Warriors (9781101621189) Read Free Page B

said, almost as if he were giving the orders. But Dušic knew he was right. No way to know how many enemy were in the house. Stefan opened the bolt on the M48, ejected the empty brass, and loaded another round.
    No sound came from the house for several minutes. DuÅ¡ic considered what to do next. He needed to know if more enemy remained inside. Normally, officers did not make targets of themselves, but enough of DuÅ¡ic’s men had suffered wounds already. And his men would trust him more if they saw him display courage. DuÅ¡ic rose to his feet.
    â€œViktor,” Stefan whispered, “do not—”
    â€œI know you will cover me,” DuÅ¡ic said. He stepped into the open, walked toward the house. Held his breath, watched the home for movement. Listened for a shot. Nothing happened.
    When DuÅ¡ic made it halfway across the garden, he knew the threat had passed. “Medics,” he called, “take care of those men.”
    â€œYes, sir!” came shouts from the woods. Two soldiers ran from the trees to their fallen comrades. The medics reported that both of the wounded had died. DuÅ¡ic felt fury rise within him. Two Serb lives taken by this Turk.
    Inside the house, upstairs, DuÅ¡ic and Stefan found the Turk. He lay on his back, most of his face blown away. Blood spatter ran from the wall, and a pool of red crept across the wooden floor. The Muslim’s eyes stared at the ceiling. DuÅ¡ic wondered why the bullet hadn’t simply taken off the rat’s head. But then he realized the Turk must have turned his face at the instant Stefan fired. The bullet had ripped away his cheeks and jaws, left the brain intact. A gurgling sound came from what remained of the palate and throat. Breathing.
    â€œDamn your Ottoman mother,” DuÅ¡ic said. “You are still alive.”
    DuÅ¡ic drew his CZ 99, aimed the handgun. Started to pull the trigger, but decided to enjoy the moment for just another few seconds. Savor the vengeance.
    â€œYour friends at the United Nations have declared this a safe area,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Did that scrap of paper in New York protect you, Turk? Do you feel safe now?”
    The bloody mess at DuÅ¡ic’s feet gurgled again. DuÅ¡ic fired. Brains spattered his boots.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    ALL THAT HAD TAKEN PLACE nearly twenty years ago, but DuÅ¡ic remembered the events as if they had just happened. He saw the glory of his youth as a promise unfulfilled. He and his people had been traveling a brilliant path to the future, but outside intervention had denied them their destiny.
    After DuÅ¡ic hung up the phone, he told Milica he would be out for a while. He took the elevator down to street level, found his blue Aventador in the garage. DuÅ¡ic raised the driver’s-side door, lowered himself into the leather seat, pulled the door closed. In his forties now, he remained agile, able to climb into the low-slung vehicle comfortably. During his war years he had escaped injury, fortunately, and he knew the tasks ahead of him might require personal strength and endurance.
    He placed the key fob in the ignition, raised the cover for the start button on the center console. DuÅ¡ic pressed the button, and the V12 behind him rumbled to life. He pulled out of the garage, drove through the city, and headed west to Nikola Tesla Airport. When he arrived, he saw the tail fin of the Antonov An-124 looming above the cargo terminal, just as expected. Originally designed to project Soviet military power, now many of the huge Antonov cargo jets flew for civilian operators. DuÅ¡ic maintained a contract with this particular company, with deals to fly his AK-47s, RPG-7s, and crates of land mines wherever needed. All transactions completely aboveboard and known to the authorities. The people who ran these freight carriers always complained about fuel prices, and those Cossacks used that as an excuse to charge exorbitant fees. But they paid