CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Belgrade, Serbia
December 3
Finn McIntyre leaned against the wall in the fetid alley, hidden behind a stack of crates. He took a hit of a joint and blew the smoke toward the black sky. A rat scurried across his boot. He checked his watch, listened. Nothing yet.
In twenty minutes Leonard Pippen, the CIA officer embedded with the U.S. embassy as a cultural attache, was due to meet Milo Sivik at the back door of the bar across from where he stood. Pippen was planning on making Milo an informant.
Plans change.
Milo Sivik was the worst kind of scum, a pedophile, a rapist, a trafficker. Pippen was willing to overlook those transgressions because Milo had access to a very big fish—his cousin Hugo was high up in Gabriel Lorca's drug cartel, and the CIA needed intel.
In his three years working as a NOC officer for the CIA, Finn had seen a lot of bad, had done a lot of bad. Operating undercover as an enforcer, he executed Gabriel Lorca's orders with brutal efficiency. But this, this he could not abide. He could not work for an agency that paid money to and overlooked the crimes of Milo Sivik. Yeah, he knew all about the greater good.
Fuck the greater good.
A tin can went clanking down the alley. Finn tossed the joint and poked his head around the crate. A shadowed figure moved toward him. Milo always arrived early, wary of an ambush. Short and round, Milo lured children by dressing as a clown. As a result, he always smelled of grease paint and candy. The smell made Finn sick. Everything about Milo made him sick.
Finn whistled, and Milo spun around to face him. He started for his gun, then relaxed when Finn stepped under a low-hanging light.
“Jesus, Scarface, you scared the shit out of me,” Milo snapped in a hushed voice.
Half of Finn's face had been ruined after an explosion while serving with his SEAL squad. Working in the cartels, he had been called Scarface in a dozen different languages.
“What are you doing back here, Milo?” Finn asked.
“Just passing by. Thought I’d grab a beer before I go home.” Milo thumbed over his shoulder toward the back door to the pub.
“Looks like you’re meeting someone.” Finn stepped forward.
“Nope. Just taking a shortcut.” Milo shot a nervous glance down the alley.
“Taking a shortcut or stopping for a beer? Which is it?” Finn prodded.
Between his cartel connections and his new CIA gig, Milo felt untouchable. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. It's not your business.”
“Pippen isn’t coming.” Finn tipped his head to the end of the empty alley.
Milo's eyes grew comically wide. “You know? You’re a fucking spook?”
“Not after today.” Finn pulled the magnum from his holster and blew a hole in Milo Sivik's head. He stood over the body and gave it a kick. “Better than you deserve.”
Headlights lit the scene, and Finn held up a hand to block the glare. He heard car doors open and footsteps. Even in silhouette, he recognized Gabriel Lorca.
“Scarface, you beat me to the punch.” Lorca stood flanked by two lieutenants and two bodyguards.
Unsure how the situation would play out, Finn remained silent.
“Take his tongue.” Lorca, Finn's current boss and the head of the largest drug cartel in Eastern Europe, instructed. “That's what we do with rats.”
Finn knelt down and pulled a vicious-looking knife from his boot. With a deft slice, he cut Milo Sivik's tongue out and tossed the piece of pink flesh to the ground.
“I received word Milo was going to betray us.” Lorca stared at the body, unmoved. “The CIA isn’t the only one with moles.”
Finn wiped the blood from the blade on his pant leg and sheathed the knife.
“I arranged for two people to learn that information.” Lorca withdrew his weapon and screwed on the suppressor. “You.” He pointed the gun at Finn. “And you.” He turned the weapon on the man at his side and pulled the trigger. Lorca turned back to Finn. “You were the one who acted.”