Hawthorn sat dumbfounded. The other man said, “One of us will not be leaving this city with his life.”

“What . . . do you want?”

The man from Pakistan just smiled. “I am not afraid to die. Are you?”

The man pushed past Hawthorn on his way out of the van, leaving the Israeli agent to sit alone in the driveway.

For the rest of the evening Hawthorn had known he would have to act: either run or kill. Doing nothing would be a death sentence. Running seemed impossible, considering the man from Pakistan specifically threatened to alert the others if he tried.

Hawthorn had no idea what the other man’s game was, but he knew he needed to act first.

Both Hawthorn and the other spy were carrying weapons. Pistols with silencers. It was standard outfitting for AQ operatives working in the West. The guns were both a means at their disposal to fight their way out of trouble, as well as tools given to them so they could end their own lives before they were taken into custody.

The Israeli asset had not planned on using his weapon for either purpose, but now he felt both comforted to know he had a gun, and terrified to know the man sitting in a room on the other end of the villa had an identical weapon.

As afraid as Hawthorn was now, he did take solace in his belief that he had some time to come up with a plan to get himself out of this mess.

And then the football match began. One of the Serbs had mentioned it earlier in the evening; apparently all work would stop so the twenty or so Balkan men on the property could enjoy the match on the television in the living room; minus those men needed to protect the property, the Serbs promised.

At that moment Hawthorn knew the situation had just changed. Would the other spy come for him, knowing the entire force around them would be distracted for two hours or more?

Shortly before the match began, both Hawthorn and the other spy made excuses to return to their rooms for the evening. They’d also made eye contact at that time, as if to say to each other, “Let’s do this.”

As soon as the match kicked off and the noise from downstairs rocked the villa, Hawthorn told himself he would not sit here on his bed and wait to be murdered.

If he was going to act, he was going to act now.

He screwed the silencer into the CZ pistol slowly, steeling his body and his mind for what was to come. He was no assassin. Yes, he’d had training in weapons and hand-to-hand action, but that was long ago and he’d not been particularly good at it.

He dressed in the darkest clothing he had, he slipped the weapon into the small of his back, under his shirt, and then he left his room.