Belgrade Shadows
In early ’90s Belgrade, CIA operative Damian Novak balances a burdensome life of secrecy with fragile friendships, all while evading relentless Russian operatives and betrayed allies in a city seething with unrest. As danger escalates and long-held deceptions unravel, Damian’s desperate flight forces him to confront the high cost of loyalty and survival, leaving him to navigate a treacherous path where every choice blurs the line between duty and personal redemption.
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Astori Publishing Presents: Belgrade Shadows Rain on KaleniA Street couldnat wash away the stench of June or the sulfur a restless city breathes out in its sleep. The simmering heat coaxed steam from old concrete, but I never opened the curtain more than a palmas width. Fishmongers barked below, laundry sagged from shot-up balconies, and bread carts rattled past puddles. Belgrade in a92 looked like an old boxer with too many bruises, still grinning through split lips. I was Damian Novak, though around VraAar they knew me simply as aDana.a My mornings were careful, even when the day felt safe. Coffee bubbled on a greasy stove, two day-old rolls split for a thin smear of kajmak. No musicaonly the cityas breathing, the echoes of idle threats in the air. Routine demanded gray. I dressed in dull slacks, a tired shirt, no watch, no ringanothing that might whisper American. My agency case officer once said you werenat a real asset unless you could haggle for a watermelon without giving yourself away. Under my floorboard, I kept a ledger, yesterdayas Le Figaro, and a Browning that never saw sunlight. On odd days, when the cityas pulse felt off, I did a bug sweep three times before noon. Mostly it was just me and the bathroom mildew for company, with an occasional phone that stayed silent. The CIA sent messages through MiloA?�. MiloA?� Petrovic worked in the back room of a cinema off Svetozara MarkoviAa. He had a boxeras nose and a stubborn optimism that refused to die. Wead met three years ago drowning bruises in beer, sharing a bottle at sunrise. Since then, we traded jokes, half-truths, and a loyalty that clung to the bone. That afternoon, I found him crouched under a flickering bulb, splicing a battered French reel for the evening show. He didnat look up. aLate again,a he muttered, hands busy with celluloid. aThe buses run like clockwork,a I said, aif the clock was built by drunks.a He smirked, snipped the film, then offered me a chipped mug of Serbian coffeeathick as engine oil and twice as bitter. MiloA?� never pressed. Not about my sudden trips, not about my supposed aAmerican business office.a He fed secrets like stray dogs, just enough to keep them alive. aAny news?a he asked, meaning: Are you still breathing? aSame old,a I said. aPeople angry, politicians on TV, lines at the market.a He nodded. aMy cousin says the armyas eyeing Novi Sad next. Think itas true?a War was always there, a dull ache nobody liked to mention. I shrugged. aYour cousinas an optimist.a We left the projection booth and crossed sticky lobby tiles. Outside, the rain had quit, leaving wet pavement glistening under flickering neon. A drift of protest flyers tumbled along the gutter. MiloA?� stuffed his hands in his jacket. aYou ever get tired of all this?a he asked. I squinted at him. aBelgrade?a aPretending itas just another day.a A laugh tried to rise, then died in my throat. aAnyone who says no is lying.a We found a kafana across the street, a haunt where old men grumbled about life over chess and fumes of stale rakija. The waitress had hair like autumn wheat, the kind that made an impossible day feel briefly tolerable. MiloA?� and I talked football, cursed the cost of bread, let the hours pass like a cautious gift. By dusk, I needed the layered shadows of my route home. MiloA?� was spooling film for the next show, joking that I should never miss the French onesahe had a soft spot for tragedies. I promised Iad be there tomorrow, then slipped into the cityas dripping alleyways. As I made sure no one followed, I heard whispers that Russians prowled the city in civilian clothes. Iad dismissed it as gossip. Maybe Iad grown complacent. My apartment was the cramped second floor above a closed bakery. I killed the stairwell light out of habit and entered with my keys in my left hand. My neighbor, an old woman with a crowas stare, peered through her door crack. I nodded her way and vanished into the stale air of my living room. About twenty minutes later, the burner phone vibrated. Five words, coded twice: aEndgame, red house, dead drop.a