It was a setup.

“Drop the gun,” the man repeated.

Janson let his pistol fall to the concrete. The steady pressure of the man’s gun against his forehead admitted no negotiation. Another piercing scream rent the air, this time with a quaver that signified profound terror or rage.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses smiled grimly. “The American bitch sings. Ratko likes to fuck them before he kills them. The screams turn him on. What is in store for you, I’m afraid, will be far less enjoyable. As you will learn for yourself. He’ll be finished shortly. And so will she. And so, if you are fortunate, will you.”

“Why? For Christ’s sakes, why?” Janson demanded in a low, urgent voice.

“Such an American question, that,” the man replied. His voice was more cultivated than the giant’s, but equally devoid of emotion. He was probably the operation’s leader. “But we will be the ones asking questions. And if you do not answer them to our satisfaction, you will suffer an excruciatingly painful death before your body disappears in the waters of the Oosterdok.”

“And if I do what you ask?”

“Your death will be merciful and swift. Oh, I’m sorry. Were you hoping for more choices?” The man’s thin lips twitched with contempt. “You Americans always want things that aren’t on the menu, don’t you? You can never have enough choices. Only, I am not an American, Mr. Janson. I offer you one choice. Death with agony—or death without.” His quiet words had the effect of an icy wind.

As the woman released another ear-piercing scream, Janson contorted his face into a look of terror. “Please,” he said, in a half whimper. “I’ll do anything …” Janson reached into a place deep within and began to tremble visibly.

A gratified, sadistic smile came to the man with the gold-rimmed glasses.

Suddenly, Janson’s shaking knees buckled, and he dropped down two feet, remaining perfectly erect as he bent his knees. At the same time, his right hand shot straight up, grabbing the wrist of the man’s outstretched hand.

The man’s smile faded as Janson pulled his arm down in a powerful wrist lock, wrenching it toward his elbow and twisting it at an acute angle. Now the man bellowed in pain as the ligaments in his arm were strained and torn, but Janson was relentless, taking a long step back with his left foot and pulling the attacker to the ground. He yanked on the arm with all his strength and heard a pop as the ball joint was dislocated from the socket. The man roared again, agony mingling with disbelief. Janson fell on him, bringing all his weight down on his right knee, driving it into the man’s rib cage. He could hear at least two ribs break. The man gasped, and behind the gold-rimmed glasses, tears rushed to his eyes. The broken ribs would make simply breathing exquisitely painful.