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

(22 minutes remaining)

When Piet Hoffmann screamed don’t fucking move to the woman on the floor and then took a picture of the man lying beside her and whose heart had been pierced, it was the kind of moment Grens sometimes talked about, a moment that seemed so arranged, bizarre, and awful that the viewer had to take a few steps back to make the surreal turn real again. He took more pictures, got close to those lifeless eyes, pulled up the dead man’s shirt and zoomed in on the bullet hole, then one more, one last shot of the blood still oozing out of him. And then he sent them to the phone number that belonged to that distorted voice. He’d made it—Zaravic would soon be released, but he wouldn’t be told where his own family was hiding.

Piet Hoffmann felt his legs getting heavy and his arms hanging without any will of their own. Thirsty, dizzy. He’d hunted as far as he needed to, and when he was done there was nothing left.

He just wanted to lie down, between the dead man and the weeping woman. Curl up. Fall asleep and wake up in bed with Zofia at his side, the sound of the children’s gentle snoring in the house that was their home, even though it no longer existed.

Then the phone buzzed again—confirmation that the pictures had been received.

But no, that wasn’t it.

That buzzing. It told him his text was never sent.

Fuck.

Fuck.

His phone had no reception. The signal was gone.

He hurried into the bedroom, the office, the kitchen, the hall, the guest bedroom. No signal there. Just the house’s Wi-Fi, asking for a password.

He returned to the woman who was lying as quietly as he’d told her to.

“The password. To your network.”

She looked at him. But said nothing.

“Answer me—the password for your network! I know you understand English!”

She stayed silent. So he shot her. The lower leg, as little damage as possible.

“Answer me!”

She shook her head defiantly. He shot again. Left arm.

“You can . . .”

She was in pain, it showed on her face, and she spoke haltingly a few words at a time.

“. . . keep shooting. But you’ll get no help from me.”

She looked at him, challenged him. She meant what she said.

He would have to find another solution.