The bad guys were obviously as impressed with Boris’s bollocks as I was. For a moment, you could have heard a pin drop. Then I heard more approaching footsteps. I couldn’t see who they belonged to, but the Adidas team’s body language told me the new arrivals weren’t fully paid-up members of the Davo fan club. Boris let them have it with a barrelful of high-voltage Serbian. I could only make out about one word in ten, but it was impossible not to catch his drift. The Davo raised their hands and backed off. By the time my captor indicated that the two of us should step outside to join his mate, everyone else had melted away. The entire stretch between the twin towers and the corner by the armaments display was deserted. My guy released me, but let me have a good look at the blade he had strapped to his left wrist. Boris waved me on with his Glock, then tucked it under his parka and down the front of his combats. I was surprised there was room in there. They escorted me up the trench, one of them at each shoulder.
