Page 2 of West

The alley runs fifteen meters back to the wall of the next building. Twilight casts shadows into the grimy space. I’ve spotted a CCTV camera on the building opposite, so if I need to, I’ll ask Coco to hack in and get me details.

“BJ…”

Oh, he’s pulled out my old nickname, a derivative of Benjamin, my surname. Yeah, sorry, not going to work. But I do add, “Listen, I won’t blow this. But Oleg”—yes, that’s a lock now—“looks like he’s about to take someone down and I need to know who.”

“Make it clean,” Logan says.

“Always.”

I take the earpiece out and pocket it.

Carrer d’Aribau is a two-lane artery with steady traffic, even late. The scent of wet stone, cigarette smoke from the nearby bars, hot grease, and a garlicky steam from the alleyway clogs the air.

I wait for a break, then hustle across the street on the diagonal, and just for safe measure, I wave at someone, as if I’m late.

Then I duck into a shop. I don’t think Dragan can see me from here, but I’m not far from the entrance to the hotel.

And the alleyway is just a few steps away.

Here goes nothing.

I edge out of the doorway, take a jaunt down the sidewalk, and turn into the alleyway.

Oleg has thrown down his cigarette and now checks his watch. I keep walking, like I might be on my way to work.

Six feet away, he meets my eyes. Frowns.

I come at him without stopping, and I think that’s what gets him—he doesn’t expect it—and suddenly I have his wrist in a lock.

His phone falls and my thumb presses his carotid on the right side. Then, just like that, I turn him, get him into a sleeper hold.

He goes out in under twenty seconds.

I kick out his footing and control his head on the way down so his skull doesn’t kiss the concrete.

I hold for five seconds. Check his breathing. Check the alley.

So that went better than expected.

I pick up the phone, then check his jacket and find a subway card. I grab the folding knife in his belt clip. In his left sleeve, under the cuff, I find a second phone, taped to his forearm with medical adhesive.

A quick rip and it’s off.

And of course I relieve him of his suppressed CZ Shadow 2 semiautomatic handgun— Czech-made, which narrows the biography considerably. When he wakes up, we don’t want him making poor choices.

I prop him against the pipe at the back of the doorway, turn his head to the brick, set his right hand across his stomach. From the mouth of the alley he reads as a man who’s used his break time unwisely.

That’ll do.

I step out of the alley and slip back into my alcove.

Two minutes later a black Mercedes S-Class rounds the corner. It’s a hired car—you can tell by the hubcaps, polished to fleet standards.

The driver pulls in tight to the curb, gets out, comes around the back, opens the rear door, and stands with one hand on the frame.

A woman climbs out. Dark hair pulled back, slim, fit, dark pants, a black jacket, and armed, given the bulk under the jacket. Her back is to me.

Hired security. Interesting.