My friends continued hauling me toward the front of the house.

“Goin’ to be difficult gettin’ out without being seen,” Rink said.

“Nunez and Charles are still out there. They’ll cover for us.” Harvey took a quick glance out the door. “But we’re going to have to get around the back before they’ll know we’re coming.”

“Window at the side,” I said. “Where I came in. We can get out that way.”

In silent agreement my friends turned along the passage past the living rooms. I lifted my chin, indicating the room I’d entered the house by. Both Rink and Harvey looked where I was nodding at the same time. It was a mistake, and I cursed myself for compromising us. The crunch of a boot was followed immediately by a barked command.

“Drop your weapons.”

We came to a halt, but none of us complied.

“Drop your weapons and turn around. Slowly. No sudden moves or you all die.”

The accent was guttural, nothing Spanish about it. Sounded German. When we turned I wasn’t surprised to see the muscular fair-haired man I’d noted earlier. He was holding an assault rifle wedged to his shoulder, threatening us with the barrel. He looked the business, standing there as solid as a rock with the cold light of intensity in his eyes.

“I will not say it again.” The mercenary’s finger was white on the trigger, and I could swear I could hear the tendons creaking like rigging on a sailboat. He wasn’t fucking around with us.

We allowed our H&Ks to drop to the floor.

He jerked the barrel of his gun between us. Choosing his targets. “Now your sidearms.”

To give up our guns was giving in to the inevitable. I was under no illusions: this man was only stripping us of our weapons so that there was no chance of resistance when he finally gunned us down. He was a stone-hearted killer by trade, but I recognized something in him that maybe even he wasn’t aware of. To kill you must be prepared to die. Concern yourself with covering the eventuality of your own demise and you start making mistakes.

“Give them up, guys.”

Rink and Harvey didn’t argue with me. They just unsnapped their handguns and dropped them on the floor.

The mercenary jabbed his rifle directly at me. “You as well, asshole. Do it.”

I was hanging on to my friends’ shoulders. “Back pocket.”

“You do it then.” The mercenary indicated Rink. “Fingertips only.”

Rink reached a hand behind me, pulled my damaged SIG from my waistband and tossed it on the floor. The merc nodded, a smile creeping onto his lips. Rink allowed his arm to loop around my back again, and I felt his fingers dig into my hip pocket.