His arms cartwheel, he drops the knife, and he hits the back of the van face-first.

I thank the Lord the van doesn’t have a burglar alarm, because his impact shakes the vehicle on its shocks.

The Hungarian who had been on my right has pulled himself halfway back up to his feet, but by doing so he’s put his head in a perfect position for me to drop-kick him in the chin. He probably already has whiplash, but this time I just about decapitate him.

He falls down on his back, unconscious like the man next to him.

I point the leader’s gun in the leader’s face as I kneel and speak softly but quickly, knowing Vukovic should be pulling up right now, so there is no more time to hang out in this alley in plain view of the entrance to his building behind me.

“Call your friend. Where’s your radio?” I fish around in his jacket but don’t find anything. “You’re using your mobile phones for comms?”

The man’s nose bleeds freely into his open mouth as he says, “What friend?”

“The lookout over by the mosque. The other—”

The headlights of two vehicles flash in the square behind me, reflecting off the glass of Vukovic’s building, and I know that in seconds the occupants of both vehicles will see me. I’m sure it’s the police chief and his security entourage, so I have to get out of their line of sight somehow. I hoist back my right hand and punch the leader in the jaw, knocking him out cold, same as his colleagues. Hurriedly I drag him behind the van, grab the second man by the arm, and pull him most of the way behind cover.

And then, just as a pair of Mostar Police vehicles turn onto the street that gives them a clear view straight ahead into my alley, I grab the third man, heave him up off the ground, shuffle one step back, and then fall with him onto the other two, mostly out of view behind the van.

But not totally out of view. My feet are sticking out from behind the van, as are those of the dude I’ve got in a bear hug. Looking down I see that the legs of the two men under me are protruding, as well. We’re a big pile of bodies, and we’d be obvious to anyone looking right at us.

But we’re twenty-five yards away, in a relatively dark alleyway, and I’m hoping like hell everybody in the two vehicles rolling to a stop now has their attention elsewhere.

Otherwise I have a shit-ton of explaining to do.

To my right the leader of the group moans softly and starts moving. I slam an elbow into his face, knocking the back of his head into the cobblestones, and the noise and movement stop.

Looking down between my legs, I see three men get out of the two vehicles. Vukovic is in the group, and they all head towards his building.

Nobody looks my way, which is good, but when the three go inside, the two vehicles roll off, which is bad.

Chief Vukovic has company tonight. A pair of bodyguards. It’s too late to snatch him on the street, and breaching his house without getting into a gunfight in the center of town isn’t looking too likely, either.

But just as I sit up and start trying to come up with a plan C, the man in my arms wakes up. He looks around slowly; clearly he’s in no position to put up a fight. I lean into his ear.

“Take your pals and go home. Heal up. If you’re ready in two weeks, come back for Vukovic. Kill him. But I need him alive right now.”

I don’t know if Niko Vukovic will be here in two weeks. He might be in jail, he might be in hiding, and he might be dead. But the Hungarians are my backup if I fail.

I climb to my feet, pushing the dazed man off me.

And then, just as I stand upright, I see the man in the black raincoat from the alcove step up onto the sidewalk, walking towards the police chief’s house.

He starts to turn in my direction, and I freeze again, but this time it doesn’t work. The man’s eyes lock on mine.

And now I see that this is not a man.

A young woman stares at me, mouth agape. She stops walking and stands there in the middle of the street.

The lookout is a woman? Why not?

Assuming she has put together the fact that I just beat the shit out of her three cohorts, I expect her to draw on me if she’s carrying a weapon. I’ve got my Glock in my waistband, and I begin to reach for it, but the lookout, standing twenty yards away, does something I don’t expect.

She turns to her left and runs, disappearing around the corner of a building in an instant.

I take off as well, giving chase.

TEN

   I turn and search the darkened little square for the lady in the black raincoat. I don’t see her, but I do see the elongating shadow of a figure running through one of the side streets to the east.

I leap onto and then over a bench and I race around little trees, up a steeply angled cobblestoned street. I cross a footbridge over the Neretva, passing where I saw the shadow, which I can no longer find, although I do catch a quick flash of movement ahead and on the left.

A car door shuts quickly. The driver fires the engine of the two-door hatchback. An instant later, headlights engulf me as the vehicle lurches in my direction.

I am not one hundred percent sure this is the black raincoat lady, but I like the odds. I definitely don’t want to fire my pistol and alert the entire neighborhood, but I draw it anyway, hoping the lethal weapon in my hand will force the driver to stop the lethal weapon barreling down on me before it runs me over.

Like magic, the Glock 19 does the trick. The car skids to a halt feet away, with me standing in its path, my gun leveled at the driver’s head through the windshield.

I move around to the passenger side and get in, still keeping the barrel trained on the driver. Only now do I see that this is, in fact, the woman in the black raincoat.

Her hair is covered by her hood, but wisps of dyed red hair poke out. Her skin is alabaster white, her eyes wide, heavily bloodshot and with gray half-moons under them.

And they are locked on the weapon pointed at her.

“You armed?” I ask it in English, because I don’t speak Hungarian.

“What?”

“Gun! Do you have a gun?”

I can see in her eyes that she does. After a moment she gives a little nod and speaks through the heavy breath that came from her run through the square and across the bridge. “It’s . . . in my . . . pocket.” She has an accent, but it’s faint. Her English is flawless.

I wait a few seconds, then say, “If you tell me which pocket, then I won’t have to run my hands all over you. We just met, after all.”

She looks scared shitless, and in a voice that confirms to me she is, in fact, scared shitless, she says, “My jacket. On the right.”

I reach in and pull out a stainless semiauto that looks and feels like a piece of junk. I stick it in my back pocket, then say, “Anything else?”