“Hey, Nenad! How about the guys with the easy jobs guarding the road bury this garbage?” he said, pointing toward Marko and Sava.
“How about you shut the fuck up!” said a stocky Serb crouched near one of the jeeps.
The man’s bravado instantly disappeared, and he started to melt back into the dozen or so men standing around in front of the trench. Marko took in the scene. Nobody was pointing weapons in their direction, but he could see the looks passing surreptitiously back and forth.
He located some shovels nearby, which were caked with dirt and had probably been recently used by the slaughtered Kosovars to dig their own grave. Nobody else glanced at the shovels. This was not a work detail. This was either some kind of sick initiation that might involve the surviving women and children, or something entirely different. Either way, he wondered if he had made a mistake.
His eyes found the nearest M-90 assault rifle, and he did the calculations, casually looking around. He could put a knife through the owner’s throat and get the rifle, but his chances beyond that were now non-existent.
The sound of vehicles broke his concentration. Two black Range Rovers sped down the road from the east, kicking up a storm of dust behind them. The armed Panthers straightened up, and some of them even attempted to brush off some of the dirt and mud, in a futile effort.
Nenad Sojic and his radio operator, Goran, jogged to the road to meet the occupants. He recognized the SUVs, and suddenly it all made sense. He might survive the day, but only if Radovan Grahovac, Hadzic’s security chief, decided to indulge in his patented sadism for a few minutes, before putting them all into the ditch. He was optimistic. The self-indulgent security chief didn’t like to stray too far from Belgrade, without the promise of entertainment.
The Range Rover doors opened simultaneously, disgorging the Panther VIPs. Serious, brutal-looking men, dressed in pressed camouflage uniforms, formed a loose perimeter around the man who had emerged from the front passenger door of the lead vehicle. Radovan Grahovac stood in the middle of the heavily armed men, surveying the destroyed village and nodding in agreement with Nenad Sojic, who gestured toward the mass grave at Marko’s feet.
Marko scoured Grahovac’s face, looking for any indication he might survive what lie ahead in the next few minutes. As Radovan’s group walked toward the pit, his heart sank, and he thought about the closest assault rifle. Maybe with this distraction he could pull it off. If he could get the rifle and find cover within a few seconds, he might be able to survive long enough to channel these overconfident simpletons into a few fatal funnels, which would give him easy targets until he developed a plan to escape.
He found too many flaws with the sudden idea. He carried the wrong ammunition magazines for an assault rifle, and would not have time to grab more if he wanted to survive the first few seconds. Plus, Radovan’s entourage was comprised of special operations types that had worked together for years. He could handle them alone, with the element of surprise, but in this scenario, their presence would weigh heavily against his odds of survival.
Just as Marko finished his nearly instantaneous assessment, the group dispersed, and he spotted his only hope of surviving the day. Andrija Brujic was among Radovan’s security team.
As Radovan approached, Nenad Sojic, de facto platoon commander, issued orders to Marko’s group.
“Turn around and face the pit!”
Marko turned his body, along with most of the group. A few hesitated, possibly sensing what was in store for them, and one of the men, a particularly overzealous Nationalist named Vukasin Mokric, refused to follow Nenad’s abrupt order. Vuk wasn’t intelligent enough to realize the gravity of the situation, and Marko assumed his defiance had more to do with one of his many personality disorders than any sudden enlightenment regarding their fate.
Nenad issued an order directed at the platoon, and Marko heard the metallic sounds of several rifles put into an immediate ready state. Rounds chambered and safeties disengaged. He didn’t have to look back to know that these rifles were now aimed at their backs, or in the case of Vuk, at his face.
“What the fuck is going on here? If this is some kind of initiation joke, I’m already fucking initiated. Get your rifles out of my face,” Vukasin said.
The platoon commander ordered him to turn around, and Marko heard a few of the soldiers reinforce the command.
“Nenad, this is fucking bullshit. I joined this group to fuck and kill these pieces of shit. Not to be treated like a dog,” he persisted.
“All thieves are dogs,” a voice boomed, followed by two sudden pistol shots.
Marko heard Vuk’s body hit the ground, and everyone in the line started mumbling prayers.
“Fuck with Mr. Hadzic’s money, and you get treated like a rabid dog. No better than the scum rotting in the pit at your feet,” the voice continued, and Marko now recognized it as Radovan Grahovac’s.
“Just one week ago, a large sum of money disappeared from one of Mihail Kunac’s safe houses. This money was on its way to Mr. Hadzic, when someone broke into the safe house, killing the guard responsible for watching the money,” Radovan said.
