Dead Eye by Mark Greaney (English) Paperback Book

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Ex-CIA master assassin Court Gentry has always prided himself on his ability to disappear at will, 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 just like him. Tall Premium Edition.

FORMATPaperback LANGUAGEEnglish CONDITIONBrand New Publisher Description

Ex-CIA master assassin Court Gentry gets hit with a blast from the past in the fourth Gray Man novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Mark Greaney.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...

Author Biography

Mark Greaney has a degree in international relations and political science. In his research for the Gray Man novels, including Agent in Place, Gunmetal Gray, Back Blast, Dead Eye, Ballistic, On Target, and The Gray Man, he traveled to more than fifteen countries and trained alongside military and law enforcement in the use of firearms, battlefield medicine, and close-range combative tactics. He is also the author of the New York Times bestsellers Tom Clancy Support and Defend, Tom Clancy Full Force and Effect, Tom Clancy Commander in Chief, and Tom Clancy True Faith and Allegiance. With Tom Clancy, he coauthored Locked On, Threat Vector, and Command Authority.

Review

Praise for Dead Eye"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."—Publishers WeeklyMore praise for the Gray Man novels"Hard, fast, and unflinching—exactly what a thriller should be."—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child "Bourne for the new millennium."—New York Times bestselling author James Rollins"Writing as smooth as stainless steel and a hero as mean as razor wire."—New York Times bestselling author David Stone"The story is so propulsive, the murders so explosive, that flipping the pages feels like playing the ultimate video game."—The New York Times"A high-octane thriller that doesn't pause for more than a second for all of its 464 pages."—Chicago Sun-Times"Take fictional spy Jason Bourne, pump him up with Red Bull and meth, shake vigorously—and you've got the recipe for Court Gentry."—The Memphis Commercial Appeal

