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he forced himself to focus. Freetown was only two hours behind, Vance would be awake. He picked up the satellite phone from his bedside table and walked outside.
    Once the phone established a signal he dialed a number.
    “Hey bud, what’s up?” Vance answered.
    “Heard you’re heading my way.”
    “I was waiting on confirmation. Seems your sources are better than mine. I’m looking forward to catching up, brother. How are things in the old stomping ground?”
    “Zahir is running for office.”
    “You’re kidding me?”
    “Nope.”
    “And the UN don’t have an issue with that? Do they know that he and that douche-bag Kreshnik are probably mafia?”
    “I’ve told the boss. No one’s going to do anything about it.”
    “I’m guessing you have a plan.”
    “I want to submit his pack to the OSCE.” Ice referred to the body that oversaw the election process.
    “You think they’ll stop him from running?”
    “It’s worth a try. If it isn’t enough, I’ll dig up more dirt.”
    “So if the war criminal angle doesn’t work, then hit them up with the mafia links?”
    “Yeah. Frank can’t know. He wants me to drop it.”
    “He didn’t see a family massacred in cold blood.”
    Ice was silent.
    “You OK?”
    “Yeah, bro.”
    “I’ll be there in 48 hours. We’ll work on this together.”
    “Sounds good. I’ll get started on the legwork.”
    “I’ve got to head out and finish my handover. I’ll drop you a message as soon as I work out my flights. Stay frosty.”
    “Will do.” Ice terminated the call. He pulled out a local cell phone and sent a text message:
     
    Tomorrow 1100 at the tavern in Sicevo
     
    ***
     
    Ice had not slept well. Every time he managed to fall asleep his dreams took him back to the hill overlooking the farm two years earlier. Instead of the camera he found himself aiming a sniper rifle. It was his chance at redemption. But every time he tried to take the shot he baulked. No matter how hard he willed it he couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Time and time again he watched in horror as Kreshnik executed the entire family. He welcomed the morning when it finally arrived and freed him from the nightmare.
    Three hours later Ice was driving a white Toyota Land Cruiser with blacked-out windows down Highway 9. He glanced in the mirror as he turned off onto a gravel road. The car that had been behind him since he left Pristina didn’t make the turn.
    The road he followed wound its way along freshly plowed fields, over a small bridge, and into the town of Sicevo. He parked the four-wheel drive behind a hedge and walked to the village center. It was a cluster of red-tile roofed buildings around a dry patch of grass the size of a baseball diamond.
    The only locals to be seen were two old men sitting on a bench outside the local tavern. He gave them a nod, pushed open the door, and ducked inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he spotted three men sitting in a corner. They were broad-shouldered, wearing leather jackets and drinking cups of coffee. He walked past them, smiled pleasantly at an elderly woman behind the counter, and sat in the opposite corner.
    The men watched him as he ordered a Turkish coffee. When it arrived, he lifted the cup in a mock salute and gave them a smile.
    One of the thugs got up, glared at him and walked out. The other two continued to stare as he sipped the strong coffee. He dropped his hand to his hip and eased his jacket aside, giving him easier access to his Glock pistol. The front door opened and his fingers closed around the butt.
    “Mr. Iceman, how are you?”
    He smiled, taking his hand from the weapon. He knew that whiney voice. “I’m good Barishna, how are you?”
    The former quartermaster of the Gray Wolves closed the door and limped to the table. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit and polished shoes. “I’m good. Very good, in fact. I just won a big KFOR contract. Now, I’m moving over a hundred tons of aid a day.”
    “Occupation is