The explosives were essentially harmless—glorified flash-bangs and nothing more. Their purpose was not the killshot, not the tearing at the throat but the baying at the moon, the bark. As Peter makes a tire-squealing course through the city I sprint across the roof, clear the gap to the next building, and roll to a stop. Mentally I can picture the large black SUV turn right where the overturned fruit stall blocks the way, then a left where a stalled Yugo sits.

This country is lousy with Yugos.

I get to the laptop with the sketchy satellite connection eight seconds before Peter’s car rolls to a hesitant stop in the alley. That pile of brick shouldn’t be there. Those last five detours shouldn’t have happened. Most of all, he shouldn’t have driven himself into this abandoned, bombed-out section of the city.

I wish the web cam had the resolution to show me his face as I set off the pile of explosives now under his car.

It’s not so much the killing I feel the need to repent for but how much I enjoy it.