He reached for the knife, sliced a strip off the sentry’s shirt, used the cloth to wipe blood spatter off his own face, his arms, cleaned the blade, and picked up the semiautomatic. Russian military sidearm. Standard issue.

He pulled the slide, checked the chamber.

Released the magazine, checked ammunition.

Eighteen 7N21 armor-piercing rounds, like they expected some kind of rescue attempt by Kevlar-wearing ninjas. He snapped the magazine back into place, checked both men for keys, money, identification, turned up a pack of cigarettes, a couple hundred euros, enough koruny for a decent meal, and two security badges with names that bore no relation to the names they’d called each other. He left the cigarettes and took the rest, nudged both weapons out of sight, and headed for the hub.

He didn’t know how many men were in the building or where they were, had no way to confirm the absence of cameras in the halls and hub, and wasn’t sure how far sound from pounding on the door had traveled.

Didn’t care.

He’d felt drafts while being marched one place to the next.

In a building like this, that meant doors or windows.

And he also knew Anna was close and only a single sentry guarded her. Vadik, they’d called him—the familiar form of Vadim—similar to the way Jimmy was a diminutive of James used by family, friends, and peers, or as deliberate condescension to put a lesser in his place.

In this case maybe a bit of both.

They considered him a stick-up-the-butt rule follower.

He could work with that.

He reached the end of the hall and followed a hint of cigarette smoke into a perpendicular entryway. A man in his early twenties, in civilian dress, stood military at ease three meters down. Jack strode toward him, purposeful, direct.

The sentry’s hand moved toward his sidearm.

Jack said, “Zdraviya zhelayu.”

A militarized greeting, uncommon, out of place.

The sentry’s hand hesitated, rose an inch, as if he wasn’t sure whether to salute or draw, and that bought another meter.

The sentry’s posture shifted.

Jack gripped handgun, gripped the knife, rushed the remaining distance, got muzzle to temple and knife to shooting hand before the guy’s finger slipped past trigger guard. “Your friends are dead,” he whispered. “Don’t join them.”

The sentry understood the intent, if not the words.

He stopped fighting.

Jack backed the blade up off his fingers.

The sentry released his grip.

Jack knocked the weapon to the floor, kicked it beyond reach, gripped the sentry’s arm, spun him hard, shoved him into the door, and with the muzzle to the back of the man’s head, said, “Unlock it.”

The man did as instructed.