in the cool air. “What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor?” blared in Polish over the loudspeakers.
Two retired schoolteachers from Knoxville, Tennessee, stood on the forward deck, searching TripAdvisor on their smartphones for a seafood restaurant along the well-lit Motława riverfront.
Both of them felt the same thunk in the soles of their shoes as the pirate ship bumped into a heavy object in the water.
The puffy-sleeved pirate crewman standing nearby shot them both a nervous glance, then leaned over the side to see what the ship had hit.
An hour later, the police coroner’s van hauled away the decomposed corpses of Christopher Gage and Hu Peng, bound together by ropes and drowned in the same canvas bag.
CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS, ROMANIA
The Czech stood on the edge of the forest, the pine-scented air crisp and cool in his nose. His favorite rifle in hand, his best dog at his side, and a guide’s recent sighting of fat boar in the area promised a perfect day.
He hadn’t been this happy in years. Retirement, though forced, had suited him, he decided. No more burdens of running a vast criminal enterprise.
His Bohemian pointer began barking wildly, his bearded snout aimed at the stand of trees ahead of them in the far distance.
“Rexi! Good boy! What do you see?”
The Czech heard the familiar crack but didn’t bother to move. In truth, he’d been expecting it for some time now.
Two hundred grains of steel-jacketed lead split the mountain air some six hundred meters distant. The bullet struck The Czech’s forehead cleanly, but the back of his skull erupted in a gory cloud of blood, bone, and brain matter.
His corpse tumbled into the tall grass, Rexi barking and whining at his feet.
On the other side of the clearing, the Polish ABW sniper and his spotter slipped away, headed for their exfil point. Vodka would flow like tap water back at their barracks tonight.
Foley had agreed to spare The Czech’s life, but she never promised not to track him or convey his indirect responsibility for Liliana Pilecki’s death to the Polish government.
Liliana’s actual killer remained unknown to the Poles.
But not to Jack.
BENGHAZI, LIBYA
News of his brother’s death had only just reached him.
Cluzet had been on the run for several weeks now. He was holed up in a fourth-floor apartment of a bombed-out six-story tenement building built with oil money by the Ghaddafi regime decades ago. Ghaddafi’s death and the ensuing chaos transformed the richest country in Africa into an impoverished hellscape within a few short months, tortured and divided by rival Islamic factions, drug runners, and human-trafficking syndicates. It was in the midst of this chaos and death that Cluzet finally found sanctuary—and kindred spirits.
With only intermittent water and electricity, his apartment was less of a home than a concrete cave, but useful for his current, desperate circumstance, hunted by hostile governments and vengeful enemies alike. Its singular virtue was an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean on the far side of the coastal road.
He got word out to a former Iron Syndicate colleague in the city, a gun runner named Tóth, that he was in town and available for the wet work Cluzet was famous for. Today, his friend would arrive within minutes, bearing good news, he promised.
Broken glass crunched beneath Cluzet’s boots as he stood in front of the shattered window overlooking the parking lot and the street beyond, careful to remain in the shadows. No telling who was lurking out there with a sniper rifle and a bullet with his name on it.
A cool breeze chilled the skin of his tattooed arm. A short burst of automatic gunfire echoed in the distance, a common sound in the shattered, seaside city.
He studied the trash-strewn parking lot, flooded by the morning rain. A rusted, bullet-riddled car squatted on blown tires near the next building, home to an elderly woman even more desperate than he.
A white Toyota Hilux sped in off the street. The 7.62-millimeter machine gun mounted in back was crewed by a man in sunglasses and wearing a black-and-white keffiyeh wrapped around his face, just like the driver.
The Hilux charged toward Cluzet’s building, its knobby tires splashing away the cigarette butts and soda cans floating in the puddles. It skidded to a stop just below his balcony.
His friend Tóth, a fat, knife-scarred Hungarian, leaped out of the passenger seat, his boots splashing in the filthy water. His round, bearded face was uncovered for the Frenchman’s benefit.
“Cluzet!”
The blond legionnaire stepped out of the shadows and onto the balcony. “Tóth, you old wolf! You came!”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“You risk a lot, knowing me.”
Cluzet’s eyes drifted toward the man on the machine gun, staring at him behind his dark glasses. He hadn’t moved.
“We are all being hunted, my friend,” Tóth said. “That is why we must stick together.”
“I need work. What do you have for me?”
Tóth planted his hands on his broad hips and shook his head, smiling. “Yes, you need work. But someone else, I’m afraid, must speak with you first.”
“Who?”
“Me, asshole.”
Cluzet spun on his heels, pulling his SIG as he turned.
Jack’s Glock fired first, putting two slugs into the bridge of Cluzet’s nose, killing him instantly.
Cluzet’s SIG fired as his hand spasmed.
The nine-millimeter round plowed into the peeling paint of the moldy wall just inches from Jack’s head.
Jack stepped over to the corpse and put two rounds in the blond skull, then two more into the lifeless heart, shredding it.
He stared at the ruined man, satisfied.
Jack holstered his weapon and stepped over to the balcony, his eyes drawn to the wide horizon of the boundless sea. A wheeling gull cried in the distance.
The man in the back pulled off his headgear.
“All good, kid?” Clark asked, leaning on the machine gun.
Jack nodded.
“Yeah. All good.”