aRed housea meant a safe site compromised. Endgame meant the sweep was coming. The years of routine flashed before my eyesaevery caution now felt like a thin barrier against a sudden, brutal storm. Then I heard it: multiple engines idling in unison, doors thudding shut, heavy boots striking wet pavement. Precise. No one on this street played it that clean. My stomach tightened. I edged away from the window and listened. Voices barked an order in a language that didnat belong in this building. The Russians had found me. In that moment, the mundane layers of my lifearent, rationed groceries, whether anyone suspected I was more than just Danaacollapsed into one stark point of fight or flight. I reached for the floorboard, hoping my hand was steadier than my nerves. Outside, more words, quick and controlled. The world funneled down to the space between me and the loaded Browning. Not fear, exactlyamore the razor focus of men whoave heard one door too many splinter in the night. I had seconds to disappear or become someone else. No room for mistakes. They were coming. And if I waited a heartbeat too long, nobody would be left to open the door. The door downstairs shattered so clean it couldave been cut with a chisel. I wedged the pistol beneath my waistband, slipped out the kitchen window, and let the warped metal drop shut behind me. Outside, neon flickered off rain-soaked alley walls. For a long moment, I stood there, breath fogging the night, before I heard bootsaquick, coordinated, not a shred of wasted movement. Definitely professionals. The apartment bricks radiated the lingering heat of the day. I pressed myself between dumpsters slick with old grease, my shoe grating on broken glass. Couldnat stop. I pushed on behind Zoraas bakery, past a rusted delivery truck stinking of cabbage and diesel. The only ones out this late were drunks, dogs, and men running from debts of one kind or another. Flattening myself against a crumbling wall behind the corner store, I spotted an idling gunmetal sedan with its headlights off. Lada. Russian plates. Theyad choked off the street, blocking both exitsathorough, no room for a lucky break. Above me, a womanas voice drifted from an open window, murmuring an old lullaby. For a heartbeat, the city seemed almost at peace. Then I ducked low, trying to still my thudding pulse. I climbed a back stair into a courtyard, weeds clutching broken concrete. My lungs started to ache. I wasnat looking back. I had two ways out. The first led straight onto the tram roadatoo public. The second was through a half-busted grate under a garage, emerging near Svetozara MarkoviAa. I wrenched the metal open and crawled through, elbows scraping stone, the Browning pressed cold to my side. Voices echoed behind me. Maybe theyad seen me slip away, maybe not. There wasnat time to guess. Inside, the garage reeked of mold and cat piss. A thin line of blood trickled from a cut on my forearm. The place was deserted except for echoes of someone barking orders in Russian. Their raised voices doubly confirmed I didnat want to linger. I stuck to the shadows, then doubled back through narrow lanes until I reached MiloA?�as cinema, lungs burning from the sprint. Where else could I go? aHomea wasnat an option. Never had been. Only a single bulb lit the ticket counter. The kid behind the glassapimpled and half-asleepadidnat bother looking my way as I muttered MiloA?�as name. The projection room smelled of dust and old film, a scratchy undertone like static. MiloA?� rolled a cigarette with fingers stained by tape glue. He paused, took one look at my face, and shook his head. aYou look like hell,a he said. aTrouble with the plumbing again?a aNot exactly.a My voice stayed low, body angled to hide the pistol. aNeed the side door. Iall explain later.a He ground out the half-formed cigarette. aSo you brought trouble.a I gave no response; the silence told him enough. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his thinning hair, then waved me down the corridor without further protest. We reached the cramped stairwell, the concrete damp with condensation. MiloA?� fumbled keys that jangled in the semi-dark. aYouare the one who told me never to show up here more than once a week,a he muttered. aWell, I changed my mind.a He finally got the door open. Its rusted hinges groaned like they hadnat moved since the last war. Inside, the air felt stale, almost electric, as if even the rats held their breath. Through the thin wall, night-sounds reminded me the world outside was still spinning. MiloA?