Glaze couldn’t fake the fear that radiated from his words. There was little chance he was lying. Quinn looked at the screen again.
Borko was one fucked-up son of a bitch. Not everyone in the business knew who he was, but Quinn had heard stories from several very reliable sources. Borko reportedly cut his teeth as one of the late Slobodan Milosevic’s ethnic-cleansing experts. He was even said to be a member of the Sluzba drzavne bezbednosti—Milosevic’s malevolent state security service — getting his start in the early 1990s infiltrating university student groups to help quell an uprising that threatened to topple the regime.
He should have been arrested years ago. He should have stood trial for crimes against humanity in the World Court in The Hague. He should have been killed a thousand times over, but he hadn’t been.
In fact, he’d simply disappeared when the war ended, his name never appearing on any wanted list. A few years later he resurfaced, this time as the head of his own little organization. For a price, he and his team were available to do people’s dirty work. The only limitation on projects they would accept was the price clients were willing to pay.
“Don’t you get it?” Glaze said. “He’s going to come after us next.”
“No,” Quinn said. “He isn’t.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Glaze said. “He’s going to kill us.”
Quinn looked up at Glaze, his gaze steady but calm. Finally, the look in Glaze’s eyes changed from fear to dawning understanding. Slowly, he sat back down.
“If he knew we were here,” Glaze began, “he’d already have come after us, right? Before he went inside.”
“Exactly,” Quinn said.
“You’re sure?” Glaze asked.
“I’m sure.”
They returned their attention to the screens. Two of Borko’s men had escorted the asset into the center of the room. She didn’t even try hiding her fear; Quinn could clearly see it on her face. What was happening wasn’t part of the plan that had been laid out to her. V12 was just supposed to transfer her to a team from SCG, who in turn would have been responsible for getting her safely out of the country. That was the service her friends had paid for. That was what the asset had been expecting.
Borko approached the woman.
“Are you Karina Sanchez?” he asked.
“I don’t know who that is,” she said much too quickly.
Borko smiled, then casually removed his pistol from under his jacket and slapped the woman across the face with its barrel. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. When she looked up, blood began seeping out of the new cut on her cheek.
“Are you Karina Sanchez?” Borko asked again.
Before she could answer, a noise came from the side of the room. It was a door opening. Borko’s gunmen whipped around, their rifles pointed at the source.
Quinn’s eyes jumped to the monitor with the best view. Two men had just entered the building. They were talking at first, two friends arriving early to work. One was carrying a cup of coffee, while the other held a toolbox.
The moment they saw Borko and his men, the man with the coffee dropped his cup and bolted for the door. A bullet took off the back of his head before he could escape. His friend watched, frozen to the spot where he stood. As he turned his eyes back toward the center of the room, he was greeted with the barrels of four guns pointed at him.
“Hey, it’s cool,” the man said. “Listen, I don’t care what you’re doing. Just let me go and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Borko reached down and lifted the asset back to her feet, then looked at the new arrival. “Why don’t you come over here for a moment?”
The man hesitated. “I think it might be better if I just leave.”
“You a mechanic? This where you work?” Borko asked.
The man nodded.
“You’re a little early, aren’t you?”
“Just picking up a little overtime,” the man said. “That’s all. I’ll come back later, okay?”
“Bring him over,” Borko said to his team.
One of the men approached the mechanic, his gun pointed at the man’s head. “Move,” the gunman said.
The mechanic did as he was told, stopping when he was only a few feet away from Borko.
“You can put that down,” Borko said, glancing at the toolbox.
The man seemed to suddenly remember he was carrying something, then quickly set the box down on the floor. “I swear, you let me go, I’ll forget I ever saw you.”
But Borko had stopped listening. His attention was back on the asset.
“Miss Sanchez, the person who paid me to find you is not very happy that you decided to find employment elsewhere. As you can imagine, he is not anxious for others in his organization to follow your lead. So he has asked me to make sure you let the others know you made a mistake.”
Borko nodded once. Two of his men quickly shouldered their rifles and grabbed the mechanic by the arms. Once he was secure, Borko kneeled down next to the toolbox and opened it.
“What do you carry in here?” Borko asked. Before the man could reply, Borko reached into the box and pulled something out. “This will be fine.”
As he stood up, Quinn could see a long, thin screwdriver in the Serb’s hand. Borko looked back at the woman.
“Don’t worry. I am not actually expecting you to make any kind of speech. There are many ways to deliver a message. Perhaps you’d like to get a preview of what your message will look like.”
Borko turned to the mechanic, the screwdriver held tightly in his hand.
“What the fuck?” the man said. “Come on. I ain’t done nothing. Please.”
The Serb put his free hand on the man’s shoulder, smiled, then jabbed the screwdriver deep into the man’s abdomen.
The mechanic cried out in agony and started to double over. But the gunmen held him up so Borko could pull the tool out. Borko waited a moment, then shoved it in again, this time on the other side.
The mechanic vomited, his breakfast barely missing Borko’s shoes. Borko once again removed the screwdriver. This time he held the bloody weapon in front of the asset’s face.
“You see, one more time and he’ll probably pass out,” he said. “He won’t be dead yet, but he will miss all the fun. This method is effective, but most of the damage is on the inside. Outside? Only a couple of small holes. Not very dramatic. To be an effective message, there has to be a more dramatic presentation.”
Without warning, he lashed out with the screwdriver, slashing its blade across the mechanic’s face, detaching part of the man’s cheek. He did it again and again and again. Face, neck, shoulders, chest. Finally he plunged the weapon upward under the man’s rib cage, undoubtedly aiming for the heart.
Within seconds, the mechanic was dead.
As the gunmen let the body slump to the floor, Borko pulled his makeshift weapon out and turned back to the asset, smiling.
“So, Miss Sanchez, are you ready?”
He raised the bloody screwdriver again.
After Borko and his team cleared out, Quinn told Skyler to get behind the wheel, but not to start the engine yet. Quinn glanced at his watch, then fixed his eyes on the monitor displaying the wide shot of the carnage. Each minute that passed was agony to Quinn. The chance that another civilian — perhaps a security guard, or another city worker arriving early — would enter the room and find the massacre increased with each moment Quinn continued to hold their position. But he’d been well trained, and understood that caution was one of the most important parts of the job.
The wait paid off. After nearly fifteen minutes someone stepped out from the shadows of one of the trucks. It was Borko himself, armed now with one of the G36K rifles. He appeared to be alone. Does the son of a bitch think he could take on an entire rescue team by himself? Quinn thought, then paused. He probably does, and probably could.