Luke fired another two rounds through the open door, then screamed into his radio: ‘I need backup. Now!’
No response.
‘Sean, Marty?’
Nothing.
‘Shit!’
Either the comms were down, or the rest of his unit were.
Voices outside. Several men, shouting instructions at each other in Serbian. They were mobilising themselves. They were coming.
Chet needed morphine, and he needed it now. Luke had two shots, safely in their plastic casing, attached to a cord round his neck. He grabbed one of them, then slammed it through his mate’s clothing and into the top of his left thigh. He could feel the needle piercing the skin, and for a moment he wondered whether he should go for a second shot. Chet was fucked, but at least the drugs would make him more comfortable until… Until what?
Luke was just reaching for the second jab when the first round flew over his head and splintered the hobby horse behind him. He felt the rush of displaced air and threw himself down on the ground. Suddenly the enemy were there. In the darkness and confusion, it was difficult to tell how many. Three, maybe four, and armed — Luke thought he caught sight of an MP5 Kurz. They were shouting at him, a harsh, guttural sound. Luke made to spray a burst of rounds into them, but a heavy boot hit his rifle and knocked it from his hands. The Serbians started to pile in. They kicked Luke in the face and groin; the NV goggles cracked and were then ripped off him. One of the men grabbed the rifle. Two others seized him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Luke felt one of them cut his ops waistcoat away from his body, before he was pushed, roughly and at gunpoint, towards the door.
‘Get down the stairs!’
The instruction came in harshly accented English, and Luke felt a gun barrel in the back of his neck. Chet’s screaming had stopped. Bad sign.
Luke twisted his head to see what was going on behind him, but that just earned him another push. ‘Get down the fucking stairs or I kill you now…’
Luke stumbled in the darkness. In the adjoining room he bore left towards the lower staircase. At the top he looked towards his captors, but they were just shapes in the darkness. Shapes with MP5s, and Luke didn’t doubt for a moment that they were willing to use them. What he didn’t understand was why they hadn’t killed him yet.
Another bad sign.
One more push and Luke stumbled down the stairs. He tried to work out his options. His rifle was gone, and so was his waistcoat. The only weapon he had was the disco gun strapped to his ankle. The Serbians hadn’t found that yet, but if he went for it now, chances were they’d nail him before he even stood up again. He was just going to have to bide his time.
He reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Keep going!’ the voice behind him ordered. He found himself in a damp-smelling cellar room. Candles were burning — perhaps half a dozen of them — but they weren’t bright enough to light up the walls, so Luke couldn’t tell how big this place was.
But what he could tell was that somebody was waiting for him.
Even in the dim candlelight, Luke recognised the man from the photo the ops officer had shown them back at base. The almost-bald head, a few strands combed from one side to the other. The flared nostrils. The sour look. Stevan Ivanovic stared at Luke with something approaching satisfaction.
Suddenly there was silence again. Shadows from the candles danced on Ivanovic’s face.
‘Get on the ground,’ he whispered as one of his men threw something on the floor. For a moment Luke thought it was just his waistcoat, but then he realised it was Chet’s gear. They’d removed it all. He didn’t even want to think what they’d done to his mate.
His mind turned somersaults as he let his head fall to his chest.
Let the fucker think he’s the big man, he thought. Let him think I’m beaten. He refused to admit to himself that he probably was.
It was only as Luke lowered himself down to his knees that he noticed what Ivanovic had in his hands. A loop of thin plastic. The former police chief was running it through his fingers. Caressing it, almost.
‘You British,’ Ivanovic said, his voice very soft. ‘You think you can interfere in everybody’s affairs. You think you still boss the whole world, like you used to.’
Luke kept silent. His head hung. Here, in the kneeling position, his hand was nearer his PPK, but he knew he had to choose his moment carefully.
Ivanovic smiled. It was a cold, humourless expression. ‘That… that pantomime in the bar. It was very clumsy. The young man is dead now. And his girlfriend.’ Another smile. ‘Well, almost. Oh, and your two friends.’ He nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. ‘Mrtav. Dead.’
Ivanovic turned his back on Luke and appeared to address the empty rear portion of the room. ‘I am lucky to have such loyal men. But you know, really it seems not fair that they should have all the fun.’
To Luke’s right stood two men with MP5s pointed directly at him. They handled their weapons like pros. Beyond them he counted three others. He tried to identify the guy from the bar, but he couldn’t. That meant he was still out there somewhere.
One of him, six of them — and that was just down here. Not good odds.
Ivanovic turned to face him again. Luke noticed his hands trembling, as if in excitement. As he took a step nearer, Luke saw he held a cable tie — exactly what he himself had stashed in his waistcoat for use as Plasticuffs. He knew what these Eastern European fucks did with them. The skin round his neck tingled.
Ivanovic said something that made his men laugh. Luke closed his eyes. The moment he went for his PPK, the guards would shoot. But if he didn’t, Ivanovic would throttle him. Maybe he should let that happen. Once the cable tie was on, Ivanovic and his guys would be off their guard. He could nail them and then hunt for a knife, but he wouldn’t have much more than a minute to find one…
‘I can give you information…’ he said hoarsely. It was bullshit, but it might buy him some time.
Ivanovic appeared to find this very funny. ‘Information? I knew already you were coming. What information could you…?’
His gloating was cut short.
Gunshot, coming from the staircase. And then a thump.
The men with MP5s turned to see what it was, and in their moment of distraction, Luke moved.
He rolled away from Ivanovic and, as he did do, pulled the PPK from his ankle holster. By the time the two armed guards knew what he was doing, Luke had discharged two rounds, one into the first guy’s neck, the other into his mate’s head. As the men crumpled, spattering Luke’s face with blood, he had a direct line of fire to the other three. They were scrabbling for their guns, but they didn’t scrabble fast enough: Luke had all three down in less than two seconds, and it was as they dropped to the ground that he saw what the disturbance was.
Something had fallen down the stairs. Some one to be precise. He was now lying face down at the foot of the steps, the back of his head blown away. He might have lost half his brains, but it was unmistakably the man they’d followed back from the bar.
Luke had hesitated too long. Ivanovic was launching himself at him, the plastic loop gripped tight. Luke pushed himself to his feet just as the Serb came within range. With all the force he could summon, he brought the edge of his hand up against the underside of Ivanovic’s nose. There was a definite crack, and Luke felt his hand was wet. Ivanovic roared in pain, but the blow didn’t floor him. With blood gushing down his chin, he came at Luke again.
Luke’s orders had been to take him alive. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt the bastard.
He discharged two rounds from the PPK: one into each of Ivanovic’s shins. From two metres, the 9mm rounds would all but destroy each bone. Certainly the guy would never walk again. For a moment, the Serb’s roaring stopped. But only for a moment. As he fell backwards, his damaged legs no longer able to support the weight of his body, his shrieks echoed off the concrete walls.