Ziggy got into the driver’s seat. “Hungry?”

“I just want to get to RJ.”

“I could eat,” Roy said. “There’s an Autogrill not far from here.”

Perfect.

But this time, York ordered an omelet bacon panini, another cup of coffee and felt nearly human when they climbed back into the car.

He leaned against the window, his arms folded, his leg up on the seat, his mind churning over Ziggy’s question.

“Who knew you were in Europe?” Ziggy asked as they turned out onto the highway. The sky arched overhead, another gorgeous day, but York just wanted to see RJ.

Confirm that yes, she was just fine, to use Ziggy’s words.

Although, honestly, they irked him just a little.

Just. Fine.

He was far from fine.

He sighed. “Our team—the Caleb Group and well, Alan Martin of course, and Ruslan Gustov.”

“RJ filled me in on Martin. Who is this Gustov guy? The name sounds familiar.”

“Damien Gustov was his brother.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. She glanced over her shoulder at York. “You killed him.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You think he could have found you in Berlin.”

He looked out the window, at the hills and shrubbery along the ditch. “We found your safe house in Heidelberg. What happened there?”

“I don’t know. Shooter—nearly took out RJ. Scrubbed me, but we were able to get out.”

“Any idea who?”

“No. Long range shot I think because we were on the third floor, a few houses between us. And they couldn’t get to us as we escaped.”

“So maybe a one-man job. Or they would have flushed you, met you coming out.” Roy glanced at her.

“I was careful. But yes, probably a one-man job. Poorly executed.”

“Not Martin then. And Gustav is a scientist,” York said.

“Someone else, then. Why?”

Silence, and York opened his eyes. Roy had sat up, Ziggy touching her brakes.

A burned Fiat sat in the ditch, pushed to the side of the road.

“Grenade?”

“Good thing York saw it,” Roy said.

A cop stood in one lane, directing traffic around a slew of other cops, dressed in black, road patrol. An ambulance was parked on the other side, the doors open, a number of body bags inside.

“Pieces of him?” Ziggy said, nodding and smiling to a cop.

“He had a grenade in his weapons pouch. A small stockpile, actually.”

They drove by the Ducati, laying on its side, a cop guarding it.

“Nice bike,” Ziggy said. “Shame. Did you get any of the weapons?”

Yes, she and Roy definitely worked together. At least they thought alike.

“We didn’t want them traced to us,” York said.

“You said you didn’t want to be arrested as terrorists,” Roy said.

“That too.”

They pulled away from the wreckage, then continued up the road, Ziggy putting the gas down. The more miles between them and the body bag the better.