Inside, the bar lived up to its name. The walls were decorated with heavy metal-style images of hell: devils in biker jackets riding flaming motorcycles among tormented masses. The place was packed and the bar heaving with drinkers. I recognized Milan Verde from an intelligence photograph contained in the dossier Mo-bot had sent via secure email. He looked a couple years older than the photo, his dark close-cropped hair now flecked with gray. His piercing eyes were just as soulless, and his scowling face appeared to have picked up a few new scars, including one on the bridge of his nose where it had clearly been broken.
He was sitting with a group of four guys and two women, who looked like roadies for the devil’s favorite band. I saw a flash ofrecognition when he caught sight of me and felt a pang of anxiety as he nudged the big man sitting next to him.
I thought he was coming for me, but it was even worse than that. The big man pushed his way through the crowd to the entrance and locked the front door. He folded his arms and became a sentinel guarding the only obvious way out.
The noise made by the patrons dropped slightly as they eyed me and made comments to their companions. They clearly knew who I was and had trapped me in the bar, so now I really had nothing to lose. I approached Verde’s booth, and the crowd parted to allow me access to the man who’d likely tried to kill me.
He nodded to his companions and they eased out of their seats, leaving him alone and the bench opposite him unoccupied.
I slid onto it and held his gaze as I settled.
“You know who I am?” I said.
“You’re brave and stupid coming here, Mr. Morgan,” Milan replied.
“Why did one of your men try to kill me?”
“I don’t have men.” He smiled. “I own a bar. You have me confused with someone else.”
I scoffed. “Those guys cleared a place for me because you asked them nicely, I guess?”
“That’s what friends do,” he said.
“So why did your friend try to kill me?” I pressed.
“My friends aren’t criminals, Mr. Morgan.” He held up his hands, palms facing me. “We’re peaceful people here.”
As he lowered his hands, he turned his wrists toward me andI saw the same tattoo that the assassin had worn: the Jerusalem Cross with fleur-de-lys inside it.
“Nice ink,” I said, gesturing to the mysterious pattern. “What does it mean?”
“It means this meeting is over,” he replied, nodding to his companions waiting nearby. “Take Mr. Morgan into the back and teach him Italian manners.”
“For a guy who owns a bar, you sure behave like a gangster,” I remarked, and he smiled darkly.
“Goodbye, Mr. Morgan.”
Large hands grabbed my arm and I was hauled out of my seat.
CHAPTER37
WHAT MAKES A good fighter? It’s a question I’ve often asked myself. I’ve seen one man defeat six, a small guy overcome someone twice his size, and I’ve come to the conclusion two things mark out a winner.
The first is spirit, an indefatigable sense that no matter how much punishment you take, you’re going to keep getting up. The second is the ability to create advantages for yourself through surprise, shock, or savagery.
I combined all three by grabbing Milan’s beer bottle as I was hauled up. I smashed it over the head of the man to my right, shattering it with such force he staggered back, dazed. I turned and drove the jagged teeth of the remains of the bottle into the shoulder of the man to my left and he yelped and jumped clear.
I sensed movement behind me and heard a voice yell, “Basta!Stop!”
I wheeled round to see a grim-faced skinhead pulling a gun from beneath his T-shirt. I rushed him, clapped his ears, grabbed his wrist, twisted it until I felt something crunch, then pulled the gun from his limp fingers.
“Back!” I yelled, turning the weapon on the gangsters encircling me. “Get back!”
The crowd fell silent but bristled with menace. Milan looked at once enraged and humiliated, which made him doubly dangerous. I knew I didn’t have long.
The way to the front door was blocked by the crowd. It would be too risky for me to try to push my way through. I didn’t want to kill unless I absolutely had to, and I was pretty sure taking that way out would lead to someone’s death, mine or an attacker’s.
Instead, I moved toward the service door beside the bar, which led to the kitchen.
