Марк Грини - One Minute Out

“Are you a member or former member of the U.S. military, American law enforcement, or an American intelligence agency?”

“I can’t answer that. Sorry.”

“Okay, you won’t tell me about your distant past. Tell me about your recent past. You assassinated General Babic, saw the women being held there, and then left them behind, running away to save yourself. Am I correct so far?”

“Not very charitable, but also not wrong.”

“And you kill for money, yes?”

She’s drawing conclusions here, but she happens to be right. I think about giving her a non-answer, but I need us to keep up this relationship if I’m going to recover the women. I say, “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no.”

“You are a hit man, then.”

This lady’s not going to be president of my fan club any time soon, I can see that plainly. “I operate. I’ll leave it there. Not all jobs are like the Babic op.”

I turn into a parking garage right outside the pedestrian-only Old Town along the coast. As I look for a place to park, Talyssa says, “These women. What is it about them that is making you do this? I mean . . . why are you even here?”

It’s a variation of a question I ask myself over and over. “They were in a bad situation, and I might have put them in a worse situation. I feel responsible. If I can help . . . I want to do that.” I add, “And I also want to help you find answers about what happened to Roxana.”

“But why ?”

“Because sometimes I have to do what’s right.”

“But you are a killer.”

“I said ‘sometimes.’” I park the car while she thinks. When she doesn’t speak, I say, “I only kill bad people.”

She chuckles mirthlessly, showing me she thinks I’m joking. I don’t reply, but she adds, “Is it maybe that you aren’t so interested in saving people, but are more interested in the action? The danger? The killing? I mean, why else would someone do what you do for a living?”

Damn, she’s hitting close to home, and I don’t like it. I say, “I didn’t choose this life. Let’s leave it there.”

“But you are here now, when you could go anywhere else and do anything else. Do you like to kill? You don’t seem like a psychopath.”

This is her first compliment. “Thanks,” I reply. “This is what I do now. I’m good at it, even though it’s a shitty thing. I figure I might as well use it for good.”

“You kill people for ‘good’?”

We’re sitting in the still car, looking at each other. “You know what Ratko Babic did, don’t you?”

“Of course. I was a baby then, I guess, but I’ve heard the stories. Still . . . that was a long time ago. What is the point in killing an old man now?”

“I like the thought of terrible people hiding out, running scared, because even though they were bad a long time ago, they know that there is someone dangerous out there who hasn’t forgotten about what they did. If there is one chance in a million that the bogeyman is going to come for them to make them pay for their past sins in the present, it will terrorize them. Even if I can’t get to everybody out there who deserves a visit from me, I can give a lot of assholes sleepless nights, and that’s better than nothing.”

“You are a strange man.”

Also fair.

I reach into my backpack and pull an earpiece out of a charging cradle and hand it to her. I pull a second, identical unit out of the cradle and put it in my ear, then cover it with my brown hair, which is plenty long enough to hide it. I say, “Put it in and let your hair cover it. It can transmit and receive, and the charge will last at least sixteen hours. The silicone cap will keep it in place. You could fall off a bridge and it won’t come out. I’ve got another set to switch to if necessary.”

“So I just talk and—”

“And I’ll hear you, so don’t say anything bad about me.” I’m joking, but she’s not in the mood. I can see her stiffening up some, knowing she’s about to become live bait in waters where predators are lurking.

She puts in the earpiece and adjusts her short red hair, slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Wherever you go,” I say, “I’ll be watching.”

“Just don’t kill anyone.” She turns and starts walking out of the garage.

“No promises,” I mutter to myself, and I wonder if she’ll be singing a different tune before this evening is over.

Quickly I reach into my backpack, pull out a black T-shirt and a gray long-sleeved shirt, and reach for a ball cap, but decide against it. Nobody around here is wearing a ball cap, other than the occasional American tourist, so it won’t do a thing to help me blend in. Instead I grab a pair of eyeglasses with uncorrected lenses, and I put my pack over a shoulder. Before Talyssa disappears onto the street I am moving into position behind her.

• • •

She eats a leisurely dinner in an outdoor café, and then strolls the length of Stradun, the main street of the Old Town, where I almost lose her in the heavy crowd of tourists. But I have the benefit of being in comms with her, so I ask her to slow, and soon I’m back in position.

My eyes scan the scene robotically. I’m not looking for people watching her; that would be impossible in such a crowd. Instead my brain is taking in data quickly, only the information relevant to my work, and weeding out anything extraneous. As I shift my eyes to the left and right, I search for likely places for surveillance personnel to position themselves, and then I look at the clothes and hair and age and sex of the people in those places. I can narrow down ninety percent of the public in just a few seconds, and then my eyes lock onto anyone filling out a general threat profile.

The watchers, if there are any, could be either male or female, but they will probably be male, between twenty-five and fifty-five, wearing some sort of clothing a local would wear, and an overgarment or outer garment that covers their waist so they can hide communications gear and/or a weapon.

I pay special attention to those with facial hair, but also those with military-length haircuts, not because I think the Croatian military would be involved in this, but rather because those involved might be regular police, and they often have specific grooming standards that must be maintained.

Even if they are working for some mob element.

If someone fits all the criteria, then I’ll look at their attire, their shoes, their fitness level, and, if they’re wearing them, their sunglasses and their watch.

Trust me, it doesn’t matter where they are from, from Brazil to Hong Kong, there is a look to those in the game.

Not me; I’m careful. I’m not wearing anything tacti-cool and I’m not built up like a linebacker. And, unlike others who do this sort of thing, I keep my eyes moving, but my head doesn’t swivel left and right like I’m guarding the damn president.

But I’m on the lookout for those who do.

It’s exhausting work. My eyes and my brain tire, but I’ve been doing it for so many years I know I can keep it up as long as I have to.

As Talyssa turns off Stradun to head south, I don’t see a tail, but I do see two men who might be interested in her. They aren’t walking behind, but are instead leaning against the wall of the old bell tower between a pair of arched passages that lead directly to the Old Port, a marina just outside the walls of the Old Town. Both are in their thirties; they are thick, tough-looking guys with close-cropped hair, jeans, and tracksuit tops. They’re just smoking and talking, but my eyes lock onto them because of their appearance, and once Talyssa passes their position, I see them turn their heads her way and focus on her exclusively.

Got ’em, I think, but I quickly check my enthusiasm. These guys look like cops, and I’m on the lookout for dirty cops, but these could just as easily be clean cops unaligned with and unaware of the pipeline, ordered by their superiors to find Corbu in the Old Town to make certain she is, indeed, alone.