Марк Грини - One Minute Out

He grabbed the radio clipped to his belt and pressed the talk button. A wireless earpiece also contained a microphone so he didn’t have to bring his handset to his mouth. “Station One, reporting in.”

Instantly he heard Luka at the front gate guard station, where two men sat. “Station Two, reporting.”

Then Pyotr on the second-floor window of the bunkhouse. “Station Three.”

“Station Four,” said Karlo on the front porch.

The patrolling men checked in next, and the radio fell silent again.

As soon as the radio checks were complete, Milanko heard a door open in the hall behind him. He didn’t turn around because he was a professional, and he was discreet. It was the old man, heading off towards the rear spiral staircase. Normally a principal protection agent would put himself on the shoulder of his protectee, but Milanko knew where Babic was headed now, and he also knew the old man didn’t want a bodyguard with him.

And Milanko was sure he would not want to witness what Babic was about to do. So he just sat there on the chair, began playing a game on his phone, and protected the empty hallway behind him, waiting for the general’s return from the basement.

• • •

Put your war face on, I tell myself as I slowly push the latch down and crack open the door of the closet, just ten feet or so behind the chair positioned at the top of the stairs. The guard’s back is to me, and I’d just gotten lucky; I’d only had to wait a couple of minutes for him to make his commo check with his team. Now, I have some time. I don’t know how much, because I don’t know their check-in schedule, but I’ll make it work.

My confidence is increasing as I hit my waypoints, one by one.

The hallway is well lit. I reach to the black vest on my chest and pull a knife with a six-inch blade from its sheath, and I close for a silent kill.

• • •

Milanko had spent his entire adult life in the military, and then in various security postings, in both the Serbian government and the Serbian underworld. He had a sixth sense for his job; he could sense trouble, perceive danger before those around him.

And he’d learned to rely on these instincts, so when a sudden feeling of threat registered in his brain, he looked up from his game of Scrabble, then cocked his head to listen for a noise. Hearing nothing did not assuage his concern, so he rose quickly from his chair and turned to check back over his shoulder.

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.

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.