Page 5 of One Minute Out

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.

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