The guy was dressed in jeans and a light canvas jacket. He had a tactical vest over that, with twin MP5 mags in the front pouch. He wore a black balaclava, so only his eyes were visible, which made the head look a little stubby on his thick frame. But the eyes were experienced and calm. A chestnut shade of brown. Clear and intelligent. They were the eyes of a man in his late thirties or mid-forties. Not wild rookie eyes and not the dull eyes of a tired and over the hill operator. They were prime veteran fighting eyes, the eyes of a seasoned mercenary killer.

The MP5 was slung around his back. He had Nazari’s Beretta in his hand, the barrel brushing her neck. She raised her eyes to me, and we connected for a fraction of a second. It was a good connection.

Then our eyes were back to business. I spoke softly and slowly. “Gun’s on safety. I’m unarmed. We’re good. You can put the gun down.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The guy didn’t waver, didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak, and didn’t move an inch. He didn’t put his gun down and he didn’t look away. The eyes in the balaclava narrowed and the Beretta pushed hard into Nazari’s neck muscle. She flinched. I crouched down and made a big show out of laying the MP5 on the ground. Then I used my boot to slide it across the room. I felt my own pistol pressed against the small of my back, held in by the waistband. I spoke again. “No issues, no problem. No reason for anyone to get hurt. Whatever you need you’ll get. Is it me you want? Did they tell you to get the American?”

The eyes blinked. Not a slow and convincing blink, more like an unconscious millisecond long twitch that told me I was correct, that I was the target. No doubt they’d kill everyone else in the house, just to be professional about it. But, it was me who had aroused this next-level ferocity. And while I spoke, I didn’t stop moving. I crept slowly towards them an inch at a time, narrowing down the angles, closing down the space of possibility for him.