� dug a battered flask from a shelf. Brandy. I took a long swig. The burn steadied me more than Iad care to admit. aWhoas after you?a he asked softly. I took another swallow. aWeall talk later. Need five minutes of quiet and then a safe way out.a He exhaled, shoulders sagging. aYouare lucky I never learned how to walk away.a We barely had a momentas rest before heavy footsteps pounded outside, too focused to be a random drunk. I froze, motioning him silent. Shadows shifted through frosted glass. Someone tried the knob. MiloA?� gripped a wrench like a lifeline; I flicked off the safety and steadied my stance. After a tense pause, we heard urgent radio chatteraRussian curses. Then footsteps hurried away. Engines revved. Either they had another lead, or they were coordinating a sweep. MiloA?� sagged, but anger sparked in his eyes. I holstered the pistol and laid a hand on his shoulder. He tore free. aYou want to tell me whatas going on, or just wait until they put a bullet in my head too?a His voice quivered between fury and fear. I weighed the half-lies Iad been feeding everyone for years. aIf I tell you everything, it wonat just be me on the line.a aItas too late for that,a he said, voice tight. I caught my breath, then nodded. We slipped through a narrow exit, bracing for the next silent threat. The drizzle outside was turning into a punishing downpour. Across the street, a sedan glided by, tires hissing on the wet pavement. MiloA?� jogged after me, jaw set, while doors slammed in the distance. An overflowing trash skip offered brief cover. My heart still hammered as I glanced at MiloA?�. I owed him a truth, or at least part of one. He stared back, uncertain but resolute. aI need a safe spot,a I said. aSomewhere only you know.a His glare stayed sharp. aI have a place,a he replied. aBut after thisa??itas answers, Damian. No more running me blind.a He said my name like a warning. Overhead, a siren wailed, distant yet haunting. I couldnat tell if it was for us or just another Belgrade night. We slid down a deserted alley, boots sloshing in shallow puddles, and crept deeper into the cityas tangled heart. Every corner felt like it might be the last. The storm hammered on, and I prayed it would mask our tracks. Sanctuary never lasted long in this world, and I was fast running out of second chances. MiloA?�as safe spot was a locked broom closet in the bowels of an abandoned apartment block off Kneginje Zorke. The kind of place you could vanish and never be found. Paint peeled in pale yellow flakes, and the air smelled stale, as though it had given up long ago. MiloA?� picked the padlock like head done it a hundred times. I slumped onto a crate, clothes damp with sweat and rain. He flicked on a flashlight and fixed me with a hard stare. aWeare alone now. Start talking.a You can lie to an acquaintance. With a friend, you have to choose which truths to share. aThereas a reason those men were Russian,a I said. aIama??not who Iave been pretending to be.a MiloA?� said nothing, just perched on an overturned paint bucket. The flashlight jittered against the walls, but his hand stayed steady. aAre you a fugitive?a he asked flatly. I shook my head. aNot yet. But if I donat get out of Belgrade soon, Iall end up in a cell or a hole in the ground.a He tapped the flashlight with his thumb, slow and deliberate. aSo who do you work for?a I exhaled, trying to steady the shake in my chest. aI said Iad help keep Serbia stable. The Americans. Yours truly. Now the Russians want me off the board.a His jaw flexed. aWhich means every time you stepped out, I was just the idiot who didnat know?a aNot an idiot,a I said, quietly. aA friend I didnat want to lose.a He stood with a curt shake of his head, rummaged in a pocket for a metal flask, then took a long swig. aSo why are you really here?a aI need to meet someoneaVera. She deals information like currency. Sheall know a way out.a aCan she be trusted?a I almost laughed. aTrust is a fairy tale. But sheall take money and hates the Russians enough to help me, or at least sell me a chance.a MiloA?�as scowl deepened. aWhere do we find her?a aShe operates out of the CveAara bar behind the tram depot. If you know the code to ask for her, sheall show up.a We waited in silence, neither of us meeting the otheras eyes. Dawn seeped through the cracks in the boards. Outside, traffic roused to life with the halfhearted energy of a city that never really sleeps. We headed out without a word. MiloA?� pulled a cap low; I huddled behind him, avoiding any attention. When we reached the baraa battered blue sign, a dusty windowathe inside smelled like boiled coffee and lost hopes. Behind the counter, Marjan was polishing a glass. MiloA?