Janson hazarded a quick look, and what he saw sickened him: the shots seemed casual, but were well aimed. The large-caliber bullets had blown off Holmes’s jaw. From the destroyed lower half of his face, blood drenched down his tunic; a final breath was expelled like noisy gargle, half cough, half feckless scream. Then Holmes toppled off his roof perch and tumbled down the tiled roof until he slammed into the parapet. Through the ornamental stonework, his lifeless brown eyes stared at Janson.

All that Janson knew was that the giant was no savior. He sprayed a long fusillade toward the hulking man who stood where the Cons Op sniper had been—it would force him into a defensive crouch, at least momentarily—then, using the various stone ornaments as handholds, quickly clambered down the side of the mansion, which was safely out of range. He hit the paved surface of the shadowed alley with as little noise as he could manage and, positioning himself behind two metal trash cans, studied the street scene in front of him.

The giant was fast, his agility astonishing for someone of his size. Already he was charging out the front door of the building, dragging the unconscious brunette with him like a sack. The man had a hideous, puckered scar running down his cheek, a grotesque memento of a violent past. His blue eyes were small, piggish but alert.

A second man, attired in similar drab, raced over, and Janson heard them talking. The language was unfamiliar—but not entirely so. Straining, he could make out a fair amount of it. It was Slavic—Serbo-Croatian, in fact. A distant cousin to Czech, but close enough that, by concentrating, he was able to make out the basics.

A small, powerful sedan roared up to them, and after another brief, barked exchange, the two men leaped into the backseat. Police sirens screamed in the distance.

They were leaving the scene because the police were beginning to arrive. Other drab-clad gunmen piled into an SUV and drove off as well.

Battered, bloodied, Janson staggered to the side street where Barry Cooper, sweating and wide-eyed, remained in the driver’s seat of the armored limo.

“You need to go to a hospital,” Cooper said, shaken.

For a moment Janson was silent, and his eyes were closed. Concentrating intensely, he returned to the words he had heard. Korte Prinsengracht … Centraal Station … Westerdok … Oosterdok …

“Get me to Centraal Station,” Janson said.

“We’re going to have half the cops in Amsterdam on our tail.” A light drizzle had begun to fall, and Cooper switched on the window wipers.

“Pedal to the metal.”

Cooper nodded, and set off north on Prinsengracht, the wheels squealing against the slick pavement. By the time they reached the bridge over Brouwersgracht, it was apparent that they had no police pursuers. But were there pursuers of another kind?

“Serbian irregulars,” Janson murmured. “They’re mostly mercenaries these days. But whose?”