Page 6 of One Minute Out

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.

---