17
Peter
We meet Danilo Novak at a café in Belgrade, a modern, stylish-looking place that has been entirely taken over by the Serbian arms dealer’s men. Other than the two young baristas behind the glossy white counter, every person in the café is armed to the teeth—and for all I know, the pretty teenage baristas are too.
Anton is providing backup—a precaution in case things go to s**t—but the twins are with me.
Walking in, we stop and take in the situation.
Novak is sitting at a small round table in the middle of the café. It’s a location designed to make us uncomfortable—we’ll be surrounded on all sides—but I just give the arms dealer a cool smile as we make our way over.
“Nice place,” I say in Russian, going on the assumption that he’s more likely to be fluent in my native languag