� approached him first. aImate li crvene ruA3/4e?a he asked. Got any red roses? Marjan answered, aNaA3/4alost, samo bele danas.a Only white today. I leaned forward. aA za prijatelje iz Pariza?a For friends from Paris? Marjan jerked his chin toward a rear door. We followed a narrow staircase, its steps slick with ancient spills. In a cold cellar, Vera stood by an old cigarettes machine, wearing a dark green coat. She was chain-smoking, a folder tucked under her arm. She gave me a once-over, then spat out a laugh. aYou look like hell, Dana.a aI need a way out tonight,a I said. aThe Russians are sweeping districts, and whoever burned the CIA safehouses is closing in.a She eyed MiloA?�. aWhoas this?a aHeas the reason Iam still breathing,a I said. Vera lit another cigarette and let the smoke swirl around her. aRumor says the Americans are folding. That true?a aAs of now, Iam on my own.a Her grin was sour. aYou want me to risk my neck? That costs.a I tried not to let desperation show. aIam offering the last favor I can give.a She pulled an envelope from her satchel. aThereas an old Opel van behind a bakery on Krunska. Nine oaclock tonight. Youall get fresh papers. You owe me, Novak.a She crushed out the cigarette and moved briskly for a side exit. Marjan didnat glance up when we left. Outside, MiloA?� stared at the keys Vera had tossed me. Rain started again, slicing the early morning light. aSo thatas it?a he asked, voice tight. aYou vanish, and I pretend all your lies never mattered?a I wished I had a neat answer. aI never wanted to use you,a I said, my throat raw. aBut they always said you could have friends or secretsanever both.a He gave a harsh bark of laughter, but his eyes were bleak. aDid you ever trust me?a I pressed the keys into his hand and paused, letting the rain pound over us. aIf I get caught, you take the van and drive south. Never look back. They wonat stop with me.a His knuckles went white around the keys. After a moment, he nodded. We walked on, step by tense step, until we saw a black VAZ sedan idling near the bakery. Its wipers beat a steady rhythm against the windshield. MiloA?� shot me a wary glance, and I guided him into a cramped alley. Garbage cans overflowed, glass crunched under our feet. I checked my Browningas slide. The sedanas door opened a fraction. I leaned close. aWe need a distraction. Do you trust me?a His lips tightened. aNot in the slightest. But Iam with you.a A womanas laughter floated from an upper windowaa careless, late-night giggle that made the rest of this city feel too real. I guided MiloA?� deeper into the shadows. Whatever move we made next, wead do it together, if only because we had no better plan. We approached the next corner, every sense straining. The next decision would decide whether we made it out or vanished forever. For now, we had each otheraand I hoped it would be enough. By nine, the rain had settled into a sullen drizzle that made every shadow feel alive. We slipped behind the bakery where Vera said the van would be, the building crouched under broken lights, its back door peeling in clammy darkness. The alley was silent, as though the whole city held its breath. MiloA?� moved first, staying low to check each corner. He seemed steadier now, wariness overtaking fear. I kept to his right, Browning pressed to my thigh. We found the Opel behind a dented dumpster, its blue stenciling half worn off. MiloA?� circled it, suspecting traps. I opened the rear door. Inside lay two folded raincoats, a beaten box of Yugoslav chocolates, and a sealed manila envelope. Standard CIA touches, right down to the red wax. I broke it with my thumb. Three passports. A handful of currencyaDeutschmarks, francs, even a crumpled hundred-dollar bill. A thin stack of photographs and a cipher pad. One photo stopped me cold: an American named Walcott, someone Iad glimpsed in Sofia. Questions Iad been avoiding snapped into focus. MiloA?� crossed his arms. aSo what does that mean?a I closed the folder. aWeave been hung out to dry, maybe from both sides.a My breath felt ragged, but I shoved the packet into a plastic sack. aTake these. Weall figure it out later.a Just then, headlights glowed at the alleyas mouth. Three men emerged, each broad-shouldered, eyes cold. They moved with a discipline that said Russian training. A fourth man slipped behind us near the fire escape. MiloA?� tensed. aWe running?a aNot yet,a I said quietly. aGive it a minute.a The leader addressed me in a low, steady voice. aGospodin Novak. We need those documents.a He stepped closer, crooked nose catching the faint light. I glimpsed the pistol in his hand, ready but not brandished. MiloA?