by James Samuel
Darko didn't respond. He stared at the ground, his eyes bulging from their sockets. The powder keg was about to blow.
"Darko, look at me, my brother." He grabbed the back of Darko's head and forced him to look him in the eyes. "I don't know who killed Goran, but I have a lead. This was not Bosnians. I know it. I feel it in my heart."
Darko's breathing grew sharper as the rage built. "Not Bosnians? How can you say that? You think Serbians did this?"
"No." Kadrić let go of him. "Foreigners."
Darko's eyes knitted together in confusion. "Foreigners?"
"Some of my contacts in Sarajevo have been watching since the game against FK Sarajevo. Remember Ivica Boro? Why would Bosnian football fans want to take him? It was a targeted hit. Think about it. Is it not suspicious to you?"
Darko lifted his head. The mad dog had momentarily forgotten his rage.
"Yes. It was too good. He disappeared after he was taken. Nobody found the body. Why would they want a nobody like Boro? He said something. He led them to Goran. My men say foreigners were seen with the White Rose."
"The White Rose?"
"An organisation for peace." Kadrić allowed himself a laugh and spat on the ground. "Their leader is Ratko Avdić. Son of Kemal Avdić. Kemal fought in the war. Works with Croatians against us. He was seen with two foreigners."
Darko threw his cigarette to the ground. Every Bosnian-Serb nationalist knew Kemal. He had slaughtered countless Bosnian-Serbs during the war. As for his involvement today, he remained the great unknown.
"It must be those foreigners."
Kadrić nodded. "We find the foreigners. We avenge Goran's death. Go to Sarajevo, Darko. Find out who they are."
"And Avdić?"
"Don't kill him. Send a message. Make him tell us who they are and where we can find them. As for Kemal, we wait. He will retaliate."
"Leave him alive?" Darko spoke each word with a pause, as if he couldn't understand the concept.
"Killing Avdić is an unnecessary risk. What honour is there in killing a man who cares only for peace? A man who will not fight for anything because he fears us. He has information. That's what we need... and maybe we can use him."
Darko thought about it. "We could lure them in. The foreigners. Send a message. Make the foreigner live in fear."
"Well done," Kadrić marvelled at Darko's restraint. "This is why I trust you to lead our men. You are a smart man."
Darko embraced him, giving him a hearty slap on the back.
"I go, today, to Sarajevo. Then the foreigners will die screaming."
Kadrić bade Darko goodbye. Relief washed over him when he talked Darko down from the high peak of insanity. When Darko was at his best, he was ruthless and utterly cold. When he was at his worst, he could destroy everything they had worked to build over the last twenty years.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Five days had passed since the assassination of Goran Pejakovski. Five long days of watching and waiting from the safety of the Hotel Old Town. The news reported on nothing but the targeted attack on the long-term resident of Jajce. James wanted to hunt Darko immediately, but he'd held off. His better judgement convinced him to stay quiet, to allow the dust to settle. The police would be on high alert nationwide after the massacre in Mostar and now the killing in Jajce.
"You're walking better than expected," James said to Sinclair, fresh out of hospital. He leaned against his spot on the balcony. "I didn't think you would have recovered so quickly."
Sinclair limped towards him. "Physical therapy will not be required, it seems. I was lucky they missed anything important." He grimaced as he eased himself onto the stool next to James. "Any updates?"
James clicked his tongue mockingly thought about it. "Well, I'm going to kill Jakov Mlakar later – I already made sure to speak to Gallagher about that – oh, and I threw Goran Pejakovski off the top of a waterfall. Apart from that... a pretty boring few days."
"Splendid. Well, as long as you are not at risk of becoming idle." Sinclair swiped a chocolate biscuit from the half-open packet on the low table. "So, who will you be murdering next? That is, if it's not too much trouble to tell me, of course."
James took a drag of his cigarette. "Darko Borisov."
"Explain."
"Darko Borisov is one of Kadrić's right hand men. Pejakovski talked about him before he... tripped. It turns out he didn't know much about Kadrić at all. He was a low life criminal called in for a job here and there, but Borisov's name will be a useful one."
