“Don’t forget the nine,” Anton said, and then got out.

Ellie turned in her seat and grabbed the backpack. It was a basic thing, more stylish than practical. It had a pair of outside leather flaps with snap buttons, and inside the flaps she found vials of both steroids and human growth hormone (no big surprise there), and packs of Dentyne gum guaranteed to keep your breath fresh for hours.

In the main compartment, she saw a bunch of burner phones, a leather journal of some sort, and a thick manila folder. She hunted for the Glock, finally found it buried at the bottom—a Glock 19. The backpack went onto the passenger seat, in case she needed to use one of the burners, and then she cracked open his window and hers so she could hear, and watched as Anton made his way inside the abandoned plant.

He stopped thirty or so feet away from the entrance, then abruptly turned right, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. From somewhere inside the plant she thought she heard a car engine start. Anton didn’t wait around; he walked back to the Beemer, but he didn’t get inside. He leaned against the hood, directly in front of her, and folded his arms across his chest.

A single car emerged from the plant—a black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows, Ellie wondering what it was about gangster types always needing to drive top-of-the-line cars. The Mercedes parked at an angle in front of her, along the left side. The driver didn’t cut the engine or step out of the car, but the passenger-side door opened. Ellie felt her mouth dry up.

Gingerbread Man looked different from the last time Ellie had seen him. The first thing she noticed was his hair: It was longer, the crew cut having grown out, and covering the tops of his ears, and it was parted razor sharply on the side. It was also dyed black—the same color as his beard. He wore a pair of stylish eyeglasses with thick black frames and a black suit that had been expertly tailored, or possibly made from scratch, in order to accommodate his muscular build.

But the other physical characteristics she remembered were still there, untouched by a surgeon’s knife: the broad nose that looked like an inverted triangle, with flared nostrils; the thin, wormy lips commonly seen on certain elderly women.

Gingerbread Man—Paul, she reminded herself, his name is Paul Young—carried himself with confidence as he walked around the car. He slowed a bit when he eyed Anton, and took his measure. Paul didn’t come forward and shake Anton’s hand. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, jingling his change and looking a little consolatory, she thought, like a boy who had been caught red-handed and couldn’t lie his way out. His tone confirmed it when he spoke.

“Appreciate you coming out, Anton.”

Anton said nothing. His face, Ellie saw, was slack—which was a bad sign. It meant some internal pilot light had been turned on, his blood warming up, getting ready for a fight. It was the look he got when the shit was going to hit the fan.