She never even noticed her phone ringing—it was the youngest one, Rasmus, who poked her thigh gently and pointed to her jacket pocket. She answered. Grens. Stressed.

“I just wanted to tell you we’ll soon be there and that we . . . is that Amelia?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the one who’s already there?”

“Yes.”

“The alarm, did you . . .”

“It was me. I called in the alarm. Everything is under control.”

“I’m not sure I understand . . .”

“We’ll discuss that later. When you get here. Where are you now?”

—

I had accomplished two of my three tasks. I had the best cover imaginable for an arms dealer—a police uniform. I found the USB stick and through it located the hidden weapons stash. Now I was going to take the lives of those who took my life. In the investigation Grens led seventeen years earlier, it was clear he suspected four people who had carried out the murders on behalf of a fifth—King Zoltan, who I dealt with in Shkodër. Five men who Grens interrogated and arrested but had to release.

Now you can’t have any more kids.

Voices, fragments.

But you can still meet a new woman, think about that.