"Have you done any research?"
"I sent a request to London to be passed onto Finch. If he managed to find anything, he would have likely already sent it to you."
Sinclair sighed, half of a chocolate biscuit gripped in his teeth, and went to get one of his laptops.
James twirled the cigarette between his fingers. The mood of Sinclair had changed in an instant. He assumed the few days he had to sit in a hospital bed all day had cured whatever ailed him. He returned with the open laptop slung across a forearm.
"Did you receive anything? I think things have quieted down enough."
"Whether they have or they haven't, you're going."
James was taken aback by that. "What's the rush all of a sudden?"
"Nothing. I want to get this over with as much as you do." Sinclair’s keyboard made little click-clack sounds as he typed away. "Ah, here we are. Finch has already delivered a dossier on Borisov. Let me look..."
"He lives somewhere in the small town of Kakanj, just south of the border with Srpska, according to Pejakovski."
"Mmhmm..." Sinclair rubbed underneath his chin. "Well, it sounds like a small town, so let's find him as soon as we can, kill Kadrić, and be on our way."
James screwed his face up. "Do you have a holiday booked?"
"No, I told you. I want to get out of here."
"How quickly were you thinking?"
"About three weeks, if you can make it happen."
James found the sudden timescale suspicious, but he couldn't imagine why. He wondered if Sinclair's injury had made him nervous about remaining in Bosnia at all.
"Darko Borisov," Sinclair announced. "has been a known associate of Sadik Kadrić for many years. He is well-known to the police in both Srpska and the Federation. There are also records on him in Serbia, Croatia, Hungary, and Montenegro. Crimes range from suspected smuggling all the way to murder."
"Our man gets around, clearly. I suppose he will be a much more difficult target than Pejakovski."
"He has served prison time before, but only on very minor charges. His maximum sentence was three-and-a-half years for stabbing a man in the leg in Sarajevo. This was when he was younger. No other charges managed to stick." Sinclair's brow furrowed. "Finch's dossier says he has connections to the Serbian and Russian mafias. He may or may not have been involved in small acts of ethnic cleansing in the immediate post-war period."
"That would put him around his mid-40s, if he was only a young man during the war."
"Yes, that's correct. You should have a physical advantage. Here, this is his picture from the police files."
Sinclair turned his laptop around to show the police mugshot of Darko. James squinted at it, imprinting the face in his mind. Time might have ravaged him since, but his facial structure wouldn't have changed him that much. His face had a darkness about it, like a rage boiled within, ready to explode at any moment. Darko's eyes bulged, as if staring him down from the past.
James nodded. "Let's get started. I think we should begin by asking around Kakanj first. It's likely someone will know –"
Sinclair's phone rang. "Hold on one moment." He placed the laptop down on the floor behind him and answered the call. "Kemal, what is it?"
James clenched his fists at the thought of Kemal daring to call Sinclair after everything that happened. He still couldn't be sure that Kemal was truly on their side. Since Mostar, James had tormented
himself over what Kemal could stand to gain by seeing them dead. Could it be just about money?
The colour left Sinclair's face. "We're on our way."
"What is it?"
"They've attacked Ratko."
"Ratko? Who's attacked Ratko?"
Sinclair snapped his laptop shut. "The Bosnian-Serb nationalists. Come on, Kemal is over there now. Ratko's taken a heavy beating. Let's go find out what happened. Maybe he can tell us something."
James snapped up from his seat, grabbing his coat from the hook next to the balcony doors. So, Kadrić had retaliated at long last. Now, the advantage of anonymity had left them. Kadrić knew he had a price on his head.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The White Rose headquarters looked like a bombsite. Every screen had been smashed. The sofa rested on its side. Only the windows remained intact. James noted a chunk had even been taken out of the mantlepiece with what looked like a hammer.