Review Quote

Praise for Dead Eye

Excerpt from Book

One The Lincoln squealed through a hard left turn, drifting in the slick intersection awash in the glow of headlights from angry oncoming traffic. It raced up Crescent Place and then past a small, unlit sign that read Townsend Government Services. After squeezing through electronically-operated iron gates still in the process of opening, it rolled up a winding driveway lined with bare cherry trees to a huge peach-hued brick mansion bathed in floodlights. Lee Babbitt climbed out of the Lincoln without a word to the driver and ran through the cold rain up the stone steps of the residence, passing through a door held open by a lean man in a sport coat. In the round marble foyer of the building, two more young men with military haircuts and civilian clothing stood with Heckler & Koch automatic weapons hanging from slings over their shoulders. Before anyone spoke, a man in his late thirties, some decade younger than Babbitt, came rushing up a long hallway that led to the rear of the building. He wore a cardigan sweater and corduroy slacks, and an assortment of card keys and laminated badges bounced on his chest from a chain around his neck. Babbitt met the younger man in the middle of the foyer, and his voice echoed off marble. "It''s happening?" "It''s happening," the man in the cardigan confirmed. "The assault is underway?" "Infiltrating to target as we speak." "One man? One man is going to hit that fucking fortress?" "Yes, sir." "And it''s him? It''s our boy?" Jeff Parks took his boss by the arm and quickly ushered him back up the hall. "We think so." "You''ll have to do better than that," Babbitt said. While he walked, he unfastened his bow tie and opened the top button on his shirt, freeing his thick neck. "There is more than one motherfucker out there who wants to stick a knife into the neck of Gregor Sidorenko." The long hallway was trimmed in stained cherry, and the tastefully lit walls were adorned with fine art of the American West. There were Russell watercolors of cowboys on a cattle drive, regal George Catlin portraits of Native Americans, and a pair of Frederick Remington desertscapes worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, as well as a Remington bronzed buffalo statue on a side table lit by antler lamps. As they rushed up the corridor, Babbitt pulled off his damp jacket and slung it over his arm. He asked, "How did we pick him up?" "One of the UAVs was up on a calibration flight. No one expected activity tonight. It''s Saturday; a party was in full swing at the target location until about an hour ago, which put three times the number of personnel on scene as normal. Plus, the weather''s shit and the next illumination cycle isn''t for two days." "Right." "The ScanEagle pilot spotted movement a half mile off the coast. We tracked the signature for less than a minute before determining we were most likely looking at a singleton attack on Sid''s property." "Speedboat?" "Negative." "Scuba? That water must be less than forty deg-" "He''s not swimming." "Then how-" Parks stopped at a door and looked up to his boss with a grin. "You need to see this shit for yourself." Parks scanned a card from his chain through a reader next to a heavy oaken door, then opened the door to reveal a staircase. He followed his boss down, the older man''s patent leather shoes echoing in the stairwell. At the base of the stairs was another corridor; this one went back in the opposite direction, and it was, in contrast to the hallway above, narrow, dimly lit, and utilitarian, though its walls were also adorned. As the two men hurried up the hall they passed several lighted shadow boxes of differing size. Inside the first ones were tintypes and wet-plate prints of severe, bearded men in black coats and top hats, hefting shotguns and standing alongside caskets propped up, dead men inside pine boxes looking back at the photographer with eyes covered with coins. With these photos were mounted artifacts of the Old West-faded telegrams, single-action revolvers, stirrups and handcuffs, even a man''s dress shirt, torn and stained with old black blood. Babbitt and Parks ignored the shadow boxes as they walked. They''d passed them countless times. "So we have no assets in place?" Babbitt asked. "I established comms with Trestle Actual, told him he had twenty mikes to assemble his boys and kit up. They are thirty miles away in St. Pete on R & R, but no worries. The UAV will track the target through the exfil. We''ve found him." A satisfied smile. "We''ll get him." A display containing a costume beard and wads of deutschmarks taken from a captured Serbian war criminal was on their left now, and, on their right, a photograph of two men with wide smiles and thumbs up, their eyes obscured with superimposed black bands, standing next to a bleary-eyed and shackled Manuel Noriega in the back of a cargo aircraft. A gold automatic pistol taken from one of Saddam''s palaces was mounted in a case near the end of the hallway, and a row of photos of more men and even a few women, their eyes again blacked out, standing around men with bagged heads and shackles. The hallway displayed the secret history of this organization, a force of outlaw hunters that reached back one hundred fifty years, and although neither of the two men hurrying up the corridor were thinking of it now, they fully expected to commission a new memorial very soon to commemorate the successful resolution of their current hunt. At the end of the hall was a well-lit alcove, and here another man with a military haircut stood at parade rest next to a small desk. An HK submachine gun hung from a sling over his shoulder, and to his right, a heavy steel door was flush with the wall. A small sign on the door read Signal Room-Biometric Access Only. The guard at the door said, "Evening, Mr. Babbitt. Sweet tux." Lee Babbitt placed his hand on a small screen on the wall next to the door. As he waited there for the biometric finger reader to confirm his identity, he acknowledged the man. "Al." "Just say the word and we''re wheels up." Babbitt shrugged as he waited impatiently. "Trestle''s turn at bat, Al. Jumper''s on deck. You guys will get a shot next time." A muffled click came from inside the door, and Al reached for the handle, pulling it open and allowing Babbitt and Parks to pass through. As the two men entered, the guard outside shut the door behind them and the heavy lock reengaged. This room was lit only by computer monitors and video screens; the opposite wall was half-filled with a ten-foot-wide and seven-foot-high plasma display, and small glass-walled offices ran off the left and right of the main area. A young woman in jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt appeared in the dim glow and handed Babbitt and Parks wireless headsets, which they both donned. The room was mostly quiet, though alive with movement on every display. Men and women, some dozen in all, sat at their desks, attached by headset umbilical cords to communications equipment and computers. Babbitt was still positioning his earpiece and pulling the microphone into place over his lips as he asked, "Time to target?" A female voice came through his headset. "Feet dry in ten seconds. He''ll be on the X in under five mikes." Babbitt stared at the center screen. An infrared image was projected in the middle, and it was surrounded by digital readouts. Altitude, temperature, barometric pressure, compass heading, and wind speed. He leaned closer, squinting at the image being tracked by the camera. The female voice followed up her last transmission. "Feet dry. Oh three five six local time." The cold sea had sharpened the relief of the target when it traveled over water, but now, over land, the image was less clear. A sensor operator flipped a button and the infrared signature reversed. Now the white-hot moving object became black-hot, the earth below turned lighter hues of gray, and the new picture clearly identified the target as a man under a small delta wing, with an engine pouring heat into the cold air behind it. "What the hell am I looking at?" Babbitt asked the room, a tinge of marvel in his voice. Next to him, Parks answered, "He''s flying, Lee. It''s a one-man air raid." "Flying what?" Babbitt muttered, and he stepped closer to the screen. "That''s not an airplane. Not a helo, either." "No sir, it is not," Parks confirmed with a smile. Two Four thousand four hundred fifty-two miles east of Washington, D.C., a small craft buzzed six hundred feet above snow-covered treetops, its thin fluttering wings reaching wide for lift in the unstable air and its sharp nose pointing toward its next waypoint, just under a kilometer away. St. Petersburg glowed gray in the east, its waterfront lights barely penetrating the snow and the darkness. To the west was nothing but black. The Gulf of Finland. Open water all the way to Helsinki, nearly two hundred miles distant. And directly ahead, a few pinpricks of light. The hamlet of Ushkovo was not much, just a dozen homes and buildings and a railroad station, but it was surrounded by the Lintula Larch Forest, so the lights on there at four a.m. made an easily identifiable waypoint for the man flying through the black sky. The aircraft was a microlight trike, a hang glider with a tiny fiberglass open cockpit below for the

Details ISBN0399586679 Author Mark Greaney Short Title DEAD EYE Pages 624 Series Gray Man Language English ISBN-10 0399586679 ISBN-13 9780399586675 DEWEY FIC Series Number 4 Year 2018 Publication Date 2018-07-31 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2018-07-31 NZ Release Date 2018-07-31 US Release Date 2018-07-31 UK Release Date 2018-07-31 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Format Paperback Imprint Berkley Publishing Corporation,U.S. Audience General We've got this

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