by James Samuel
“So, you come to me for weapons and manpower? You want to involve my men, Croatians, in this war of yours.” Jakov’s expression dropped. “Like pawns, for you foreigners.”
A pinkish hue spread across Sinclair’s cheeks. “Not at all, Mr. Mlakar, this is just business.”
“A business that would see most of my men dead. Then what happens? The Serbians take my territory. The Russians come from Montenegro and soon control all of our markets in Dubrovnik and Herzegovina?”
“I only ask for your help in this matter. You’ll be paid well.”
Jakov sniffed and flexed his fingers on the tables. “I warned Kemal many times. Never to bring his politics to me. He is a great friend, but a fool. We want nothing to do with your politics. And everything in this country is politics. Our men have had enough of war. Now we make money, only money.”
“What’s your price?”
“There is no price. War is good for us anyway. It opens up more routes for our goods. It gives us openings to remove the competition. Why would war be so bad for us? It doesn’t matter who runs Bosnia. We are eternal.”
James’ nostrils flared at Jakov’s explanation. “I didn’t know Croatians were in league with Serbians now.”
Sinclair looked horrified.
Jakov rounded on James. “What do you know of this country, stranac? You people watched this country be destroyed. You looked and did nothing until they were all dead.”
“What you’re saying is you could avoid another war, but you choose not to because you want to go into business for yourself. I don’t think my view has anything to do with the fact I’m from somewhere else. Ask anyone who lives in this country.”
Jakov ran his tongue across his teeth. “If Kemal was no friend of mine, you would be a dead man.”
“Mr. Mlakar,” Sinclair intervened. “Please excuse my associate. This is my proposal. Name any price you want, and I can meet it. I would only require your cooperation in the short-term, until Kadrić is dead.”
Jakov uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. “We have nothing more to speak of.” He adjusted his suit. “Leave Mostar immediately, that is my advice to you.”
James watched the mafia chief depart. At least four men got up from tables downstairs and left behind him. The little silver bell above the door tinkled, signalling their departure.
“Well, that could have gone better,” James declared.
Sinclair glared acid at him. “You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut, could you?”
“He wasn’t going to help us anyway. He’d already told you no before I said anything.”
“Let’s just take his advice and get back to Sarajevo, okay? I like my head to stay on my shoulders.”
James shrugged. He didn’t understand Sinclair’s problem. Jakov wasn’t the sort of man he could trust. Killing men like him was the reason why he’d joined Blackwind in the first place. What a foolish young man he’d been, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A fine rain began to pour, and they ducked their heads. James squinted into the fine mist, his adrenaline still pounding. He wasn’t sure who he felt the most anger towards: Jakov Mlakar for being a sociopath or Kemal for setting up the meeting in the first place.
“I will need to inform Gallagher about our progress,” Sinclair said as they returned to the Stari Most. “He may need to advise us on how to proceed further.”
James shook his head. “We don’t need to involve Gallagher. What we need is a new plan. I will kill Pejakovski without Mlakar’s help, and then I’ll use him to get to Kadrić. We have his location. A quick drive up there and we can get the job done. Kadrić will never see it coming.”
“James, why do you never listen to me?” Sinclair cried. “It’s too dangerous. We know next to nothing about Pejakovski. There’s no way of knowing what you might be walking into.”
He dismissed Sinclair with a wave of his hand. “I’ve faced worse odds and I’m willing to do it again. My choice and we need time to move quickly or we miss the opportunity. I’ll prepare the best I can.”
Flashes of Cambodia came back to him. At Angkor Wat, on the summit of a temple in the sweltering forests, he’d fought off a private army. He’d fought his way down the mountain and completed his mission. There had been no chance of retreat, no chance of surrender, yet he’d succeeded. And he’d enjoyed it.
“But don’t you agree that we should minimise the chances of putting you in that situation,” Sinclair exclaimed. “Think long-term. You’re not invincible. A bullet can kill you as it can kill anyone else.”
“I agree.” James remained calm. “And now I think we have reached the point where we have no other choice. We have no further leads and no further opportunities. I went to that football game with Ismet and Kemal and that was the reward. The name of Goran Pejakovski, a man close to Kadrić. I will make the decision.”
Sinclair sighed and turned his back on James. He crossed the Stari Most at a quick walk, with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
James followed on behind at a suitable distance. There was no doubt in his mind that he was right. Sinclair didn’t understand what it was like to operate in the field. Overly cautious and careful, Sinclair’s approach would lose them the only path they had to tracking down Kadrić. Time was running out.
The two men retraced their earlier steps through the old town of Mostar. On the return route, James picked out a couple of buildings that reminded him of the Austro-Hungarian style he’d seen from Sarajevo. But he couldn’t enjoy the scene. Plans to eliminate Pejakovski and, then, Kadrić formed in his mind.
The rain intensified. People huddled inside restaurants, cafes, and under the hanging roofs. Sinclair and James plunged onwards. James remained a few steps behind Sinclair, content to leave him to his thoughts. A car screeched along the river below. James turned. Three men got out.
"Move!" James screamed at Sinclair.