James and Sinclair arrived behind Kemal and Nazifa. Kemal shook with rage as he cradled his son on the other sofa, a coiled spring poking through its side. His head rested in his lap. Ratko looked less like a human and more like a piece of meat. His face had been pulverised beyond recognition. His arm hung limp, useless off the side of the sofa. The glasses he wore rested a little way away, a drop of blood settled in the crack.
Nazifa returned to the room with a bowl of water and a bag of cotton wool. She dabbed at his cuts and bruises, for all the good it did. Both of Ratko's eyes were almost swollen completely shut. The nationalists had taken their time in torturing him.
James felt a pang of anger. They'd attacked the weakest of them all, the only man who would never fight back no matter what they did to him. This wasn't an attempted killing, it was a message, a message to him, Sinclair, Kemal, and Nazifa.
Nazifa spoke into Ratko’s ear in soft Bosnian tones.
Kemal clicked his fingers at her. She handed him a soft ball of cotton wool, which he dipped in the water. Little by little the dried blood disappeared, leaving only harsh blue-black bruises.
Nazifa stood and approached them.
"Did he say anything about the attack?" asked Sinclair.
"Nothing yet. He's awake, but he needs time."
"Kemal?" said James. "Ask him about who they were."
Kemal inclined his head. His expression softened. Lowering his head, he spoke to his son in tones barely above a whisper.
"Three of them. They ambushed him at the door. He didn't recognise them, and they didn't use their names,” said Kemal.
"Maybe I can help." Sinclair removed his shoulder bag and took out his laptop. "We found out some useful information about one of the Bosnian-Serbs. He's our next target. Very close to Kadrić. Let me show you a picture, Ratko."
Ratko didn't respond. His bloodied eyes continued to stare at the ceiling.
James took the open laptop from Sinclair, the picture of Darko filling the screen. As he approached Ratko, he saw life behind his swollen eye sockets. Whatever injuries the nationalists had inflicted, Ratko's mind remained as alert as ever. James positioned the laptop above his face.
"Was this one of them?"
Ratko' jerked forward, wincing in pain. "Yes."
"There we are," James announced. "Darko Borisov must have been leading the men who attacked. You have my word, Ratko, that we'll avenge you. He will never be able to do anything like this again."
"No." Ratko's voice came low and throaty. "Enough. This has gone on long enough. Violence creates more violence. Look what you've done." He let out a cough akin to a death rattle. "You made me a target. I don't want revenge. I don't want anything more. I'm alive, and that's what matters. No more."
"What?"
"This is your fault. You brought them to my door."
Kemal opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came.
"James, I'm sorry but I don't want to see you two here again,” said Ratko. “You've brought me nothing but pain. I don't want you to kill all these people. It makes you no better than them."
James stood stoically, stunned by Ratko’s announcement. After all this, the pacifist still stuck to his guns. It gave James a modicum of respect for the young Bosnian, but he would never understand him.
Nazifa jumped in. She spoke in a raised, squeaky tone in her native Bosnian.
"No, Nazifa." Ratko looked up with tears in his eyes. "I want James and Sinclair to hear this as well. You're just the same as he is. You're responsible for this as well."
"What?" Nazifa exclaimed.
"You killed Tomislav Suput in cold blood. You went to Jajce with James. You're equally as culpable. What happened here tonight is just as much your doing as it is his. I don't care who fired the shot. I want you all gone. All of you. Don't come back."
Nazifa gritted her teeth. The full lips quivered on the verge of an explosion of emotion. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing and stormed out of the room, tipping over the bowl of bloodied water onto the floor. The room remained in total silence as the front door slammed shut.
James ran his tongue across his lips. "Kemal, I will still need your help. Whenever you're ready, give us a call. I apologise for the misunderstanding."
Kemal bowed his head. "Thank you, my friend. I call you. We kill that Croatian bastard Jakov, eh?"
"When the time comes."
Sinclair nodded to affirm that.
The two men bade Kemal goodbye, paying no attention to Ratko as they left. They'd burned one bridge, but they'd saved another. Everything had gone according to plan, but they both knew they were being hunted. The situation was deteriorating. Time was running out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
James and Sinclair returned to the Hotel Old Town. The lights burned on their floor as they stood outside. James' insides turned to jelly. Ratko's attackers were likely still within the city limits of Sarajevo. Who was to say they wouldn't have a second ambush planned that same day?