“Evidence suggests that this was an inside job. Mr. Kunac had just stepped out when the money was stolen. I arrived with a small group to personally collect this money, no more than thirty minutes after the hit. The poor shit assigned to watch the money was still fucking warm when we got there. This is all too much of a coincidence for me, and you can only imagine my embarrassment. I’m ultimately responsible for this money, and having to explain to the loss of nearly fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Hadzic is not a pleasant experience!”
Fifty-three thousand, two hundred and eighty dollars to be exact.
“I had to front this fucking money to keep my own head from showing up at his feet! I haven’t had a theft like this in over three years. So what’s changed? We bring on a fresh batch of recruits, and I suddenly have a fucking major theft on my hands. I want this money back, and one of you pieces of shit knows exactly where to find it! Someone better start talking, or every one of you will end up in that pit…blamed for the worst massacre in recent history.”
Time stood still, silent for several moments, until another gunshot broke the quiet, startling all of them. Marko felt a warm spray hit the left side of his face, and a large volume of thick, dark red fluid bathed the filthy corpses directly below him in the pit. Time slowed even further for Marko, as he registered the absolute insanity of the moment. He stood in a line of men about to be executed by a stark raving mad lunatic, and very little stood between death or salvation. His thoughts came quickly and clearly, as the man’s body was kicked into the pit before it could even fall to the earth.
Marko gauged the moment and decided to let one more person die before making his play. He figured the odds were in his favor. Grahovac wasn’t likely to shoot two people standing side by side. He knew the next bullet wouldn’t be his. He figured the next one to be killed would be the first person to open their mouth.
“Mr. Grahovac, I wasn’t even in Belgrade when this…”
He was right. A sudden gunshot completed the kid’s sentence, and another body tumbled into the pit, momentarily disturbing the flies.
“I’ll kill every one of you until I figure out who did this,” he snarled, and started to walk back toward Marko.
At this point, Marko knew that Radovan had no intention of sparing any of them. He apparently had no idea who stole the money, and based on the fact that he had potentially killed three people who might have admitted the crime, it was clear that he didn’t care. Radovan was deviously intelligent, and Marko figured this public stunt was designed to seal his legend as the most ruthless, unforgiving crime boss in Serbia.
If he couldn’t punish the actual thief, he could send a clear message that stealing would result in random, murderous consequences. Sensing that his time was running short, Marko made a comment that he purposely intended to be undecipherable by Radovan. He made it quick, and there
was an air of confidence to the statement that might have prevent his immediate execution.
“You have a traitor on your security detail. Someone with very expensive taste.”
Radovan rushed up behind him and growled into his ear. “What did you say, thief?”
“One of your guard’s is wearing a really expensive watch. I’ve seen similar watches, I think, in Berlin…while fucking around at a very expensive mall. I noticed it on him when you came by the assembly area two days ago. He was inspecting some of our weapons, and I got a close-up look,” he whispered, and Grahovac remained silent for the longest few seconds of Marko’s life.
“Which guard?” he demanded.
“Can I point to him?” Marko said.
“Yes, but if you fuck with me, I’ll spill your guts all over the ground. Do it. I don’t have all day,” he said, and Marko sensed that he had taken a few steps back.
Marko turned purposefully, and quickly located Andrija Brujic, who looked amused by what appeared to be a new act in Radovan’s travelling psycho performance. A few members of the platoon exchanged glances, and he could tell they were awaiting something horrific, yet enticingly different. Brujic adjusted the brim of his camouflage cap and touched his flattened nose. When Marko raised his hand and pointed at Brujic, the cocky smile vanished, and Marko detected a confused panic settle over the man.
“Andrija, roll up your sleeves,” said Grahovac.
Brujic hesitated, glancing around as if it was a joke.
“Roll up your sleeves,” he repeated calmly.
When Brujic didn’t respond immediately, he lost his composure.
“Wrestle that fuck to the ground!” he screamed, spurring several members of the platoon to grab Brujic’s arms and pin him to the dirt.
“Roll up his fucking sleeves!” Grahovac spat.
Without ripping the buttons, the camouflage sleeves only came up midway between the wrist and elbow, but it was enough to expose a thick, shiny watch. Very expensive looking.
“I want to see that watch,” Grahovac said, taking a few steps away from Marko toward the messy tangle of men sprawled out on the ground.
