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neck missed, but the baton still struck hard, crashing down upon the collar bone and shattering it. The guard screamed in agony. He teetered forward, grabbing for his shoulder, and Morgan followed through determinedly with a pulverizing knee strike to the face. The impact and pain of it all reduced the man to blithering semiconsciousness and Morgan immediately carried out the plasti-cuffs, duct tape and tracking device routine again.
    Three down.
    Morgan flashed across the room, responding to the sudden, but dazed, recovery of S erifovic. Beside him the girl lay silent - she'd fainted. For her it was a blessing; for Morgan it was one less thing to worry about. The Interpol liaison officer would ensure that she was identified and properly taken care of. Then Morgan saw clearly the bruising around her eyes and the splits and swelling of her lips, the results of being worked over by her host. The cold objectivity of his profession morphed into a primal revulsion of the coward - any coward - who would take to a woman with his fists.
    Morgan's anger turned upon Serifovic but he forced himself to refrain from beating the man sense less. The disturbing strength and menace captured by those grainy file images that had become so familiar to Morgan back in London had all but left the Serb. The file pictures, the only official record of his appearance, dated back to the early 1990s. Seventeen years later, all that remained was a gray, emaciated-looking wretch. The old man was finally beaten.
    Morgan kicked an MP5 far away from S Serifovic reach and hoisted him unceremoniously to his feet. He was groggy, a mix of the alcohol he'd consumed, the effects of the flashbang and shock, but he was coming around.
    "Who are you?" he asked in Greek, finally looking into Morgan's eyes.
    "Turn around," Morgan demanded in English, spinning the man on his axis.
    "Not Greek police then," Serifovic said. "Interpol? No, you are no policeman. I can see that in your eyes. You are a soldier - a mercenary after the bounty on my head?"
    "Consider me a facilitator. Nothing more," Morgan answered bluntly, as he pulled the man's arms behind his back and applied plasti-cuffs. "And you are to consider yourself officially under arrest. Move," he barked and frogmarched Serifovic hurriedly toward the door. S erifovic did not attempt to escape or resist but he was committed to making the task of removing him hard work, constantly tripping and stumbling as the Intrepid agent hurled him outside into the middle of the wind storm.
    "Where are you taking me?" he yelled. "You know, wherever it is, they will come and get me. My friends. They will come for me and when I am free again, they  will come for you. And they will find you. You should think about that before—"
    Serifovic's taunts were abruptly ended by a punishing blow from Morgan, an expertly placed blunt trauma punch to the solar plexus. He crumpled to his knees, gasping horribly for air while his diaphragm went into spasm. Morgan stood over him, unemotionally, waiting for the man's breathing to recommence while he scanned their immediate surrounds. Even in the darkness he was vulnerable. Morgan was not about to assume he was home and clear. There could still be some other layer to SSerifovic's protection that intel had missed. That was why Morgan had decided upon a completely unexpected form of extraction.
    Finally, Serifovic regained his composure. He took in a series of long breaths, underscored by the smoker's phlegmy rattle, and then retched vilely before rolling onto his back. Morgan dropped to a knee beside his prisoner. In the darkness the man's features looked ghoulishly stricken. Calmly, authoritatively, the menace of his words chillingly discernible through the screaming winds, Morgan said, "Old man, if you think you're going to fuck with me all the way out of here, think again. You were right before - I'm not a cop. You should remember that. And where I'm taking you, no-one will ever find you."
    With