One Minute Out Page 2

  Petra came in next with a basket of bread and a plate of butter and put it next to him with a nod and a little smile, and Babic reached out and grabbed the nineteen-year-old girl’s ass as she walked away.

  She didn’t turn back or even adjust her stride. This was a nightly occurrence for her; she was past the point of caring.

  “Cold little bitch,” he said under his breath. Tanja and Milena were plain and middle-aged. Petra, on the other hand, was young and beautiful. But Babic didn’t push it with Petra, because, like all the others here on the farm around him, she came from Belgrade, and Ratko knew he could do just about whatever the fuck he wanted till the day he died, as long as he didn’t leave the farm, and as long as he didn’t piss off the Branjevo Partizans—the Belgrade mob.

  He watched her ass wiggle out of the room and then returned his attention to his food.

  Behind him the window displayed only darkness, but if he’d bothered to turn his head and peer out, if he’d retained the vision of his younger days, and if he’d concentrated hard in just the right portion of the property, he might have been able to detect a brief flash of movement—fast, from right to left, from the fence line towards the back of the house.

  But instead, he dug into his podvarak and sipped his wine, and his mind shifted again to the glorious past.

  * * *

  • • •

  After dinner Babic and his protection agent Milanko headed over to the bunkhouse to chat and smoke with the crew still eating there.

  He enjoyed his evening visits with the boys; they made him feel respected, important, vital. Long ago it was a sensation he’d known so fully and so well, but now it was a feeling that only came in passing.

  As he and Milanko walked through the night, behind them the dogs began barking. The general sighed.

  They never shut up.

  * * *

  • • •

  Damn dogs. I mean . . . I love dogs, who doesn’t, but not when they’re compromising my op. I knew about the two massive black Belgian Malinois, but their kennels are behind the farmhouse, and I ingressed from the west side and was careful to stay out of the dogs’ line of sight. But clearly they smell me here on the southern side of the building, because they’re going fucking bonkers back there now.

  As I squat here picking the lock on the door to a utility room in the darkness, I will myself to go faster and for the two big furry assholes around the corner of the house to shut the hell up.

  I’ve used silver-lined body suits to hide my smell from dogs in the past, and they function as advertised, but it’s July and hot as hell here, so if I had put a scent guard on under my ghillie suit I would have dropped dead in my overwatch from heat exhaustion.

  With the way I reek right now, the dogs are probably barking out of disgust and not to alert their handlers, but no matter the reason, I have to get this door open, pronto. I’ve been defeating locks for twenty years, and I’m pretty good at it, but this isn’t the movies. It takes time and concentration.

  I hear footsteps approaching on the gravel drive at the front of the house, moving in my direction. Just one person; it must be a cook or a guard coming over to check on the Malinois in their kennels. Either way, I have a silenced Glock, a couple of knives, and a B&T ultracompact submachine gun. I can kill anyone in my way, but doing so while Ratko is on the other side of the property surrounded by seven or eight bodyguards would most definitely be the wrong move for me.

  So . . . open the fucking door already, Gentry.

  As the footsteps grow louder I rake the last tumbler into place and I hear the click as the latch gives—and I slip inside with only a few seconds to spare.

  Outside the footsteps continue past the door towards the kennels, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

  I’m in.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ratko Babic sat smoking and drinking with the off-duty men from the Belgrade detail till after eleven, and then he made his way back over to the farmhouse with his bodyguard at his side.

  This night was like any other on the farm. The rest of the protection team patrolled the grounds or sat in static positions. One was on the front porch, night vision goggles on his forehead, ready to pull down at the first sound of trouble. Two other men covered the driveway from a concrete pillbox mostly hidden in tall grass, and another from the roof of the bunkhouse, while another pair patrolled the fence line.

  This security plan had kept Babic safe for the past several years, but the truth was, these men were not here to protect Ratko Babic himself.

  They were here to protect the farm and, more specifically, what secrets the farm hid.

  * * *

  • • •

  The seventy-five-year-old climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor with Milanko behind him. Babic would go to his room for a quick shower, take a pill . . . perhaps two, drink some more wine, and then he would enjoy a little recreation before bed. His nap had rested him, prepared him for what was to come, and if Milanko was aware of his boss’s plans, he had the good manners to give no indication of it.

  The old man felt the first little surge of excitement in his chest of the day, and this depressed him some. There wasn’t much left to live for, he told himself. His service to his people was long ago; now he served other masters, and this work did not fill him with one one-hundredth of the same pride.

  * * *

  • • •

  Once Milanko saw the general to his bedroom, he turned and walked back up the hall for the large wooden circular staircase. There was a chair at the top, and he’d sit here for a couple of hours, facing the lighted stairwell, to provide protection to the man behind him. He wasn’t worried about Babic. The bastard had lived invisibly since the 1990s. First moving around Serbia, Bosnia, and Macedonia, and then settling here some ten years back. Now the general was nothing more than a caretaker and, Milanko had to admit, he was good at his job. He was efficient and organized and he led the people under him like the military officer he had once been. And, more importantly than anything, he had impressed his employers with his discretion and his willingness to do that which must be done.

