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By Chris Ryan

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Then he heard the voice. Muffled and frantic. Like someone being smothered with a pillow. Gardner broke into a jog. Scarface’s blood ran down his left arm and onto his prosthetic hand. Ten metres to the door and the scream became even more high-pitched. A woman’s voice. Gardner aimed a boot at the rusted lock and kicked it hard. It smashed apart and the door buckled on its hinges and swung open. A battery of ceiling panel lights glared at him. He scrunched up his eyes, shielded his face and scoped his surroundings.

From their room Gardner had spotted at the other end of the courtyard an ornamental gate which led to an alleyway adorned with overhanging vines and murals. At the far end the alley opened onto a busy main street. They headed towards a 24/7 car-rental joint. It was dark in the streets, save for the Parthenon lit up on top of the Acropolis. The rental place was a local business. 5-litre engine. He was left with the short end of €60. Aimée kept the laptop and flash drives with her in the front seat.

OK, I’m Margitz,’ the guy said. He stared at the barbell. His eyes leaked pure, unfiltered fear. ‘I have a message from a mutual friend. ’ Kruger dropped the bar two more inches. Margitz’s lungs filled with terror. ’ ‘Shit, shit…’ Kruger shook his head. ’ Margitz’s face tightened up like a screw in a hole. He seemed to find courage from somewhere. ‘Fuck it, I don’t have it. I’m warning you, asshole. ’ This last comment made Kruger laugh. Not because it was funny, but because Margitz had made the mistake of so many others.

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