You don’t strike a foe from above like that. It’s too easy to defend. Your adversary can buy time by ducking or raising a forearm for the purpose of deflection. If you shoot someone with a gun, you are trained to aim for the middle mass so that if your aim is slightly askew, you can still hit something. You prepare for the likelihood of error. With a knife, the same is true. Make the distance of your stab as short as possible. Aim for the middle so that if your adversary moves, you can still wound him.

Melon Shirt didn’t do that.

I duck and use my right forearm to, as noted above, deflect the blow. Then, with my knees bent, I spin and use the razor across his abdomen. I don’t wait to see his reaction. I move up and finish him in the same manner as I had the other two.

As I said, it is over in seconds.

The cracked pavement is a crimson mess and getting messier. I give myself a second, no more, to relish the high. You would too, if you didn’t pretend otherwise.

I turn toward Patrick.

But he is gone.

I look left, then right. There he is, nearly out of sight. I hurry after him, but I can see very quickly it will be useless. He is heading toward King’s Cross station, one of London’s busiest. He will be in the station—be in the public eye—before I can reach him. I am covered in blood. I might be good at what I do, but despite the fact that King’s Cross station is indeed where Harry Potter headed off for Hogwarts, I do not possess an invisibility cloak.

I stop, look back, consider the situation, come to a conclusion.

I have messed up.

It’s time to make myself scarce. I am not worried about any CCTV recording what I have done. There is a reason the undesirable element choose spots like this. It stands apart from all prying eyes, even the digital and electronic ones.

Still. I’ve blown it. After all these years, after all the fruitless searches, one lead has finally come my way, and if I lose that lead . . .

I need help.

I hurry away and press the 1 on my speed dial. I haven’t pressed the 1 for nearly a year.

He answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

Hearing his voice again, even though I had steeled for it, sends me reeling for a moment. The number is blocked, so he has no idea who has called him.

I say, “Don’t you mean ‘articulate’?”

There is a gasp. “Win? My God, where have you been—?”

“I saw him,” I say.

“Who?”

“Think.”

The briefest of pauses. “Wait, both of them?”

“Just Patrick.”

“Wow.”

I frown. Wow? “Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Catch the next plane to London. I need your help.”

Chapter 2

Two minutes before Win called, Myron Bolitar lay sprawled naked in bed with a knee-knockingly gorgeous woman at his side. They both stared up at the fancy wainscoting on the ceiling, gulping in breaths, lost in the aftermath of the bliss that comes only from, uh, bliss.