  So Milanko sat up here and kept him alive.

  He glanced down at his watch and realized it was time for the radio check. Normally he initiated it, because he was leader of the detail, although sometimes he’d be otherwise occupied so one of his subordinates would make the initial call.

  He grabbed the radio clipped to his belt and pressed the talk button. A wireless earpiece also contained a microphone so he didn’t have to bring his handset to his mouth. “Station One, reporting in.”

  Instantly he heard Luka at the front gate guard station, where two men sat. “Station Two, reporting.”

  Then Pyotr on the second-floor window of the bunkhouse. “Station Three.”

  “Station Four,” said Karlo on the front porch.

  The patrolling men checked in next, and the radio fell silent again.

  As soon as the radio checks were complete, Milanko heard a door open in the hall behind him. He didn’t turn around because he was a professional, and he was discreet. It was the old man, heading off towards the rear spiral staircase. Normally a principal protection agent would put himself on the shoulder of his protectee, but Milanko knew where Babic was headed now, and he also knew the old man didn’t want a bodyguard with him.

  And Milanko was sure he would not want to witness what Babic was about to do. So he just sat there on the chair, began playing a game on his phone, and protected the empty hallway behind him, waiting for the general’s return from the basement.

  * * *

  • • •

  Put your war face on, I tell myself as I slowly push the latch down and crack open the door of the closet, just ten feet or so behind the chair positioned at the top of the stairs. The guard’s back is to me, and I’d j
ust gotten lucky; I’d only had to wait a couple of minutes for him to make his commo check with his team. Now, I have some time. I don’t know how much, because I don’t know their check-in schedule, but I’ll make it work.

  My confidence is increasing as I hit my waypoints, one by one.

  The hallway is well lit. I reach to the black vest on my chest and pull a knife with a six-inch blade from its sheath, and I close for a silent kill.

  * * *

  • • •

  Milanko had spent his entire adult life in the military, and then in various security postings, in both the Serbian government and the Serbian underworld. He had a sixth sense for his job; he could sense trouble, perceive danger before those around him.

  And he’d learned to rely on these instincts, so when a sudden feeling of threat registered in his brain, he looked up from his game of Scrabble, then cocked his head to listen for a noise. Hearing nothing did not assuage his concern, so he rose quickly from his chair and turned to check back over his shoulder.

  A man stood two paces away, head to toe in black, a balaclava covering the lower half of his face.

  Before he could even shout in surprise, Milanko saw a black blade coming for him, and then he felt it buried in his throat.

  The man holding the knife embraced him, pulled him over the chair, and then pushed him up against the wall.

  Milanko felt no pain, just a sense of shock and confusion, and then, shortly before his world went black, he felt one more thing.

  He felt like he’d failed.

  THREE

  I don’t get off on this. But it’s the job. The sentry needs to be silenced before he can alert either my target or the rest of his comrades, so I jam my knife into his throat, yank his weakening body up to the wall, and hold him there, waiting for the kicking and shaking to subside.

  He barely makes a noise as he dies.

  Nothing like a blade through the windpipe to shut you up and shut you down.

  Snapping his radio onto my belt and putting his earpiece in my ear, I wipe my knife off on his pants leg and resheathe it. I draw my suppressed Glock and cover up the hallway, then spin to check down the stairs.

  No threats, no noise.

  I drag the body into the closet off the hallway where I’d been waiting, lay him there with blood all over him, then look down and see the red smears on my own filthy black clothing and tactical gear.

  The sentry wasn’t my target, but he also wasn’t exactly collateral damage.

  I myself have been the guy working close protection for some asshole, although I only did it in cover and on the job for some cause that I thought to be worthy. Unlike this guy in the closet, I don’t work to keep the shitheads of the world alive.

  I pretty much do the opposite.

  So while I might feel a twinge of regret acing some working stiff who made a bad career choice, I do it anyway.

  Sorry, buddy. Slinging a gun for the bad guys can get you killed. If you didn’t know that already, then I can’t help you.

  I open the door to Babic’s room slowly, look around, and am surprised to find it empty. His bathroom is a dry hole, as well. I step back out into the hall, certain I heard the old man come this way minutes earlier, confused about where he’s disappeared to. I hold the Glock high, scanning left and right, and I notice a covert door on the wall at the opposite end of the hallway. Opening it, I find a circular staircase that leads down.

  It’s dark as hell, ominous looking, but I guess I’m going down there.

  I flip down my NOD, night observation device, and it pulls in and magnifies the ambient light, turning it into a dim green hue before me.

  I begin my slow descent, with my weapon at the end of an extended arm.

