“How do you know this is Hadzic?”
“We don’t, but the electronics team has already identified the guy that kidnapped Jessica as Dragan Ilic. He’s a Serbian-born contract killer, based out of New Jersey, with suspected ties to Serbian nationalists released by the tribunal. It’s only an assumption, but a fair one at this point.”
“Jessica and I made a lot of enemies there at the end. This could be anyone,” said Daniel.
Munoz pulled a smartphone from one of his pants pockets and showed Daniel the screen. “Recognize that?”
Daniel did. He had a faded version of it high on his right arm. A black panther head, the symbol of Srecko Hadzic’s infamous paramilitary group. If Hadzic was alive, he and Jessica would never be safe. Daniel had to end this tonight, once and for all.
“How much time do we have to put together a plan?” he asked.
“Little to none. Text messages going back and forth between phones indicate that Jessica is expected shortly.”
“Then we shouldn’t keep them waiting,” said Daniel. “How many operatives do we have for the operation?”
“You, me, and Melendez, plus the two electronics wizards.”
“Jesus,” muttered Daniel.
“I suspect He’s gonna steer clear of this one,” said Munoz as the elevator came to a stop at its destination.
Chapter 25
Srecko Hadzic paced the concrete floor, drawing deeply on a cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke them after the heart attack and had mostly given them up, but tonight he desperately needed his old friend nicotine. He was minutes away from fulfilling a long overdue promise made to himself and his precious nephew, Josif, who was so callously slaughtered by that viper of a whore.
He only wished the other traitor could be here to bear witness, but it had been deemed too risky to try to grab them both. That was fine by him. The traitor would get a bullet to the head like any traitor deserved, and the whore would get what a whore deserved. He was well supplied with heart medications and his little blue pills, everything he needed to make sure he could savor the next few days, and not only as a satisfied observer. No. Srecko planned to take this woman over and over again, cutting her eyelids open if necessary to make sure she had to endure his face on top of her.
“How long?” he demanded.
One of the men seated on a folding chair thumbed a message on his phone and waited a few seconds for a reply.
“About five minutes out.”
“And the whore is still alive?”
He sensed a flicker of insubordination, possibly a quickly halted eye roll, before the man sent another message. This newest breed of Panthers was pathetic compared to the dedicated and skilled men he’d commanded during the Yugoslav Wars. Few of these punks would have been worthy of consideration in the old Panthers, but like the old saying went, “beggars can’t be choosers.”
In Srecko’s situation, the phrase pretty much fit him literally. He’d come close to spending the last of the money he’d managed to keep hidden from the war crimes tribunal, paying for his escape and putting together this operation. The lust for revenge was only a small part of why he’d gone to such careful and expensive lengths to capture the whore.
The Petroviches, as they now called themselves, had stolen close to one hundred and thirty million dollars from Srecko’s European accounts before they lit the spark that started a bloody civil war between the Panthers and Mirko Jovic’s Eagles, a war that essentially destroyed both groups and accelerated the fall of Milosevic’s regime. He was hell-bent on retrieving what was left of that money and had even convinced an old colleague to come out of hiding just for the occasion.
Mirko Jovic had disappeared during the brutal month of fighting between the Panthers and Eagles, rumored to have been killed in a coup attempt within the Eagles. Srecko had little reason to doubt the rumor, since his own paramilitary organization had come apart at the seams, factions turning on factions. Srecko held on to the bitter end, surviving the bloodbath, but Jovic had been the smarter of the two. While the rest of them clung desperately to their empires, while NATO bombers pounded the regular Yugoslavian forces into submission, he’d fled the country, taking his money with him.
Despite escaping with his life and money, Jovic still had an axe to grind with the whore and Marko Resja. Once again, a most literal interpretation. Jovic’s youngest daughter had been found beheaded in a Belgrade ditch on the outskirts of the city, supposedly last seen in the company of Zorana Zekulic. Srecko had always assumed that Marko Resja had killed both of them, only delivering Zorana’s head to him in that duffel bag. Years later in prison, when he discovered that Zorana had been in league with Resja all along, it suddenly made sense. They’d hacked Jovic’s daughter’s head off and passed it off as Zorana’s!
After his escape from the Hague Detention Unit, he got in touch with Jovic through an intermediary and negotiated a sit-down meeting to explain the depth of the deception that had led to the war between them. Srecko hadn’t done this out of a need to mend fences, he’d done it to raise capital for this operation and to recruit one of the most ruthless torturers in recent history. Jovic had a talent that made him indispensable to Milosevic. He could make anyone talk.
Srecko held up his hands. “Well? Are you going to answer me?”
“He’s still typing,” said the soldier.
“I’m not paying him to type a fucking novel!” yelled Srecko. “Dial his number and give me the damn phone.”
The man pressed a button and handed him the phone. Srecko put the phone to his ear.
“Hello? Is she still alive or what? I’m not paying you to deliver a cadaver. I can buy a sex doll for about a thousand times less than your fee.”
“You’re really going to regret saying that,” replied a gravelly voice in Serbian.
For a brief moment, he thought Dragan had gone rogue, suspecting that the hit man had somehow discovered the value of Srecko’s remaining fortune and decided to extort more money out of him. He always assumed that a conspiracy or double-cross was in the works and that everyone was out to get him. That was how he stayed one step ahead of these jackals. A fleeting thought, the memory of that voice hit him like a sledgehammer. Dragan had somehow failed. He dropped the cigarette.
Srecko cleared his throat. “Marko?”
The men around him stiffened, looking to him for guidance. A few preemptively stood, readying their weapons. Mirko Jovic sat in the corner of the warehouse office, apparently unmoved by the mention of the name.
“In the flesh. Well, I’m not there yet, but I’m getting close. Your guys really shouldn’t put important locations in their navigation systems. It’s almost too easy.”
Srecko motioned with his empty hand for the men to leave, pressing the phone against his chest to muffle any sound.
“Something went wrong at the hospital. We’re out of here,” Srecko whispered to Obrad, the man in charge of his security detail.
“We’ll be out of here in thirty seconds,” said Obrad, turning to the men.
As his crew piled out of the office, he glanced toward Jovic, who remained unmoved in the corner, sipping what had to be the tenth coffee made with the Krups machine he’d insisted Srecko provide.
“Are you coming or what?” said Srecko.
One of Jovic’s security guards started to get up, but the former paramilitary leader put a hand on the guard’s shoulder.