One of the men stripped the watch from Brujic’s wrist and tossed it to Grahovac, who took a several seconds to inspect it. Brujic broke the silence, which may or may not have made a difference in the outcome.
“He’s the one that gave it to me! He said it was a fake that he stole from some shithead in the Zemun market. This is a fucking setup! Can’t you see that?” he said.
Although he never actually said it, the tone suggested he meant to add “you stupid fuck” to the end of the sentence.
When several members of the platoon and Radovan’s security detail chuckled at his comment, Marko knew the man was as good as dead. He still had no idea if he’d survive the next few minutes, but he now had a much better chance.
“Mr…?” he paused and looked to Marko to finish his sentence.
“Resja. Marko Resja, sir,” he replied.
“Mr. Resja gave you this watch, in attempt to frame you?” he said, turning back to Brujic, who strained against the thick hands pressing him to the ground.
Now the laughter grew, as Radovan’s tone implied that Brujic’s story was nonsense.
“Yes! He gave it to me a few days ago. Out of the blue. He’s trying to pull some shit on us. The watch is a fake. I don’t have money to buy expensive watches,” he said.
“But you have money to eat in expensive restaurants?”
“That’s different. I wasn’t paying. It was that whore from the—”
His comment was interrupted by a solid kick to the face by Grahovac’s black, spit-polished combat boot, which momentarily silenced his desperate plea.
“Haul him up and shut him up,” he said and turned around to Marko.
While the men struggled to get Brujic to his feet, Grahovac tossed the watch to Resja.
“That’s a twenty-eight thousand dollar Rolex Cosmograph. I own two just like it. I could use a keen eye like yours on my security detail. Consider that a reward, and wear it as a reminder of what happens if you betray the cause,” he said, in a more controlled tone.
Twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five dollars to be precise. Arranged through an exclusive jeweler at the Potsdamer Platz Arkaden in Berlin. Paid for, in advance of pickup, by General Sanderson.
“What happens to him?” Marko asked, against Brujic’s duct tape muffled screams.
“He goes into the pit with the rest of them, after Nenad’s crew works him over,” Grahovac replied, turning to the platoon leader.
“Give him the special treatment, reserved exclusively for the Kosovar whore queens…and get rid of that shit over there. What the fuck are you keeping them around for?” he demanded, pointing at the huddled women and children sitting off to the side, under armed guard.
“We wanted to save a few of them for you and your men,” Nenad replied.
“Get rid of them, and get out of here. I want this wrapped up in thirty minutes.”
“Grab your rifle, and hop in the rear vehicle. You smell like donkey shit,” Grahovac uttered, still glaring at Brujic’s battered, duct-taped face.
Marko ran off to grab his gear. When he returned, Radovan and his entourage were already on their way to the Range Rovers, forcing him to sprint to catch up with them. Radovan glanced his way.
“Sniper, eh? Any good?” he yelled.
Nenad, who stood a few feet away, answered the question for Marko.
“One of the best I’ve seen in a while, sir!” he said, then slapped Marko on the back. “Don’t embarrass us, Resja,”
Marko nodded before climbing into the back seat of the rear SUV. The rich smell of leather penetrated the stench he had choked on for the entire three-day field operation, easing him into the vehicles luxurious interior.
“Fuck, man. You do smell like shit. Crack the windows,” said the man directly in front of Marko.
“Bojan,” said the burly guard next to Marko, extending his hand.
“Marko. What’s going to happen to them?” he said.
“Your buddies in front of the pit?” said Bojan. “They’re going into the pit…where they belong.”
Marko stared out of the window at Sava, who looked slightly relaxed, despite the fact that they hadn’t been allowed to face away from the pit. He was glad that the Range Rover’s tinted windows hid his face. If Sava locked eyes with him for even a moment, the boy would know that he was as good as dead. He just hoped they made it quick for him. His thoughts of Sava faded, as the SUV started slowly moving away from the center of the village. Phase two of his mission had just begun.
He had just passed the most critical test for any covert field operative. What the psychologists and psychiatrists involved in Black Flag’s mental readiness division program called a “permanent trust point,” or “PTP.” They had told his training class that most operatives will never reach a “permanent trust point” with any of the organizations they are attempting to penetrate, and among those operatives who do, even fewer will survive the circumstances surrounding it.
Marko had pulled off the impossible—but he still had a long way to go. Radovan Grahovac’s personal security detail was a few tiers away from Srecko Hadzic’s inner circle; the ultimate goal assigned to him by General Sanderson.
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OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 34