�as grip tightened on a rusty hubcap head yanked from the dumpsterait wasnat much, but it was something. I said nothing, and the Russianas patience frayed. He gave a curt order in his own tongue. One man moved to our flank, near the van. They were boxing us in, and we both knew it. I smashed down on a stray glass bottle, the clatter echoing off wet bricks. In that split second of confusion, I fired twice, muzzle flash bright in the alley. Shouts in Russian tore the hush. MiloA?� swung the hubcap at the nearest figure, a desperate, ugly strike. More shots. The Russians scattered, though not far. One grabbed my collaraI slammed the Browningas grip into his cheek, felt bone give. MiloA?�, bruised but upright, stumbled into the van. I dumped the envelope under the seat, then dove behind the wheel. The engine coughed twice before roaring awake. Headlights flared behind usaa backup sedan trying to block the exit. I floored it. We careened onto the slick street, nearly clipping a trash skip. My heart hammered so hard I could barely hear. A block away, MiloA?� let out a breathless laugh. aYou never told me it was this messy.a I clenched the wheel, scanning the rearview. aTheyare still on us. If they get those documents, weare cooked.a He clutched the envelope. aNo more safe houses left?a aNone that arenat burned.a My grip hardened. aThese new drop coordinates were bait. We walked right into it.a MiloA?� spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. aSo who sold you out? Your own people?a aCould be. I saw Walcottas face in that packetahe was CIA, once. If heas turned, or if they want me gone...a I didnat finish. The thunder overhead rumbled like an afterthought. We roared around a corner, tires shrieking. Tail-lights flickered in pursuit. MiloA?�as knuckles were white on the dash. aWhere now?a aAn old underpass near the tramyard,a I said. aWe can ditch the van, lose them in the service tunnels.a We rattled beneath an overhang, siding close to a rusted railcar. Then we sprinted down an embankment strewn with broken glass and sagging weeds. My lungs seared. Trams hissed above, indifferent to our crisis. A padlocked service door loomed behind a toppled crate. MiloA?� forced it open. Inside, the air clung to us like stale breath. Our flashlight beams flickered across concrete walls. Footsteps echoed just beyond, telling us the Russians were fanning out. MiloA?� leaned against the wall, the envelope cradled under his arm. aIf the Americans are shutting you out, what does that leave?a I didnat answer. My eyes landed on the cipher pad, each line marking my existence as obsolete. Headquarters had changed every code phrase, canceled every route. Theyad left me to vanish in the dark. MiloA?� caught my strain but only pressed his back to mine, gripping his battered hubcap in grim determination. Above us, steps thudded over the tracks. Another pair of Russians slipped into the tunnel, methodical, closing in fast. MiloA?� forced a smile that showed blood on his teeth. aWhen we get out ofaa aIall buy you a real drink,a I said, voice tight. aAnything but the cheap stuff.a They moved closer, boots echoing off wet concrete. No backup was coming. No final rescue. Only our own choices in a city that swallowed regrets as quickly as it did the living. I gripped my pistol, felt the damp envelope at my side, and braced for the next few seconds that would decide everything. The Russians came on quietly, boots sliding over damp paper scraps and stale puddles. MiloA?�as breath hitched in shallow bursts, matching the thud in my ears. Beyond the broken vent, city traffic murmured, oblivious. I hauled MiloA?� behind a concrete stanchion, pistol raised. A flashlight beam skimmed the opposite wall, hacking shadows to ribbons. Footsteps halted. A Russian voice, cold and measured, called out in English, aHand over the packet, Novak. Or weall carve your friend up first.a MiloA?� flinched. I pressed my mouth to his ear. aIf they grab you, donat let them take you alive,a I whispered. He stared back, eyes hollow, and said nothing. A sharper beam found the edge of his torn sleeve. My spine prickled with sweat. Then a bullet clanged off the pillar, peppering us with grit. We bolted left, water splashing around our ankles, slipping past rusted barrels. I fired two shots blind. Russian curses echoed as glass shattered. We burst into the weak daylight beneath Kalemegdan Fortressaa bluff above the grey rivers. The fortress hunched, pale stone soaked in old strife. Every half-true story Iad told about touring this place suddenly mattered: I knew the routes, and if I was going to die here, it would be on familiar ground. Russians spread across the sloping lawn, methodical as hounds. I steered us to the fortressas lower ramparts, weaving past scrubby grass and weed-choked paths. Only a handful of late-night stragglers drifted out here, if that. We cut through a sally port clogged with debris. MiloA?