Zofia’s death, Hugo’s death, Rasmus’s death, Luiza’s death.

Or the death of Hamid Cana, someone he had never met, never talked to—an Albanian gunrunner who had been sentenced by his own colleagues just an hour ago.

9:08 PM

(54 minutes remaining)

He’d snuck in, step by step, hunched over as low as he could get.

The last stretch, from the three-car garage to the rippling fountain, he slithered.

Now he lay in a grove of five thin, newly planted orange trees, fifteen meters from the house and with a full view into the illuminated rooms.

Four people.

He was starting to feel sure there weren’t more.

Hamid Cana he recognized, his jacket hanging on a chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, comfortably leaning back in a leather armchair with a glass of wine in his hand in what seemed to be the living room. Opposite him, also with a wineglass, sat the woman who, according to Latifi, owned both this house and the two-story house in the city, who together with Cana led this gun-smuggling organization. Vesa Lilaj. A beautiful name for a beautiful middle-aged woman, who laughed and gestured and filled up more wine, perhaps in love, maybe even happy. In the kitchen, two bodyguards stood leaning against a long row of cabinets, both in suits that were more elegant than what you usually see in the Balkan area.

Piet Hoffmann waited.

Not sure for what.

Some movement—a visit to the bathroom, a walk down to the wine cellar—whatever got Cana alone, or those bodyguards at a distance from their protective target. Twenty minutes. That was as long as he could wait. Then he had to act, no matter the risk.

9:31 PM

(31 minutes remaining)

No movement. No change. Other than time ticking by.

He had to make a decision.

Taking shots from here was possible. Cana constituted a perfectly lit target, his head exposed, his chest exposed. But since the bodyguards had all the knowledge of the surrounding terrain, which he himself lacked, he wanted to get closer, maybe even inside the house, to be sure he succeeded.

One slow step at a time.

Wrapped in darkness.

He’d reached the small fence that marked the beginning of the entrance, where the gravel path turned to granite squares, when protective darkness suddenly turned to naked, angry light. When all of the outdoor lighting switched on simultaneously. Without realizing it he’d passed by some sensor, and the movement he’d waited for in vain came as Cana and Lilaj put down their wineglasses and turned and tried their best to see outside.

It all happened very fast.

Piet Hoffmann took his first shots through the hall window at the bodyguards who weren’t expecting a confrontation, and didn’t have their weapons up, and then hurried toward the front door. The next shot penetrated the window of the living room, then Hamid Cana’s white shirt. Vesa Lilaj sank to the floor, unarmed, seeking cover while the shooter ran into the house.

9:40 PM