James sprinted towards Sinclair and threw him around the corner. The violent booms of guns exploding sliced through the growing deluge. Screams cut the air. People fled for their lives. James flattened himself against the wall and pulled out his gun in one swift movement. He fired back blindly.
"Get your gun out," he ordered.
Sinclair removed his rarely used weapon, the same Glock 19 pistol James wielded.
James peeked around the corner. The men advanced up the narrow medieval street. He fired once and a man dropped, his gun clattering away into the gutter. The other two took cover behind shopfronts and fired back.
"On our right," said Sinclair.
Another pair of men flanked them. Sinclair fired in their direction. The two headed for cover in another alleyway.
"We've got to move. Get to the main road," cried James.
James broke cover and ran back into the central street, firing as he did. Sinclair guarded his right, picking off wild shots. They flew into a separate side street.
James felt the net closing around them. Jakov had planned this. He must have issued the order immediately after leaving the restaurant. Passing a couple cowering behind a stall filled with Mostar keyrings, James urged Sinclair on.
James manned the rear. One of Jakov's men made a break for them, flying like an animal out of another alley. He fired a single shot, the hot metal leaving a trail of fire through his neck. The blood of Mlakar’s man quickly started to run down the street towards the river a few blocks away.
"Go up," James commanded.
"Fucking hell, James, this is ridiculous. They're everywhere."
He ran ahead of Sinclair to check the next turning. More of Jakov's men already had it covered. He fired again at the two. They dove for cover, returning fire. The ruse worked. Grabbing Sinclair by the shoulder, he forced him down another street, adjacent to the river, and the bus station. In his mind's eye, he had their direction firmly planted in his mind.
Sinclair's face glowed with fatigue. Sweat and raindrops dripped down his forehead. His breathing came ragged and forced, a strange squeak
ing coming from the depths of his chest.
"We've got to keep moving, Sinclair. We don't have the time."
Sinclair raised a hand in exasperation. "I... I can't breathe."
James gritted his teeth. "Fuck it. Get in here."
He seized Sinclair by the scruff of the neck and forced him into a shop filled with gold and silver items. The shopkeeper rose from the floor behind the counter.
Sinclair stumbled against a display as James thrust him into the shop.
He levelled his gun at the shopkeeper. The bearded Bosnian raised his hands in surrender as he quaked in his shoes.
James turned to Sinclair. "Hide in the back. It might give us a chance. There's only a few hundred meters to the bus station."
"Alright, fine. What about him?" He threw a thumb at the pale looking shopkeeper.
"You've got a gun; you figure it out."
"Wait, where are you going?"
James turned away from Sinclair. "I'm going to fix our problem." He stalked away from Sinclair and made his way back into the deluge. A bullet whizzed past his ear, forcing him to hit the floor. James rolled over, desperate to see where it came from. Another barrage of fire hit the floor. James squinted and fired at anything that looked like men. He heard a cry and the slapping of shoes as they ran for cover.
James ejected the spent cartridge and clicked another one in, never letting his aim drop. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He heard the Croatian shouts echoing through the centuries' old alleyways. James got to his feet, advancing towards the crossroads. His ears pricked up, monitoring every sound, and pinpointing its rough location, like a vampire bat scouting for its next meal.
A voice called out. It was close, very close. They were trying to flank him, to tighten the noose around his location. Too cowardly to face him head on. Too scared of confronting the real possibility of death. James held his gun in one hand, clicking open a flick knife from his pocket. He could hear the voice, the scraping of a shoe against the wall closest to him.
James kept his breathing steady, coming within inches of the man he knew waited around the corner. Dodging to one side, he fell upon the hapless mafia man. His target flinched at his movement. Too late. He drove the flick knife into the Adam's apple. Blood erupted from the wound, and the air left him like a popped balloon.
James threw himself behind the dead man, gripping him around the neck like a human shield. Gunfire followed from the other side, clipping the mafia man's side. James fired back from over his shield's shoulder, taking the attacker’s legs out from under him. Dropping the dead man, he rushed over to the wounded man.
The Croatian groaned and clutched his legs. The shots had taken him in the right knee and left thigh.
"Get up," James growled.
He hauled the man to his feet, throwing him headfirst against the wall. Spinning him around, he held him close, an arm around his neck, the gun to his temple.
"Where are the rest of them? How many men did you bring?"
The man babbled in Croatian.
"English?"
He continued to plead in Croatian.
"Fine. You're coming with me."
James frog marched the Croatian into the open. He continued to scan the scene for targets. By his calculations, they were three blocks from the main road. A mere five-minute run from the safety of the bus station. Law enforcement would protect them there, assuming they hadn’t been bribed to take a walk.
Some of Jakov's men appeared at the street adjacent to the shop where he'd stored Sinclair.
"Stop!" James yelled. "English. Who speaks English?"
The men looked at each other. It wasn't until another man, much like the rest, appeared, with a raised hand. All three levelled their guns at him and his hostage. James redoubled his grip on the man, like a lifeboat in the eye of a storm.
"You speak English?" said James.
"Yes, yes, English."
"What do you want from us?"
"Orders. The boss said so."
"You let us go or I'll kill your man."
