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 just 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.