Early the next morning, they dressed casual, returned to Kypseli, and slipped through a back entrance into an apartment facing the target building. They went from apartment to apartment to request a room to rent, but the language barrier proved to be more of an obstacle than the movie production pitch.
They hit the jackpot on the second floor, though, when an elderly Pakistani man let them inside and showed them a room. One area of the wall was a patchwork of three colors: an unfinished yellow paint, the beige color beneath, and a worn patch of brown wood below it all. Scribbled on part of the beige color were childlike drawings, and a makeshift curtain hung from a rope by clothespins. Sonny opened the curtain partway, finding an excellent view of the target building across the street.
The Pakistani wrinkled his nose. “Albanian mafia, rude they are,” he said.
“The men across the street are Albanian mafia?” Hannah asked.
The Pakistani nodded. “Communism fell. Albanians illegally immigrated. Crime organizations they make.”
“What else do you know about the men across the street?” she asked.
“Albanian mafia, police hate.”
“Anything else?” She showed him a photo of Michael.
The Pakistani shrugged as if he didn’t recognize Michael. “Albanian mafia rude. Women buy and sell. Money take. You room want?”
“Human trafficking and extortion doesn’t equal Michael being in there,” Sonny said.
Maybe I’m wrong this time. But there’s only one way to find out. “It’s the best lead we’ve had,” Chris said.
After some haggling with the Pakistani, they settled on a price.
Peering through the window, they could see there was a new guard across the street, taking the place of the one the night before. This guard was taller but not as stocky and had a permanent scowl.
“The right window on the fourth floor is protected with metal bars,” Sonny noted.
Chris nodded. “Maybe these Albanians are more interested in keeping someone inside than keeping people out.”
Smoke rolled out of an apartment window next to the Albanian building.
The Pakistani became agitated and pointed to the smoke. “Everyone say, ‘she oil too much! She food burn!’” He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Hannah sat down, opened her laptop, and typed. “I’m sending an update to the station chief, telling him we need Technical Intelligence to confirm what’s inside that building.”
After spending the night in the small room, a message returned from the station chief, telling the trio to keep an eye on the Albanian building until the agency’s technical wizards arrived. In the afternoon, before TECHINT arrived, smoke poured out of the same apartment window next to the Albanian building.
“Looks like someone burned the toast again,” Sonny said.
Soon, flames crept out of the side of the window. Shouting came from inside the burning building. Strangely, the smell reminded Chris of a backyard Texas barbeque. “If the toast wasn’t burned before, it’s burned now,” he said. “I’m going to ask the Pakistani to call the fire department. It’s getting out of control and the people in there are going to need some help.”
Hannah nodded in approval.
Chris left the room and talked to the Pakistani, who made the call. When Chris returned to their room, an ethnic mix of people were noisily evacuating the burning building, carrying armfuls of papers, pictures, electronics, clothes, and other belongings. One woman dumped her things in the street and ran back into the burning building, presumably for more. Another tried to follow, but others stopped them.
In front of the Albanian building, the guard moved away from his position in front of the door and peered around the corner. Now the fire next door was licking the side of his building. He shed his composed demeanor and ran inside. Chris could hear the shouting from across the street. Two Albanians came out with the guard, and he showed them the situation, pointing up at the fire and gesturing wildly. His comrade shook his head and spoke loudly in Albanian. The guard became quiet, but the third man spoke up in a booming voice. The guard paced as the other men argued.
One of the Albanians pulled out a cell phone. Behind him, a man staggered out of the front door of the Albanian building. Plasticuffs were bound around his ankles, but the plastic band between his ankles was severed, and he had full use of his legs. His hands were bound by plasticuffs in front of him, still intact. Although the man was disheveled, he was clearly Michael Winthrop. The guard must have spotted him out of the corner of his eye because he turned and looked straight at Michael.
“Shit!” Without thinking, Chris burst out of the room, ran through the Pakistani’s house, and dashed down the stairs. As he rushed out of the apartment building, he realized he had his pistol in hand, even though he didn’t remember drawing it.
The guard tackled Michael, and Chris ran at him, instinctively pointing his pistol. “Get off him, now!” Chris commanded.
The guard turned his head toward Chris’s voice. When he saw who it was, he let go of Michael, who crawled away. The guard got to his feet and reached into his waistband. Chris adjusted his angle so he could shoot the guard in the upper body without hitting Michael or the others in the street. It would be a tight shot, but he could do it.
His rapid breathing and stampeding heart caused his pistol sights to wobble uncontrollably. Just pull the trigger when the sights wobble over the target, Instructor Hickok had told him. Although he was aiming for the guard’s chest, his first shot put a hole in the man’s gut. The second shot caught the guard in the chest, knocking him backward. The guard pulled his pistol free and fired in Chris’s direction but hit a woman in the crowd, who screamed as she fell. Chris’s respiration and pulse calmed down a notch, and he aimed at the guard’s head and squeezed the trigger. Pop! Gray brain matter spilled, and the guard fell to the asphalt as if he’d been pasted there. Screams came from all directions.
Pop! Another gunshot sounded. Then more gunshots. It sounded like Hannah and Sonny were shooting it out with the Albanians, but Chris couldn’t be sure. His adrenaline was pumping so wildly out of control he couldn’t tell whether he’d even been shot.
“Michael Winthrop, I’m from the United States government!” Chris blurted. “I’m here to save you!”
Michael turned and stared at him, his expression a mix of fear and confusion.
While helping Michael to his feet, Chris glanced behind him. One of the guard’s comrades lay in the street, moving slowly, and the other seemed to have taken cover around the corner. The slow-moving Albanian aimed up at the Pakistani’s window. Another gangster appeared in the doorway and aimed there, too. He could see Hannah now on the street level while Sonny remained upstairs providing overwatch, both firing at the Albanians.
With the fire in the building next door and the shootout in the street, a handful of the civilians waved their hands wildly and cried out. Chris had seen such pandemonium before. Some helped those in need, some ran away, some froze, and others collapsed.
In the pair of hostage rescues Chris had performed, he hadn’t lost a hostage. Each rescue was intensely personal, and he wasn’t about to lose Michael now. There was no time to waste; he had to trust Hannah and Sonny to cover his six, and he didn’t have time to worry about their safety. He had to get Michael to the car… two blocks away.