� clutched the envelope like a life vest. We climbed a narrow staircase, stone slick with seep. Rifle shots rang from the park belowawarning fire, no aim. Their boots pounded, closing in. A quick glance down: four men, standard formation, one swinging east to flank. Theyad studied the fortress map, or they knew how to read terrain well enough. We ducked behind a corroded iron rail, overlooking Belgradeas battered skyline. MiloA?� propped himself by an arrow loop, panting, sweat streaking the dirt on his face. aWhat now?a he murmured. aUp through the courtyard,a I said. aStay low. Thereas a hidden stair, and Iave stashed gear.a He let out a twisted laugh, somewhere between panic and disbelief. aChrist, DanaaDamianawhoever you areawhatas all this? I saw your embassy badge once, thought it was a souvenir. Then came the guns, the codesa??a I stared past the fortress wall to the city beyond. aNameas Damian Novak, from Gary, Indiana. I came in a91 to run intel for the Agency. Moved money, orchestrated deals. I helped sabotage some men and saved others, all according to some ledger. The Russians want payback for what I took from them, and the CIA wants me gone because I know too many secrets.a MiloA?�as color drained, but his gaze never broke from mine. aIf you leave now,a I said, ayou can survive.a A round cracked the stone overhead, raining dust. The footsteps were closer. MiloA?� drew a shaky breath. aPeople died here for nothing. My father, my friends. I wonat leave you.a Another shot smashed the rail. We sprinted down a slippery stair, my knee twisting with each step. Ignoring the pain, we ducked into a frigid corridor once built to store munitions centuries ago. The stale smell clung to every crevice. aTheyare splitting up,a MiloA?� said, pressing against the wall. His knuckles went white around the envelope. aTheyall smoke us out.a I pried a loose stone free and yanked out a duffel: an old Czech submachine gun, extra magazines, one battered morphine syrette. I tossed a Makarov to MiloA?�; he held it like head just recognized his own desperation. aWatch the left,a I told him. Shouts from above. Then a different voice cut through: American, roughened with time. aDamian! Drop your guns. Weare taking you in.a I stiffened. aWalcott,a I muttered. He stood in the archway, flanked by a Russian. aDamian Novak, Agency asset 424-Theta,a he called. aHand over your friend, give us the documents. Maybe you walk.a His eyes gleamed with lazy arrogance, the face of someone who never paid for anything he did. I aimed at him. aYou sold us out, Walcott.a He shrugged. aPolicy changed. Your friendas just collateral.a Blood pulsed in my temples. MiloA?� shifted, gun raised. aHe saved my life,a he growled. aHe tried to save this country. You want your casualty for statistics? Take me.a It was half-insane, half-heroic. I eased him back with my arm. Walcottas mouth tightened. aDamian, drop the weapon,a he called. aOne less corpse in Belgrade is a mercy.a Before I could answer, a Russian behind him lost patience and fired, the shot ripping stone near MiloA?�as feet. We froze in a cornered standoff: Walcott and his Russian backup on one side, us on the other. No way to bargain. I lifted my hands, letting the pistol dangle on one finger. MiloA?� locked eyes with me, giving a nod I couldnat decodeaan apology or farewell. Walcott stepped forward. aYou always did talk too much, Novak. This is the end of the line.a I grabbed MiloA?�as shoulder. aAmerican policyas just a grinder. Weare all meat to them.a Walcott glanced at the Russians, exasperated. aEnough. You had your chance.a MiloA?� jerked right, drawing their aim. I pivoted left and fired. Pandemonium broke loose. Walcottas shot took MiloA?� high in the shoulder; one Russian fell clutching his thigh. I slammed Walcottas wrist into the stone until his gun clattered away. He spewed curses and blood. Russians shouted, firing at random. Bullets tore into our duffel. MiloA?