“Nothing,” George said, offering no greeting. “I think it’s the top flat, second house from the end. The one with the lights on. What are we going to do?”

Burim didn’t answer but rather took out his handgun and cocked it, putting a bullet into the chamber before tucking the gun into this belt. With one more glance up to the lighted apartment, he ran across the street toward the building’s front door.

For a second, George hesitated. The sight of the gun had unnerved him. But then, without really thinking about what he was doing, he took off after Burim. Burim was at the door, pulling a short-handled crowbar from the backpack he’d taken off his shoulder.

Wedging the crowbar into the doorjamb, Burim leaned into it, and the door gave way easily. He rushed through and charged up the stairs to the top level. George followed suit. On the top level, Burim raced to the appropriate door, 4A. Using both hands, he wedged the crowbar between the door and the jamb just above the lock. Then pulling out the gun from his belt with his right hand, he pushed the crowbar with his left, putting all his weight onto it. The door was dead-bolted and had a chain, but Burim was like a man possessed—his strength splintered the door and yanked it off its hinges.

A heartbeat later Burim was in the apartment, now holding his gun in front of him in both hands. Inside were two men on a couch, moving now, guns on the table, lines of cocaine. . . . Burim squeezed off two shots in the direction of each man aiming at their surprised faces—the first went down, but as the second reached for his gun, Burim fired again, with truer aim.

George pushed into the room and felt immediately sick. The two men were obviously mortally wounded. Both were lying in grotesque positions: one was moaning, the other gurgling. Burim’s aim was good—both had been hit in the head, sending bits of bone and brain splattering on the wall behind the couch. A TV was on and a late-night host was still chatting with his guest as if nothing had happened. On the coffee table with the guns and cocaine was a large brick of 100-euro notes.

“Jesus,” said George.