I know I haven't got much time. Any minute now, someone's going to come past, see what's happening, and raise the alarm.
'I'm looking for a big man with dark hair and very brown skin.'
He looks blank.
'He's had a lot of plastic surgery,' I add, hoping this'll help identify him.
He looks totally confused. 'What you say?'
I suddenly see what Lucas meant about not having a plan. It's time for decisive measures. Returning my hand to his neck, I slam my thumb into the pressure point and he gasps in pain, his legs wobbling. I could easily knock him out, but again, I doubt if he'd be under for more than a few minutes, and I really don't want to go through this whole building temporarily incapacitating every thug I come across, because, one way or another, I've got to get back out of here again.
'Right, up the stairs,' I snap, swinging him round and shoving the gun into the small of his back. 'You're going to take me to the guy who runs this place, and if you try anything, you'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.'
I push the Glock's barrel right into his back, just so he's in no doubt that I mean business, and he starts up the stairs. I follow very close behind, my breath on his neck. I hear more laughter coming from behind me, this time male, and the sound of chairs scraping across the carpet. I'm guessing that some of the men in the bar are getting ready for their main course, and they'll soon be heading up the stairs as well. I give Dracula a shove to speed him up.
'You know who I'm talking about, don't you?' I whisper, and this time I flick open the blade on the knife and jab it hard against his cheek, almost but not quite breaking the skin.
He grunts again, a defiant sound, and I know this guy's not the sort who intimidates easily. I may have to make him bleed to get where I need to go, but I'm hoping he'll see sense. I was a soldier, not a torturer, and the idea of carving a blade across a helpless man's face is not a prospect I relish.
When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns left and we start to walk down a long hallway, the kind you get in a hotel, running the length of the whole floor with doors on both sides. All the doors are shut, but from behind several of them I can hear the sound of women faking sexual pleasure, as well as the occasional animal growl of exertion. The hallway itself is empty, everyone being far too busy to be hanging around in corridors, but already I can hear the new arrivals from the bar starting up the stairs.
I give Dracula another jab with the knife. He continues to walk, then stops at a heavy fire door close to the end of the hallway, and tries its handle.
'It's locked,' he grunts.
'Unlock it, then. I know you've got keys. I felt them when I searched you earlier. And hurry up.'
I jab him again, and this time the skin breaks and a tiny drop of blood comes out. Dracula flinches slightly, and pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. I watch as the droplet trickles very slowly down his cheek, and for a moment the sight of it makes me nauseous.
He opens the door just as the punters and the girls come into view. Before any of them turn our way, I push him through and follow behind, hoping they haven't spotted us.
We're in a small alcove with stairs leading up to the next floor. We stop at the bottom. I can't hear anything coming from up above, not a sound, which concerns me. This building's only three storeys, and if there's no-one up here, I really don't know where else to look.
'Where's the man I want?' I demand.
He motions with his head towards the top of the stairs, and I wonder whether I'm being led into a trap. I watch him carefully. A line of blood runs all the way to his jaw where I've cut him. He's beginning to look nervous.
I click the knife's blade shut and put it in the back pocket of my jeans, then place an arm round Dracula's neck and pull him close, using him as a human shield as we lumber up the stairs together like some sort of pantomime horse.
'Next time there'll be no jab with the knife,' I hiss in his ear, ignoring the smell of wax and stale smoke that comes from there. 'I'll just settle for blowing your spine out.'
On the third or fourth step from the top, the third floor comes into view. The layout is the same, but the lighting is much harsher and the walls are painted a stark white which has stained with age.
Suddenly a door to the left opens, and lo and behold Rubberface appears. He's turning round and talking in Serbo-Croat to someone I can't see.
Moving fast, I shove Dracula up the last couple of stairs and swing him round so he's facing Rubberface.
Hearing the commotion, Rubberface turns our way and immediately curses. He's been caught off guard, and he freezes for a moment.
I know it's not going to take him long to gather his senses, and as soon as he does he's going to try to get back inside the door. I pull the gun away from its position against Dracula's spine, and point it straight at his torso.
'Move, and you get a bullet in the gut,' I state in tones that tell him I'm the one in control of this situation.
Unfortunately, I'm not. No longer under direct threat from the Glock, Dracula seizes his chance and grabs at my wrist, bucking and kicking as he tries to break my grip on his neck. I stumble back, and Dracula uses his free arm to try to elbow me in the belly; but I twist away from the blow and put every ounce of my strength into squeezing the air out of his throat. He chokes and gasps but keeps struggling, and I'm sent crashing backwards into the wall, my gun arm thrust high in the air as Dracula yanks at it. Rubberface is yelling something else in Serbo-Croat, and now I know that I've got seconds to retrieve matters, otherwise I'm finished.
Bouncing back off the wall, I slam my knee into Dracula's coccyx. I'm sure he would have cried out in pain had he been able to breathe, but the pressure he's under finally takes its toll. His grip on my wrist loosens, and I pull my arm free. I'm swinging it back to smack him in the head with the barrel in a final effort to take him out of the equation when he grabs my wrist again, stopping the gun's trajectory at just the point when the barrel's facing his temple.
It's a mistake. My finger's already tight on the trigger, and the sudden force he applies causes a further involuntary tightening.
The noise of the Glock firing explodes in my ears, and I feel a warm splash on my arm as a gout of blood from what's left of the side of Dracula's head lands there. More blood splatters heavily on the carpet, and he goes limp in my arms. It may have been an accident, but it was also a perfect shot, straight into his temple, killing him near enough instantly.
Military training emphasizes the need in battle to compartmentalize your feelings. You need to kill without compunction or emotion, and then to move straight on to the next target, so I drop him to the floor and step straight over his corpse, the Glock held tight in both hands as I approach the door Rubberface has just disappeared through. No more than five seconds have passed since he made good his escape, but I've lost my most effective weapon, surprise, and now the whole dynamic has changed because they know I'm coming. As soon as I step through that door, I'm likely to take a bullet. If I go in commando-style, rolling, I'll have no idea where my targets are and I'm still going to end up shot, particularly if that rat-faced bastard with the MAC-10's in there. I need to think of something else, and fast.
Then a girl screams.
It comes out of nowhere; or, more accurately, it comes from somewhere behind the door. It's full of panic, and it stops me dead in my tracks. I hear it again, louder now. There's pain there, too, I'm sure of it, and my adrenalin goes into overdrive all over again.
The door begins to open.
'Help me,' I hear her beg. 'You've got to help me.'
The door's open about six inches now, and I can see a head appearing in the gap. I stand frozen to the spot, the gun outstretched in my hands, the end of the barrel barely a couple of feet from her. I have no idea what is going on.