The Bulgarian turned as Jack’s blow landed on the German’s jaw. He crashed hard into Jack, knocking him against the wall, smashing a cheap picture frame with a blue-armed Vishnu smiling behind the glass. The big Bulgarian grabbed Jack by the lapel of his coat with his left hand and cocked his right arm back, aiming the biggest fist Jack had ever seen at his face. The thick, hairy knuckles launched like a meat hammer at Jack’s head, but Jack diverted the blow with a swipe of his left hand, sending the man’s fist into the wall with a sickening crunch.

The man still had Jack’s lapel bunched in his left fist, and his heavy right arm was pressed against Jack’s face, pinning his head against the wall. Too tied up to throw a decent punch, Jack reached for his front pants pocket and pulled out his weapon of last resort, driving the tip of the stainless-steel Zebra pen deep into the soft tissue of the big man’s lower jaw. The Bulgarian howled, clawing at the pen as he stumbled backward, his eyes wide with panic as Jack landed a kick to the side of his head, knocking him out.

“He’s bleeding out,” Paul said, rubbing the side of his reddened face.

Jack was still trying to catch his breath. He knelt close to the Bulgarian, careful not to put his knee in the pooling blood. “He’s dead.”

Jack pulled the pen out of the Bulgarian’s jaw and wiped it off on the man’s shirt. He saw Paul’s disgusted look. “Can’t leave evidence behind.” He stood.

Paul took a step back into the small kitchen opening to the postage stamp–sized living room. “Who the hell are you, Jack?”

Jack frown-smiled. “You know who I am. I came here to find you.” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out Paul’s phone. Tossed it to him as a peace offering. “Thought you might need this.”

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me. Look, we need to get out of here.”

Paul fiddled with his phone. He didn’t look up. “What about him?”

Jack stepped over to the German, felt for a pulse. Couldn’t find one. He wasn’t completely surprised. It was a perfectly thrown punch, the momentum of his two-hundred-pound frame propelling his fist like a mortar round into the smaller man’s jaw. A half-step shorter jab and the man would still be breathing.

“He’s gone.” Jack reached into the man’s coat and pulled out a 9x18mm Makarov pistol. He showed it to Paul. “Soviet version of the Walther.”

Paul glanced up from his phone, puzzled. He pocketed it. “Looks familiar. Can I see it?”

“You know how to handle one?”

“My dad was a cop.” Paul took the small pistol in his beefy hands and cleared the chamber while Jack searched the Bulgarian, his back to Paul.