"You didn't leave the lights on, did you?" asked James hopefully.
"No. I turned everything off and locked the door. It has three different locks. Would be difficult to break in."
James removed his pistol from his coat as Sinclair unlocked the front door. He moved into the barren entrance hall. A gust of cold air followed them inside. Like a crab, he ascended the steps one by one, checking the bannisters for any signs of life.
Three flights of steps later he came to their front door. For reasons he never understood, a paper written with the name ‘James Ryan’ was stuck to the window. The door didn't look forced. The locks remained in place. It only set his nerves further on edge. He took a deep breath as he turned back to Sinclair and nodded.
Sinclair gingerly stepped forwards. He cradled the keys like a kitten to prevent any jingling. As carefully as he could, he unlocked each of the three locks. With every turn of the keys, he grimaced.
James’s mouth went dry from fear. He steadied his breathing, aiming his gun at the door, clear of Sinclair’s looming body.
Sinclair finished unlocking the door. He raised his hand in a signal for James to ready himself. Whoever stood on the other side would get the first shot.
Ducking down, James used his palm to push the door open with as much care as he could. It remained silent on its half-oiled hinges.
The hallway looked clear. James advanced into the apartment, spinning to check the bathroom. Clear. He turned back. Someone had switched on the television. The light from the screen blinked he heard no sound. This was their floor. No other guest would have access to their suite.
He stepped gently, praying the floor wouldn't creak. Stopping at the door to the living room, he leaned close to the crack where the hinges met the wall. Through the slit, he observed two men sitting on the sofa glued to the TV. From here, he could detect no weapons.
James jumped from his hiding place. "Who are you?" He swung the gun from man to man.
"Good evening, Mr. Winchester," said a short man with spiky hair and dark glasses. "We were wondering
when you would arrive."
"Who are you?" His gaze never left the men's hands.
"Miran Heranda," the man in the dark glasses said. "At least I hope it's you and not Mr. Wood. If so, I apologise."
James lowered the gun. Miran was the man who had enlisted the services of Blackwind to eliminate Kadrić.
"Sinclair," James called. "It's okay."
Sinclair appeared at James' shoulder, peering with distrust into the room.
"Mr. Wood? Is that you? I'm glad to meet you at last. This is my helper Nemanja Zvecevac. He's a good man. You can trust him."
James acknowledged Nemanja with a tip of his head. He had a completely shaved dome and a narrow ginger goatee framed by a two-day stubble. His forehead appeared slightly too heavy, weighing down his eyes, leaving them with a slanted look.
"How did you get in here?"
Miran chuckled. "This is my hotel. I told Mr. Gallagher any of his agents could stay here. It's in the centre and quite safe. I thought it better for you to stay here with someone you can trust. You never know who owns the hotels here. Lots of mafia. Dangerous people, some of them."
James nodded and approached the two men. He sat on the edge of a stool near the sofa, still unsure what to make of all this.
"You surprised us," Sinclair explained. "We didn't exactly expect anyone to be here at all."
"Ah, it's no problem." Miran patted the edge of the sofa. "Please, sit down. I thought it better that I could meet you at last. Meet you because I can't see you. I'm blind, but my hearing is good. I heard you come in."
James and Sinclair exchanged looks.
"We were worried you weren't going to come, actually. I needed to talk to you quickly. I have some information that could help you complete the contract."
James couldn't help but reach his hand in front of Miran's face. He waved it around and Miran didn't acknowledge it. Nemanja shot him a disapproving glare.
"We are all ears," said Sinclair, leaning against the wall opposite.
"Things are not going as I’d expected. I was hoping this would be a smooth operation, but it isn’t. Dead politicians, gunfights in the streets, it's like hearing about the war again." Miran frowned. "I remember watching news like it from Germany, where I was a refugee as a child. This is not good."
