Page 52 of The Devil's Ransom

Jennifer and Veep took off to the east, running to the final exit, while Knuckles and I started slipping down the slope of the upper town, slinking through alleys and backyards until we ended up at an ancient funicular railroad connecting the upper town to the lower. The Art Park was just to the right of it.

The train was running up and down, but we didn’t have the time to use it to get to the lower level. We started jogging down the stairs next to the rail line, going about halfway down, then jumped the railing, passing between the buildings next to the funicular and running across the slope to the park.

We reached an open space of grass and I slowed, seeing an entrance in the side of the hill that was painted with graffiti. It looked like an old mining tunnel that some kids had decided todecorate, and I knew that was the exit. I said, “That’s the first one. Stage there.”

Knuckles took a knee behind a small tree and I kept going through the park, finding another entrance on the other side of a playground. This one had no graffiti and opened out into the park like a miniature train tunnel, with a concrete façade and two doors swung wide left and right.

I kneeled behind some shrubs, drew my Glock, and waited, breathing heavily, wondering if we’d missed them. I didn’t have to wait long. My earpiece crackled with a call from Knuckles, saying, “Coming now. Coming now.”

I heard shouting over at Knuckles’ exit, then the muted spit of suppressed rounds.

I started running that way, hearing the metronome of Knuckles’ voice on the radio.

“Contact. I say again contact. Target is running and hostiles are shooting.”

He was so calm you’d have thought he was ordering an Uber.

I broke through the playground in time to see the target running by me flat out down the hill, going so fast he lost his footing on the slope, something in his hand flying out as he tumbled. He sprang back up and kept going, disappearing below me. I turned to the threat, seeing two men engaging Knuckles with suppressed weapons, him returning fire. One man dropped and the other raced back into the tunnel, running away.

I reached Knuckles just as he was changing magazines. He jerked to the left when I appeared, whipping his weapon at my head. I said, “Whoa, whoa, it’s me.”

He lowered the pistol and relaxed, saying, “I was going to take one of them out with a physical attack, but they literally came outshooting. The target was running and ducking, and they both had pistols out, firing. I had to take a shot.”

Like I was mad that he’d pulled his weapon.

I said, “No worries. Check the body. The target lost something in the woods when he fell. I’m going for that.”

I walked down the hill a little bit and started stomping around, finally seeing a glow in the brush. I went to it and found a late-model iPhone sitting in the dirt. I snatched it up and went back to Knuckles and the body.

He stood up and said, “The guy is from Turkey. Turkish passport. What the hell is that all about?”

I had no idea.

Chapter29

Branko reached a flight of concrete steps leading down and attempted to take them two or three at a time, barely maintaining his balance as his windmilling arms sought to protect him from the forces of gravity. He fell once, bashing his knee and elbow, but sprang back up like a jack-in-the-box, continuing his flight. He reached the road at the base of the Art Park, spilling into the street and putting his hands on his knees. He sucked in great gouts of air and glanced behind him, seeing nobody following. He returned to the pavement, breathing heavily, and saw that his jeans had torn and his left knee was scuffed and bleeding. He hadn’t even felt the pain. He straightened up and took a left on the road, starting a shambling jog, his lungs screaming in protest.

Initially winded in the tunnel, he’d been forced to slow to a walk, his sides cramping with the unaccustomed physical effort he’d expended running from the café. He’d thought he was safe when he caught up to a group of teenagers going the same way he was. He’d matched their pace, trying to blend in, and then had heard the footsteps thundering behind him. He’d moved to the inside of the group, pretending to check his phone, ducking his head, hoping the hunters would pass him by.

They did, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached the first tunnel for the exit to the Art Park and had begun thinking through what he would do next. First, he had to find Pushka, buthis phone had no service in the tunnel. He began a fast walk to the exit, the noise of the teenagers’ footsteps fading in the distance, then growing stronger, as if they had decided to return. He’d whipped around and saw the two men from the bar coming at him, both with pistols drawn.

He’d turned and began running as fast as he could down the darkened tube. He heard several sharp reports, but none nearly loud enough for a gunshot in this enclosed space, then saw the concrete chipping with gouges along the walls, the bullets ricocheting out. He had no idea how the noise was muted, but he knew they were shooting at him.

He saw the exit of the tunnel in the stark light of the overhead incandescent lamps and put on a final burst of speed, feeling the men behind him gaining ground. He broke into the park and almost ran into another man holding a pistol, the appearance causing him to lose his balance, the iPhone in his hand flying out as he tucked his arms to break his fall. He’d tumbled head over heels, slid for a second, then sprang back up, finding the stairs and running down them, falling one more time before reaching the street.

He stuttered past a youth hostel called Chillout and paused to look behind him. Nobody was following. He opened the door to the hostel and went inside, finding a lounge area next to the check-in desk with several men and women his age lying about like lizards under the sun. He nodded at them and took a seat next to a bookshelf with a sign saying “leave a book, take a book.” Several in the room glanced his way, but nobody showed any specific interest.

He calmed down and began to think through his problem, the first being who on earth was trying to kill him.Who the hell were those guys? Why would the Afghan man I met in Liechtenstein wantto send anyone to kill me? And what was that about a treasure?It was completely bizarre, but the reasons why were not his immediate problem. Staying alive was the priority, regardless of whatever misunderstanding was playing out. Right now, he needed to avoid them, and he was sure they were still hunting.

His initial thought was to simply get a room at the hostel and spend the night, cleaning himself from any connection in Zagreb. Maybe spend several nights. Hell, an entire week. He was supposed to be in Split tomorrow, but he could get on a computer here and let his team know he was coming later. There was no rush, and letting the hunters simply give up seemed to be the best option. Then he remembered Pushka.

He would be panicking right now and would eventually call Branko’s phone—one he no longer had. He needed to find Pushka first, but to do that, he needed another phone, which was a little ironic, because what he really needed was the computer Pushka took from the apartment in order to wipe hislostphone. He had to use the features in his MacBook to eliminate and lock the iPhone he’d dropped. No way could he allow that to be found by someone on the street—especially since the AirTag for Andrei’s crate was tied to it. If that was found by some stranger, Branko would be wishing the two Afghans tonight had simply exterminated him with a bullet, because Andrei would not be so kind.

He had a burner phone in his car, but it was located in a parking garage in the lower town, near the train station. He’d have to traverse the entire lower town to get to it, with the hunters probably out looking for him en masse. But all they knew about him was he went to a bar in the upper town, and he had a knowledge of all of Zagreb that they did not possess.

He could do it. He told himself that, but it didn’t raise hiscourage. He really wanted to remain in the hostel, in front of others to prevent his killing. He knew he could not. That would only delay his death from another hand. He rose, went to the door, and looked left and right, seeing nothing but an empty alley, the dim glow of lights from windows providing shadows that he envisioned held silent killers.

He steeled himself and slipped out, running into a north–south alley. From there he slinked through darkened streets and rubbish-strewn alleys, using the very ones that he would have avoided on any ordinary night. He figured the dangers potentially lurking inside them far outweighed the killers who were chasing him.

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