Марк Грини - One Minute Out

Ratko ate the same food as the men, a habit he’d picked up as a young officer in the Yugoslav army. The Hungarian wine he drank was better than the Žilavka, a Bosnian wine provided to the security team, but that was a small personal allowance to his wealth and his seniority, and none of the boys from Belgrade who watched over him judged him for saving the good stuff for himself.

He’d earned some perks for his lifelong dedication to the cause, and the men from Belgrade all knew it.

Babic put a napkin in his shirt as his chief protection agent leaned into the dining room. “You okay, boss?”

“Fine, Milanko. When I’m finished, I want to go spend time with the boys.”

“Sounds good, sir.” Milanko stepped back into the living room to return to the TV he’d been watching.

Tanja served the old man a steaming bowl of podvarak : sauerkraut casserole filled with bacon and bits of beef.

“Hvala,” he said. Thank you.

Tanja bowed a little and left the dining room.

She didn’t like him; it was obvious to the general that she didn’t approve of what he had done or what he did now, but she’d been sent from Belgrade along with the others and she did what she was told, and that was all an old officer like Babic expected out of anyone.

Petra came in next with a basket of bread and a plate of butter and put it next to him with a nod and a little smile, and Babic reached out and grabbed the nineteen-year-old girl’s ass as she walked away.

She didn’t turn back or even adjust her stride. This was a nightly occurrence for her; she was past the point of caring.

“Cold little bitch,” he said under his breath. Tanja and Milena were plain and middle-aged. Petra, on the other hand, was young and beautiful. But Babic didn’t push it with Petra, because, like all the others here on the farm around him, she came from Belgrade, and Ratko knew he could do just about whatever the fuck he wanted till the day he died, as long as he didn’t leave the farm, and as long as he didn’t piss off the Branjevo Partizans—the Belgrade mob.

He watched her ass wiggle out of the room and then returned his attention to his food.

Behind him the window displayed only darkness, but if he’d bothered to turn his head and peer out, if he’d retained the vision of his younger days, and if he’d concentrated hard in just the right portion of the property, he might have been able to detect a brief flash of movement—fast, from right to left, from the fence line towards the back of the house.

But instead, he dug into his podvarak and sipped his wine, and his mind shifted again to the glorious past.

• • •

After dinner Babic and his protection agent Milanko headed over to the bunkhouse to chat and smoke with the crew still eating there.

He enjoyed his evening visits with the boys; they made him feel respected, important, vital. Long ago it was a sensation he’d known so fully and so well, but now it was a feeling that only came in passing.

As he and Milanko walked through the night, behind them the dogs began barking. The general sighed.

They never shut up.

• • •

Damn dogs. I mean . . . I love dogs, who doesn’t, but not when they’re compromising my op. I knew about the two massive black Belgian Malinois, but their kennels are behind the farmhouse, and I ingressed from the west side and was careful to stay out of the dogs’ line of sight. But clearly they smell me here on the southern side of the building, because they’re going fucking bonkers back there now.

As I squat here picking the lock on the door to a utility room in the darkness, I will myself to go faster and for the two big furry assholes around the corner of the house to shut the hell up.

I’ve used silver-lined body suits to hide my smell from dogs in the past, and they function as advertised, but it’s July and hot as hell here, so if I had put a scent guard on under my ghillie suit I would have dropped dead in my overwatch from heat exhaustion.

With the way I reek right now, the dogs are probably barking out of disgust and not to alert their handlers, but no matter the reason, I have to get this door open, pronto. I’ve been defeating locks for twenty years, and I’m pretty good at it, but this isn’t the movies. It takes time and concentration.

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.