“Banja Luka? That’s out of my territory.”

“What can I say? The Consortium makes those decisions.”

“What about me?”

The man with the silver hair shrugged. “What about you?” After a moment he said, “Look, we’ve got other jobs around here, we’re not cutting you off.”

“Are those other jobs going to pay as much as I was getting from the pipeline?”

The mob official shook his head. “You were getting Western money for that. Sorry, Niko, but that gold mine is shut down now. Be glad the Consortium didn’t tell us to terminate you.”

In a raised voice he said, “Terminate me? It wasn’t my fucking fault. They know that, right?”

Another shrug from Filip; he didn’t seem to care. Then he softened. “Look, Niko. You’ve been good for us here. Belgrade does not blame you for this; we aren’t going to hold it against you. But the Consortium, they demand everything run perfectly, all the time.”

“Your people aren’t going to come after me. But what about someone else?”

The Serbian mobster nodded to the four cops at the front of the restaurant. “Just keep those boys close for a few weeks. I’m sure things will settle down by then.”

Vukovic shut his eyes, squeezed his glass hard, and downed the rest of his drink. Banging the empty vessel back on the table, he said, “I have more to say. Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to take a piss.”

Filip nodded and grabbed his phone to make another call. Vukovic stood and waved over one of his men, and together they ambled to the stairs to go to the toilets on the ground floor of the hotel.

The police officer entered the restroom before his chief, his hand on the CZ pistol he wore on his utility belt while he checked the area. The first three stalls were empty, but he pushed on the door to the last one and found it locked. In Serbo-Croatian he said, “Police business. I need you out of here.”

Soon the toilet flushed, and behind the cop, Niko Vukovic stood in the doorway.

The cop cautioned him with a raised hand. “One second, sir.” Wanting to check the hotel guest who had been using the toilet, the cop kept his right hand on his pistol and his left hand up, signaling his boss to wait.

The stall door flew open, and before the cop could react, he registered a black semiauto pistol a foot from his nose. A man in a ski mask came out quickly and pointed a second weapon at the chief.

Niko Vukovic did not move, other than to raise his hands slowly.

* * *

• • •

I rush out of the stall with my weapon pointed at the cop, then train the stainless steel semiauto on Niko standing at the door. When I can tell neither man is going to go for his weapons, I shove my Glock in my waistband and yank the Czech-made pistol out of the cop’s holster, racking the slide against my belt buckle to make sure the guy had a round chambered. A bullet ejects and falls to the floor, and then I point the cop’s own gun back at him.

Both men are frozen in place, and this makes me happy.

I know what I’m doing. Speed, surprise, and violence of action will win most violent encounters without the need to fire a shot.

To the cop I shout through the fabric of my mask: “Drop your radio and phone on the floor, and pull out your handcuffs. Lock yourself to the shitter.”

The guy doesn’t speak English, apparently, and he just stares at me. I look to Vukovic, motion for him to enter the bathroom all the way and to close the door behind him. When he does this I tell him, “If you don’t speak my language, you’ve got five seconds to learn it before I shoot you both.”

Instantly the chief answers in a heavy accent. “What you want?”

“For you to tell him what I just told him.”

He speaks to his subordinate, nods as if to give him permission. I move out of the way of the john and the cop reluctantly enters the stall, then handcuffs himself to the pipe going into the cistern. I kick his radio and phone across the bathroom, and they come to rest under the sink. Then I order Vukovic to remove his own radio, but let him keep his phone. He does so, I check the cop kneeling over the toilet and see that he has clasped the handcuffs as instructed, and all the while I keep Corbu’s little pistol pointed at the police chief. When the cop is secure I put the crappy gun in my back pocket and shift the CZ to Vukovic.

“Turn around.”

As the chief turns he says, “Are you from the Consortium?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t need to know that, so I don’t answer.

He follows that with, “Whoever you are, this is my territory. Not yours. You throwing your life away today.”

I close on him fast, spin him around, take him by the back of the neck, and jab the pistol in his kidney. I kick open the door, then start hustling the Mostar chief of police quickly through the ground floor of the hotel.

There’s not much activity around, but the few people in the lobby see me instantly. Everyone freezes in shock, and I scan each person I see to evaluate if they’re a threat. A hotel security man slowly starts to open his coat, but I train the gun on him and he raises his hands.

In fifteen seconds we are out the employee-only utility door that I used to enter the hotel, and on a quiet Old Town side street. I shove Vukovic into the front passenger seat of my Jeep, then rush around to the other side and leap in.

I’m driving as soon as I get behind the wheel, my gun on the Bosnian Serb next to me. I don’t make it fifty feet before I glance into the rearview and see two of his bodyguards racing out the front entrance to the hotel, heading directly for their SUV. I slashed the tires on the police vehicle parked on the side street near me but didn’t do anything to the police vehicle sitting out front, because I couldn’t chance being spotted by any of the hotel staff standing around the entrance.

They call me the Gray Man, but this shit’s not magic.

I’m low profile . . . I’m not invisible.

The police vehicle lights up and sirens wail, and it falls into hot pursuit behind me.

* * *

• • •

Vukovic looks in the passenger-side mirror now and sees his men behind us.

“You let me go, and you keep running. They will not chase you.”

I speed through the center of the hilly town with no idea where I’m heading. It’s tough holding a gun on a passenger while driving one-handed, and I clip the mirror off a parked panel truck during a left turn.

I look to Vukovic, then tap the cell phone on his belt with the barrel of the 9-millimeter.

“Call them! Tell them to back off, or you’re gonna get shot!” It’s nearly impossible controlling the Jeep at these speeds, and I know the cops behind me are already radioing to others with instructions to cut me off ahead. My only chance is to get Vukovic’s help in having them end the chase, and then get out of town before all the other police of Mostar rain down on me.