The three men went into conference with each other.
"Okay, okay. Let him go."
James didn't believe them for a second. He edged forwards until he came to the door of the shop. Kicking it open with the back of his foot, he ordered the shopkeeper to summon Sinclair from wherever he’d secreted himself.
"Don't come any closer, Sinclair. They're going to let us go, if I let him go."
"What?" Sinclair exclaimed.
James lowered his voice. "Get ready to run. We're only three streets from the main road. We can make it there. Get behind me and stay behind me."
He moved forwards, allowing Sinclair to hide behind him. They continued to back up slowly until they reached the crossroads again. Jakov's men shadowed them the whole way, their guns pointed directly at them.
"I'm going to let him go in a second," said James. "We have a deal?"
"Yes, yes, my friend. We have a deal. Let him go."
He lowered his voice again. "Okay, Sinclair. Get into cover on my right. From there, we run, okay?"
"Confirmed, James."
James let the tense seconds pass as Sinclair dodged behind the wall of the building. He let his breathing slow, contemplating the hell that was about to break loose. The man in his vice screwed his eyes closed, mouthing what seemed like a prayer.
He squeezed the trigger, firing the bullet through the man's temple in an explosion of blood. James let the man drop. Jakov's men unleashed a wild storm of fire in his direction.
They tore for the main street. The way was clear. Anyone with sense had already hidden somewhere. He never thought about anything but another ambush. The main road lay directly ahead. Cars continued to cruise past like nothing had happened.
"Stop there," said James. "Don't go any further."
Sinclair leaned against the mouth of the alley, clutching his chest, his gun hanging uselessly by his side.
"Watch my back. I'll check the station."
"No." Sinclair grabbed at his arm. "There's no police, think about it. They've bribed them to stay away. It's obvious. The bus station will be a trap."
"What do you want me to do, then?" James snapped.
"I don't know."
"Fuck’s sake."
James ran into the street. The slow-moving traffic beeped at him as he weaved between cars. He headed for the back of the line, searching for an out. Only the sound of Sinclair firing again, the rush of cars, the mad flights of terrified bystanders spurred him into a rash decision.
A wide-eyed man in the car closest to him raised his hands when he glimpsed James' gun and his blood-covered shirt.
"Get the fuck out of the car," James pointed the gun directly through the windscreen. "Out."
Sinclair flew from into the street. He stumbled over the curb, almost losing his footing.
James ripped the car door open and dragged the unfortunate driver into the road, tossing him to the ground.
"Sinclair, get over here."
Jakov's men emerged in pursuit. They fired at the vulnerable Sinclair. He screamed. He'd been hit.
James spent the last shells in the cartridge returning fire. He hauled Sinclair forwards, throwing him into the car like a bag of shopping. Blood dripped from an unseen wound. James threw himself behind the idling motor and gunned it, the wheels skidding in place.
"Here," Sinclair held out his gun.
James snatched it from his friend's hand. Driving with one hand, he fired out of the window as the side window shattered, followed by the back. Stamping his foot to the floor, the car accelerated, flying down the hill, away from danger and away from Mostar.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
The streetlight outside the headquarters of the White Rose bathed the outline of Kemal in an orange glow. Beads of sweat popped like opals on his brow. A silhouette behind the door moved, his son Ratko emerged. The colour drained out of his face.
"Father, come in, quick."
Kemal tramped up the steps. Guilt racked him to his bones. The news coming out of Mostar spoke of a massacre. Witnesses reported foreigners were involved. James hadn't answered his phone since arriving in Mostar. It could only mean one thing: something had gone wrong at the meeting and Jakov had reacted.
"My son, what do you know? I came here quickly."
Ratko shut the door behind him. "Nazifa is already here. I want to know what has been going on. This isn't why I started the White Rose. I wanted nothing to do with war. You brought those two here."
Kemal didn't have the strength to roar back at his son. He had no defence for everything that had happened. More than anything, Kemal regretted not going with them. He should have fought his corner and insisted on accompanying them.
"I don't know what happened there. James said nothing. What do you know?"
Ratko hurried past him and gestured at the living room. "We need to talk about this together."
Kemal entered the room to find Nazifa with her hands folded underneath her chin in deep thought. Her freshly dyed hair stood out among the drab, old-fashioned decor. He patted her on the shoulder. She didn't react to it.
"Sit down, Father, please."
Kemal obeyed and sat opposite her.
"Now, we've all been keeping secrets from each other." Ratko took up position between them. "This has led to disaster, for us all. Nazifa, I understand that politics can be slow, but going against me to kill Tomislav Suput has only made things worse. You need to learn to keep your temper."
Nazifa turned her head. Her eyes were shiny, as if tears were about to break free. "We were going nowhere with you."
"Then why join me?" Ratko snapped. "You played right into their hands. Kadrić and every other nationalist in Srpska now believe they have a reason to react. And they have reacted."
Nazifa sulked and turned away from Ratko, mouthing something under her breath.
"And you, Father, do you think Jakov Mlakar went to all that trouble to kill James because of something he said?"
"I don't know." Kemal threw up a dismissive hand. "I didn't go."