Belgrade, Serbia
March 10
The Lakat Reke fortress was a low stone structure tucked in a bend in the Danube river eighty kilometers outside Belgrade, just west of the Romanian border. It was the architectural equivalent of a thug, with thick stone walls, extensive armaments, and not an ounce of charm. Built by a sixteenth-century despot who, rumor had it, had a dream his own troops were planning to murder him, the structure was protected by water on three sides, and two massive guard towers at the entrance.
Over the decades and centuries, the fortress had been occupied by tyrants, warlords, slave traders, and usurpers. The current occupant was no different.
Gabriel Lorca controlled nearly all the illegal drug manufacture and transport in Eastern Europe. Colombian by birth, Lorca relocated to Serbia two decades earlier. The US government had more control over the South American drug trade than the cartels. Seeing an opportunity for expansion and the ability to operate beyond the reach—or at least the attention—of the CIA, Lorca moved his operation and in six months had eradicated or consolidated the competition. He was powerful, intelligent, and untouchable. So, his distress at reading the information he had received was considerable.
Not twelve weeks ago, this trusted man had executed an informant who’d had the ability to cripple Lorca’s operation. The remarkable aspect of the event was that it had been handled before Lorca had even given the order. Ironically, that very show of loyalty had planted the seeds of suspicion—how had his lieutenant learned of the mole, why had he left so quickly? After providing substantial financial incentive to his sources, Lorca’s misgivings were confirmed. The CIA had successfully planted an inside man in his outfit. The operative may be gone, but in Lorca’s world, overtures like that did not go unanswered.
Standing at the wall safe, Gabriel Lorca withdrew the stacks of euros, slipping them in the leather portfolio with the rest of the information. Behind him were two men. His most trusted lieutenant, Maas, sat, calm but alert, in the leather wingback chair opposite the imposing desk.
The other man froze his blood.
Known simply in his native Russian as Zmeya, The Snake, nothing outward about the man produced this sensation of dread. Of slightly above-average height, he wore old-school nylon track pants, a gray, long-sleeved T-shirt, and Nikes. His neatly combed dark hair was beginning to gray prematurely, the silver at his temples and in his beard only adding to his generic appearance.
Zmeya held a lit Sobranie between two fingers like an extension of his hand. The smoke ribboned up his arm and dissipated at his shoulder, giving the vague impression of a lurking wraith.
Lorca returned to his desk. “This man was one of my best. He was trusted. As you can imagine, the news of his allegiance was distressing.”
The assassin listened without reaction.
“You know him,” Lorca added.
The drug lord pushed the portfolio to the edge of his desk. Zmeya eyed the package but made no move to take it.
Masking his discomfort, Lorca continued, “He will be difficult to find.”
Zmeya’s expression did not change, but something in the assassin’s eyes conveyed his derision.
Lorca watched him. For his entire adult life, Gabriel Lorca had been ruthless, calculating, and vengeful. He killed without mercy or regret, crushed his competitors and enemies without remorse. Through it all, however, Lorca had always had a code, a sort of skewed moral compass. The man before him would kill anyone in exchange for the contents of the leather envelope on the desk. Lorca was looking at a man without a soul.
Zmeya stepped forward and took the package. “You would like to send message? Make this man suffer?” He spoke without looking up as he ran a thumb across the bills.
“No,” Lorca replied. “A bullet in his brain is message enough. There’s nothing you could do to him that hasn’t already been done.”
Zmeya’s nearly undetectable smirk conveyed he doubted that was the case, but said nothing, turned, and left the room.
Maas blew out a heavy breath. “He is Satan. I smell the sulfur.”
“It’s just those disgusting Russian cigarettes. Go and see if you can find some air freshener,” Lorca said.
“I’ll open a window and ring for the maid,” Maas replied. Then he muttered, “Maybe she has some sage.”
“Zmeya will do the job properly. That’s all that matters.” Lorca crossed to the alcove bar and poured himself three fingers of whiskey.
Maas narrowed his gaze. “You’re not regretting executing the rat?”
“No. It has to be done. It just seems a shame to waste such talent. Maas, I tell you, if you had lined ten of my men up and said nine of these men are moles, he would have been the one left standing. I had complete faith in his loyalty.”
“Any chance the information is bad?” Maas asked.
“No. The source is unimpugnable. He’s a spy,” Lorca said.
“A scar-faced spy.” Maas feigned spitting.
Gabriel Lorca shot back his drink and set his glass on the bar with more force than necessary. “A dead, scar-faced spy.”