  I move as quickly as I can down the stairs, while still doing my best to remain as silent as possible. I’m working with an accelerated clock now because, sooner or later, someone is going to check in with the guy I just aced.

  I descend one flight, which takes me back to the ground level of the house. Here I find a landing with another narrow door, just like upstairs, but I also see that the circular stairs continue down.

  Did he go back to the main floor? Or did he go down into the cellar?

  Something tells me to keep descending.

  I arrive at the basement, satisfied that my climb down the metal staircase was as quiet as I could make it, but once here, I realize a little noise wouldn’t have posed a problem. I hear music, some sort of pop shit that surprises me considering that this guy seems a bit old for that, but it does at least give me a hint there might be someone down here.

  There is a narrow hallway with doors on either side and a door at the end, and enough illumination from a string of white Christmas lights staple-gunned to the ceiling for me to flip up my NOD. I adjust my B&T submachine gun so that it’s hanging from its sling at the small of my back and begin moving with well-practiced footwork that keeps me damn near silent.

  The music gets louder with each step forward; my pistol is trained on the door at the end of the hall because that seems to be the origin of the crappy tune, but as I arrive at the doors to the left and right, I know I have to clear the space behind them.

  The door on the right opens with a slow turn of the latch; as soon as I crack it I see that the room beyond is pitch-black, so I quickly re-don my night vision equipment.

  Dirty mattresses line the floor along with cigarette butts and soiled sheets.

  What looks like dried blood stains the walls.

  Shit.

  Someone has been living in these horrible dark conditions, a prisoner here, no doubt, but I don’t take the time to dig into how long ago they vacated.

  I’m here for the general; thinking about anything else right now is just going to get in the way.

  There are a tiny washbasin and a toilet in a small room beyond, but the area is clear, so I head back into the hall to check the second room.

  I keep my NOD down over my eyes as I crack the door, but upon seeing red lighting in the room, I flip it up again quickly. I open the door and swing in with my pistol.

  Two heads turn my way in surprise, and then in utter shock, because an armed man dressed in black with his face covered is an understandably distressing sight.

  Illuminated by dim red light, a young woman sits on a bed; she’s wearing a dirty button-down shirt sized for a man. It’s open and her large breasts are exposed. Her hair is frazzled, she has an unkempt and tired appearance, and her face is a mask of horror now as she looks my way.

  She has a black eye that looks fresh to me, even in the weird lighting.

  And standing above her at the side of the bed is an older man with his shirt off, his girth hanging over his pants, his belt doubled in his hand as if he just removed it so he could use it to beat the woman.

  I look the man over, but not for long.

  Target . . . fucking . . . acquired.

  “Evening, Ratko.”

  He says something in Serbian I don’t understand, but fortunately he seems to be fluent in gun-in-the-face because when I raise the Glock towards him he shuts the fuck up. He shows confusion, as if he’s wondering how the hell this lone gunman made it through all his boys above, but he’s not showing much in the way of fear.

  “No shoot,” he says. “What do you want?”

  And here we go. English. The international language of begging for one’s life.

  Before I can answer his question by drawing my knife and stabbing him through his intestines, the woman climbs off the bed, raising her hands in the air. This is a ballsy move in front of a guy waving around a 9-millimeter, but she seems to get that I’m not here for her.

  The girl looks at me, then at the door. I nod, knowing that whatever was going on here wasn’t consensual, and I doubt she’s about to go running to the protection guys to be a tattletale.


  The woman passes me, her hands still raised and her eyes never leaving mine, and she disappears out the door.

  Now Ratko and I have our alone time.

  “You are the assassin, yes?”

  This dude’s a fucking genius. “I am an assassin, yes.”

  “I tell you . . . I have no regrets.”

  “Yeah? Me, either. Especially not about this.” I advance on him.

  “You . . . you are the Gray Man.”

  I stop. He’s right, unfortunately. Some people know of me by that ridiculous nickname. But how does he know who I am? I want to get on with it, but my own personal security concerns tell me to dig into his comment. “Why do you say that?”

  “Belgrade send me their best men. They say, ‘Only Gray Man can get you now, but Gray Man not real, so do not worry.’ I listen to them. I do not worry.”

  I take another step forward; I’m almost in contact distance now. “No reason in worrying about things you can’t change.”

  “They say . . . that you are a ghost.”

  “I get that a lot.” Quickly I snap the suppressed pistol into the Kydex holster on my hip and draw the black, six-inch blade from the sheath on my chest.

  The gun didn’t faze him. I guess he’s ready to die, but he clearly does not like the looks of the knife in my hand. His eyes fill with terror as he realizes I have plans for him, and this won’t be a quick and painless end to his long, horrible life, after all.

  I slip a gloved hand around his thick throat and push him up against the wall. The tanto blade of the Spyderco knife is pointed at his midsection, an inch away from drawing blood.

  Quickly he says, “What does Gray Man want?”

  I hold the blade up in front of his face. “For this to hurt.”