Page 12 of One Minute Out

“Where are they going?”

She shrugs. “Sex work in Europe, I think. But they no make money. They will be slaves. Just products to be used.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Liliana. What is your name?”

“Prince Harry.” I’m British, might as well take advantage of it. She either doesn’t get the joke or doesn’t like the joke, but either way, she makes no response.

I ask, “Where are you from?”

“A village near Tiraspol. It is in Moldova.” I know where Tiraspol is, I’ve been there, but I don’t let on.

“Why you here?” she asks.

“I came for Babic.”

“That is the old man?”

“Yes.”

“You kill him?”

With a shrug I say, “I did.”

“You Albanian mafia?”

What a strange question, I think, but I just say, “No. Someone else hired me.”

But then I think about it. That someone is unknown to me. Hell, for all I know, I am working for the Albanians, though that would be a first. I used a broker in this industry, a shadowy guy on the dark web who I know to be reliable enough. After he established my bona fides, he’d offered me something like ten ops over a couple of months, all of which I turned down, until the day I opened an e-mail to see “General Ratko Babic” on the top of the target portfolio.

Yeah, I told myself at the time. This one, I’ll do. The pay was one point one million, but I would have worked pro bono. A half mil has already been put in my account in good faith, and my return display of good faith was to shoot that worthless sack of shit and let him bleed out, which I just did.

Services rendered. Whoever the hell paid for this hit, be they sinner or saint, I expect them to be another satisfied customer.

“I don’t know where to go,” the girl says, and I realize I’m thinking the same thing. All those women and girls back in that chamber of horrors are still there. There are still armed men around them, and the victims still have the fear of retaliation to their families if they go against the wishes of those holding them.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe one week.”

“There are kids in there, aren’t there?”

Liliana nodded, still facing away. “One is fourteen. Two are fifteen. Two are sixteen.”

Christ. I loosen my hold on the woman, and she scoots away a little, but she doesn’t get up and run. She just turns towards me. I still have my balaclava covering my face, so I let her do it.

I say, “I have a Jeep. I can take you to Mostar. It’s not far. You can tell the police what happened. Maybe they can—”

I stop talking when her expression changes. She regards me like I’m nuts. Slowly she shakes her head.

“No police?” I ask.

“Police are bad, Harry.”

“Mostar police?”

What sounds like a weak laugh comes from her, and she looks off to the sound of barking dogs, which now seem to be even farther away. “Mostar police. Belgrade police. Tiraspol police.”

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