourishes, offered hundreds of potential perches. Their roofs and windows would provide numerous vantage points for an assassin. And, with the many exterior fire escapes as well as
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 53 •
a roof access hatches down to interior stairwells, there were literally hundreds of escape routes.
On clear nights like this one, the roof offered a good view. The city appeared quiet, but Dorian knew that looks could be deceptive. Who knew what was going on behind closed doors and in the murky back alleys?
Dorian lowered his night vision goggles from his forehead and checked the perimeter again—still nothing.
Nonetheless, in his gut, he felt a twinge of suspicion. He didn’t know what cause it, but he had the feeling, that danger was imminent, and nearby.
Broad-shouldered yet tall and lean, a black stocking cap covered his shimmering brown hair, Dorian carried his submachine gun loosely in both hands, safety off, and his finger was on the trigger.
“Why are you always out front?” Said a voice in his com-link.
Dorian recognized the voice, which belonged to his stepbrother Henry Lord—his best friend and second in command.
Dorian held onto his earpiece. “We’re supposed to be deadly, invisible, and soundless,” he said in a low growl. “Emphasis on the soundless.”
“What, you think a brother can’t walk point?” Asked Henry, his voice was raised above a strained whisper.
Sliding his night-vision goggles up to his forehead, Dorian replied, “Give it a rest, Henry…”
DORIAN GRAY
• 54 •
Though Henry’s kidding riffs could bring a welcome tension break, but now was not the time.
“You don’t have to do this lone gunslinger act, Dorian.” Henry said, with concern. “You should have brought backup.”
“And let them have all the fun? I think not.”
Henry remembered the last mission he went on with Dorian. Their team was a good ten klicks away from their objective until machine-gun fire erupted all around them.
Two of Dorian’s men went down, and the rest dove, finding cover wherever they could. Pinned by two machine-gun nests, the team seemed powerless to fight back. The two nests were fifty yards ahead, one to the left and one to the right, catching the insertion team in a lethal crossfire.
Dorian rose and took off to his right, sprinting serpentine through the woods, screaming as he went, drawing the fire of both enemy positions.
Still, lungs burning, Dorian kept moving.
Behind him, his team was able to start returning fire, and the withering fusillade aimed at Dorian somewhat abated.
Circling around, Dorian came up behind the five men in the machine-gun nest on the right, and emptied the clip of his M-16 their way. The primary weapon and every other gun in the nest turned in Dorian’s direction, and started blasting with no regard for any of their comrades who might still be drawing breath.
Hightailing it out, Dorian used the cover fire from his team to circle back into the woods. Two bad guys from the surviving
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• 55 •
machine-gun nest took after him—both of them were wearing green camouflage, one tall, and the other short.
Dorian easily picked them off like they were ducks at the shooting gallery in Coney Island. Doubling back to the machine-gun nest, Dorian found the other three shooters had retained their attention to his team, trying to mow them down. But Dorian took care of them before they could even pull the trigger.
Henry knew Dorian was the best soldier, but also the most dangerous. Not just to the enemy but also to his teammates…and himself.
Dorian could hear Henry scoff at the other end. “I know what you are capable of, man. But you need a babysitter.”
Dorian smiled. “Why, Henry, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Dorian.”
“Fine, if it makes you feel better send over a squad to my position.”
The first bullet whistled past Dorian’s ear.
“HOLY SHIT!!” Dorian screamed, nearly toppling off his perch.
“Dorian? DORIAN!” Henry was going ballistic over the com-link system. “Report. What’s your status?”
Dorian looked down to see several snipers taking aim. He couldn’t help to smile.
“Now this party has officially started.” He said to Henry, cocking his gun.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Help is on the way.” Henry replied. “Bravo Team, calling Bravo Team. Pretty Boy needs assistance.”
DORIAN GRAY
• 56 •
I hate being called “Pretty Boy.” Dorian snarled. But not as much as being called “Dorie.”
“Let’s
