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They continued until they reached the Bronze Gate of the old town, the southern one facing the Adriatic Sea, and walked through the archway. Shakor said, “Where? Where do we go?”

Drago led him past an ancient cellar, walking up a stairwell into the sunshine, passing by multiple table merchants selling local artisan products. They entered the courtyard of the city proper, walking beside buildings that were older than them both by a millennium.

Shakor looked around, saw the crowds swirling about, and said, “Where?”

Drago said, “It was farther in. Near a restaurant called Makarun.”

Shakor said, “Keep going. If this is a trick, you’ll be the one to lose.”

Truthfully, Shakor didn’t believe Drago was using subterfuge. After they’d attacked the house, and Branko had escaped, Drago had been as compliant as possible. Almost to the point of obsequiousness. But Shakor still had to keep fear in the guy, if only because he knew the man would attempt escape if given the chance.

Drago pointed right, to the Cathedral of Saint Domnius, the bell tower rising above everything else, saying, “It’s this way. I recognize that.”

They reached the end of the courtyard and Drago took a left into an alley, walking under an arch. He reached an intersection with alleys going in all directions and turned in a circle, unsure where to go. He looked up, saw an ancient clock behind him, and said, “This way, this way.”

He went left, and within seconds the alley opened up into a broad plaza lined with cafés. Confused, he turned in another circle. Shakor’s patience growing thin, he pulled Drago up short, saying, “Where are you taking us? Where is this stairwell?”

“It’s here. It’s here. We must have just passed it.”

Shakor jabbed him with a finger and said, “Find it.”

Drago said, “I’m trying, I’m trying. I didn’t spend a lot of time here. I just picked it out and paid.”

Drago went back down the alley and saw the tunnel leading to the restaurant. He exhaled and said, “That’s it. It’s a stairwell right before the entrance to the restaurant.”

He led them down the tunnel and Shakor saw the courtyard to the Makarun restaurant, full of packed tables with white linen and trees. He knew that if Drago ran through into it, he’d be free. Drago stopped and Shakor grabbed his shirt, saying, “You’d better not be tricking me.”

Drago pointed to a stairwell to the right and Shakor said, “That’s the operational cell? Right up those steps?”

“Yeah. It’s a Vrbo we found with high-speed internet. The only one around.”

Shakor turned to the other men and said, “Same thing as before. These guys don’t like to fight, but they do like to run. Theyprobably have a plan of escape out of this place just like they did in the other one. We get in, show them some violence, and dominate the place. Drago, you lead. You knock on the door, get them to open it, and we’ll do the rest.”

Now scared, Drago said, “If they come out shooting, they’ll shoot me first.”

“Shooting? Do they have guns?”

Drago looked from Shakor to the other men, then hung his head, saying, “No. They have no guns.”

Shakor said, “Good. You go first because they’ll recognize you. That’s our edge. The only thing you need to worry about is if Branko isn’t there. If he is, you go free. If not, you come with us to the other safehouses you’ve arranged. Now get moving.”

Drago hesitantly walked up the stairs, winding around the landings until he reached the top, seeing the door lock had been smashed and was slightly ajar. He pointed at it with wide eyes, and Shakor simply shook his head, indicating he should knock and call out.

Drago did, heard Rodavan answer, and calmed down. Rodavan cracked the door, saying, “We’ve had some issues. Where is Branko?”

Shakor slammed him in the head with his pistol, just like he’d done successfully to Drago in the safehouse earlier, then shoved his body past the threshold. He had a quick glimpse of a man behind a computer—the same one he’d shot in the leg in Zagreb—and four other people in the room. None of whom were computer geeks.

A man to his right immediately locked up the wrist holding his pistol, slamming it into the doorjamb. It went off, the bullet ricocheting from the stone and hitting the man behind the computer.He fell out of the chair while two other men rushed forward with their own guns drawn. Drago screamed and began racing back down the stairs as Shakor’s other two men bounced against him trying to get inside.

Shakor fought for his pistol only to have his elbow torqued in a joint lock, the pistol falling to the ground. The man swung in a tight circle, using the joint lock of Shakor’s wrist and elbow to force him to follow or else have his joints splinter. He felt the pain and screamed, diving in the air to try to relieve the pain. Just before it shattered, his attacker released him, flinging him against the two men trying to enter and throwing all of them back into the stairwell.

Shakor felt his head smack stone, untangled himself from his own men, and looked back at the doorway. He saw two men with pistols drawn staring down at him, but so far they hadn’t fired.

He said, “Back! Go back!”

He and his men rolled and stumbled down the stairwell, spilling in a heap into the tunnel of the restaurant, the patrons in the courtyard noticing their arrival. Shakor gave a split-second thought about charging back up, but knew that was a dead end. With them holding the door frame and the high ground, they’d be killed quickly. He’d learned that lesson long ago in Afghanistan.

He said, “Hide your weapons. Let’s get out of here. Where’s Drago?”