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?”