� leaned on the wall, wound staining his shirt. I shoved the envelope into my jacket and dragged him along. Walcott crawled for his pistol. A Russian soldier raised his rifle. We careened down a dripping passage that stank of rot and old metal. Footfalls pounded after us. At the tunnelas end was an iron-barred door, older than any countryas borders. Past it, a slope to the river walk and whatever future we could claim. I jammed the key in, MiloA?�as blood slicking my fingers. Walcottas voice thundered behind us. aNovak! Youare done!a The lock ground halfway, then stuck. A Russian shadow spread across the arch. MiloA?� hunched over, breathing in wet gasps. Gunfire echoed off the walls, leaving us pinned between a sealed door and the muzzle flashes closing in. I braced myself, pressing MiloA?� behind me. It all narrowed to these last seconds: no rescue, no illusions. The footsteps advanced, Walcottas figure looming with the Russians at his side. I raised my pistol. The lock refused to budge. Then everything eruptedasteel, screams, and the blaze of muzzle fire lighting that stone crypt. The lock stuck hard, and at first I thought the key would snap. Then it gave with a metallic shriek, and a split second later the dark corridor exploded with gunfire. Shots ricocheted off glistening stone, spraying sparks and dust into the stagnant air. My ears rang with the near-deafening thunder. Walcottas silhouette lunged into view, one arm extended; a savage glint in his eyes as his pistol muzzle flared in the gloom, illuminating his sweat-streaked face. Behind him, a Russian operative fired with the cold efficiency of a soldier whoad spent his life stripping men down to targets. I yanked MiloA?� behind me just as a bullet chipped the wall, spewing jagged fragments that slashed my cheek. One breath, two, then I squeezed the trigger of my Browning. In the muzzle flash, I saw MiloA?� stagger. Blood seeped through his shirt like an ink spill, painting his shoulder. Fear throttled meaif I let him fall, the next bullet would be a clean kill. I grabbed his collar and dragged him behind a half-broken stone partition. My knee almost buckled from the strain, but I twisted us both toward the rust-eaten door Iad been trying to open. aDrop it, Novak!a roared Walcott, voice cracking under pressure. Water dripped from the ancient ceiling, pattering onto the back of my neck. aYouare finished. The Russians want the envelope, and the Agency wants your head.a I didnat answer. I heaved my shoulder against the door, forcing the deadbolt to slide another inch. MiloA?� let out a ragged groan, clutching his wound. We were perched on the edge of the fortressas forgotten belly, a place that reeked of centuries-old conflict. The air was thick, the ground slick, every breath a raw gamble. Finally, something in the door gave with the crack of a rib. I half-pulled, half-lifted MiloA?�, hooking my arm under his. He was sallow, eyes rimmed with shock. aNot yet,a I snapped back at Walcott, raising my voice above flickering gunshots. aIam getting out of here.a We stumbled through the doorway into a tunnel carrying the rancid odor of river runoff. The walls glistened with algae, years of filth clinging like old regrets. My nerves buzzed with adrenaline, or maybe something deeper: the knowledge that this confrontation had been looming since the day I signed on with the CIA. It always circled back to blood and confessions in the dark. Boots hammered behind us, echoing in the enclosed space. My chest clenched. These were close-quarter professionals, men who didnat need to see your eyes to put a bullet through your spine. A single slip and wead be pinned under fluorescent interrogation lightsaif we even made it that far. MiloA?� coughed, his breath rattling. aIaI canat keep running,a he whispered. aIam losing too much blood.a aYouall limp,a I said, half-commanding it, half-pleading. aWeare almost there.a He gave me a shaky nod, fear flickering behind his eyes, but he was sliding in the water, scuffing against the slimy floor. I steadied him, forcing every muscle to keep us moving around a bend littered with debris: broken crates, rotted sacks, scraps of old transit maps. The gloom pressed in, the only light a flicker from overhead cracks that led to who knew where. A bullet ricocheted dangerously close, sending a hiss of sparks across the tunnel. Behind us, Walcott spat some order in a seething voice. He was losing patience, but we were losing time. The Old Fishermanas Door: it was a rumor Vera had once told me, a half-forgotten hatch that opened onto the Sava Riveras bank. That iron wheel could stick or jam; it had been sealed for years. But I was out of choices. I steered MiloA?� to the thick, bolted door set low in the wall, its paint long peeled to reveal water-stained metal. My hands slippe