The kitchen was attached to the living room, separated by two green woolen Army blankets that served as a room divider. Zvezdev pushed through the blankets, Rhodes followed.

Inside the kitchen was a wood-burning stove, a small refrigerator, cupboards, and a table and chairs.

And a corpse.

The body lay sprawled on the wooden floor, facedown, the head matted with blood.

“Is that my defector?” Rhodes asked. His eyes drifted to the table: a stack of money, a bag of coke.

“Yes. A filthy Roma, but a good smuggler.”

“What happened?”

“Earlier this evening, I followed him here. Discovered him taking the money you gave him for the drugs he brought you. I came in just as you shot him, but you turned your gun on me, and I had to shoot. At least, that will be the official story in my report.”

Rhodes felt the blood drain out of his face. “What’s the problem we’re having here, Tervel? I thought we had an understanding.”

Zvezdev raised his pistol and pointed it at Rhodes’s face. “We did, until you threatened me.”

“I just needed one big score, I told you that.”

“Sure, ‘one big score,’ and then there would be another and then another, always with the threat hanging over my head. I know how it works, Weston. I use the same technique myself.” He nodded at the corpse. “He was a problem, too. Two birds? Is that what you say? And when I tell my bosses, they will be pleased. Maybe even give me a medal.”

A man’s scream broke outside the farmhouse. Zvezdev turned toward the living room. Rhodes raised his Makarov and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty. Rhodes’s heart sank.

Zvezdev had switched guns on him.

Gunshots rang out as the front door crashed open. They couldn’t see what was happening.

Zvezdev pivoted toward Rhodes, his pistol held high, as more shots rang out from the living room.

Rhodes recoiled from the gunfire, slamming his back against the kitchen wall. The butt of the Bulgarian’s gun cracked into Rhodes’s head, knocking him senseless.

Zvezdev grabbed Rhodes by the collar and retreated to the back of the kitchen as the body of one of his men crashed through the blankets and spilled onto the floor, an ax buried in his spine—followed by Paul, blood-spattered and crazed, a gun in his fist.

Zvezdev lifted his pistol to shoot, but Rhodes had recovered enough to push the Bulgarian’s arm down as he fired. Paul grunted as blood erupted from his knee.

Paul grabbed at his wound with one hand as he went down, but he lifted his pistol with his other, taking aim at Zvezdev, now cowering behind Rhodes. He held a fistful of Rhodes’s hair in one hand and jammed his pistol into the back of Rhodes’s neck.