I grab the Italian by the throat and crush his windpipe with one vicious squeeze. His eyes bulge and he looks at me as though seeing whatever god he prays to. I toss his body aside and spin to take care of the man who was firing at us, but he is already lying facedown in a pool of blood, Damir’s knife buried in the back of his neck.
“Use your wits,” I growl, as we duck down behind the bar.
Radovan grins at me, blood smearing his face. We took them by surprise, but even Italian rats like these will fight when backed into a corner.
“Never knew I had any. But thanks, boss.”
I turn just in time to spot the Italian standing in the doorway with the heavy machine gun. He props the barrel on the edge of an overturned table and smiles savagely.
Time slows to a crawl. He could light us all up,
