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that, Morgan heaved him to his feet and dragged him to the cliff's edge. Manhandling him and cutting him from the plasti-cuffs, it took only minutes to wrestle the utterly perplexed war criminal into the equipment Morgan had stashed earlier.
    "What the fuck is this?" S erifovic cried. "What are you doing? Is this a parachute? I'm just an old  man, you can't do this to me! Who are you? I demand to know!"
    The fear and uncertainty spilling from him in every word and gesture found no solace in Morgan's stoic silence. Serifovic grabbed at the buckles and zips, trying desperately to work out what it was that Morgan had strapped him into and what was about to happen. The bravado and arrogance of the man who had eluded international authorities for a decade and a half, living a life of absolute luxury financed entirely by crime, had evaporated. Milivoj Serifovic, the former Serbian colonel of intelligence, was no more. All that remained was Serifovic, the 62 year-old man suffering the onset of lung cancer, who had been stripped of his money, his power, his privilege and influence and, above all, his protection in a few minutes. Now, he was just a frail and scared old man, as vulnerable as every one of the hundreds of poor souls over whose deaths he had presided in his glory days. Glory days. Christ! Morgan's loathing surged.
    In one swift, deftly executed maneuver, Morgan had Serifovic flat on his face on the ground. Placing a foot across the back of the man's neck, Morgan prepared himself for the extraction. In less than a minute he, too, was ready. Once again, he pulled the other man to his feet.
    "You are wearing a Freedivers Recovery Vest," Morgan snapped coldly. "Designed to inflate once you are in the water. Yours is already set."
    "Set? Water? What the hell do you mean? Are you crazy?" The whites of Serifovic's eyes showed clearly all the way around his irises. His breath was shallow and strained. Panic had consumed him, but he knew   
    that there was no way out. Not with this man. "What am I to do? What if something goes wrong? Tell me! Tell me something! You can't just—"
    "OK, I'll tell you something." Morgan's hands suddenly locked on his prisoner: one onto the collar at the back of his neck and one onto the waistband of his trousers. "Mind the step."
    Alex Morgan hurled the man from the cliff and off into the darkness.

Chapter 6
    LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED
    "Who the fuck decided to send those useless fucking assholes to do this?" The virulent, heavily accented Slavic voice crashed through the room. The three other men remained rigidly silent. "Who was it? I want a fucking answer!" A huge fist pounded emphatically upon the desk.
    "One of our American chapters, sefa," was the only reply - self-assured, cocky but respectful.
    "You did this?" The man's eyes blazed with betrayal. "No, tell me it was not you, my own son."
    "No, sefa. It was not me," the young man answered. The older man's attention turned to the other two, his dark brow heavy with anger.
    "I made inquiries, sefa," said one of the others nervously. "I was assured they could do it."
    "You made inquiries!" the voice boomed incredulously. "You did this and did not think to ask me! All you have done is scare that American bitch and the rest of those fucks into hiding."
    The man, the one they called sefa, or chief, was pacing the room. It was a big room, masculine, with no windows, luridly furnished with rich decor and dark, heavy furniture. There would normally be row upon row of ceiling-high books in this kind of room, but no such irrelevances existed here. Instead, a series of  large television screens, half-a-dozen or more, were affixed to three walls at head height. Most of them were set to international news broadcasts. Where there were no screens there were oil paintings on large canvasses depicting female nudes in various displays of eroticism. Among them hung faultless reproductions of the Three Lovers by Theodore Géricault and Goya's famous La maja