“Sniff a trap?”

“English is Zorra’s second language.”

We turn back to the house.

“We have one goal,” I say.

“Your cousin, yes?”

“Yes.” I think about the various possibilities. “If you were Fat Gandhi, would you keep Rhys here?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe Zorra would hide him so if bad man like Win come after me I have leverage.”

“Precisely,” I say.

We met years ago, when Zorra was on the other side, a sworn enemy. In the end, I had chosen to spare Zorra’s life. I’m not sure why. Intuition perhaps? Now Zorra feels that he must be forever in my debt. Esperanza compares this particular outcome to one of her pro-wrestling scripts where the bad wrestler is shown kindness by the good wrestler and thus turns good and becomes a fan favorite.

I am debating my various options when the door of the farmhouse opens. I do not move. I do not pull out my gun. I stand and wait for someone to appear at the door. Five seconds pass. Then ten.

Then Fat Gandhi steps outside.

Zorra and I are standing behind shrubbery. Fat Gandhi turns that way, smiles, and waves.

“He knows we are here,” Zorra says.

Zorra, Master of the Obvious Observation.

Fat Gandhi begins to stroll casually toward us. Zorra looks at me. I shake my head. As has been pointed out, Fat Gandhi knows exactly where we are. I consider that for a moment. We had been careful in our approach, but this is a quiet road. If Fat Gandhi had men posted—and clearly he had—they would have seen us turn down the road.

Fat Gandhi waves again when he sees me. “Hello, Mr. Lockwood. Welcome!”

Zorra leans close to me. “He knows your name.”

“Your Mossad training. It’s really impressive.”

“Zorra misses nothing.”

Fat Gandhi could have figured out who I am via a hundred different avenues. He could have employed some complicated hacking scheme, but I doubt that would have been necessary. He knew Myron’s name. Myron and I are business partners and best friends. He also knew about Rhys and Patrick and the kidnapping. He could have done a modicum of research and learned of my personal connection.

Or, more to the point, Rhys could have told him.

Either way, here we are.

Zorra slowly slides off the sheath on his heel. “What’s our play, dreamboat?”

I check my mobile to see if our other two men are still in place on the perimeter. They are. No one has taken them out. Fat Gandhi continues to stroll toward us. He tilts his face toward the sun and grins.

“We wait and see,” I say.

I take out my weapon—a Desert Eagle .50 AE. Fat Gandhi stops when he sees this. He looks disappointed.

“There is no need for that, Mr. Lockwood.”

I had “sniffed” a trap, hadn’t I? Had he known that the Italians would try to track him down via that contest? Had he let them? Apparently. Many believe that I am infallible in such matters, that I am so professional and dangerous that death itself gives me a wide berth. I confess that I do all I can to encourage, amplify, and intensify this reputation. I want you to fear me. I want you to cringe every time I enter a room because you do not know what I might do next. But I am not naïve enough to buy my own press, if you will. No matter how good you are, a sniper can take you out.