Hoffmann knew he was right. This was exactly how it went down. But still he rose from the kitchen table and headed toward the stairs—not to go up to his bed and Zofia’s warm body and deep and even breathing—but to go to the basement and his hidden room. That’s where he’d stashed those fucking copies they’d sent him two days ago. Hoffmann put in the code and opened the safe door, and on the upper shelf there lay the stack of tightly written and highly classified documents. He hadn’t read them closely when he opened the letter, it didn’t seem necessary, but he would now.

“They’re close, Erik. Asking questions. And I’m out of good answers.”

“How close?”

“Days. Maybe hours. You have to extract me.”

“I need more time.”

“If they find out—we both know what will happen. They’ll kill Rasmus. Then Hugo. Then Zofia. Then me. Always from the bottom up. Always youngest to oldest.”

He sank down onto the floor, his back against the safe, and flipped through those long-forgotten notes.

“And if I can’t get you out?”

“You HAVE TO, Erik.”

“IF. IF I don’t have time. What’s your plan?”

“Then I’m taking out the whole damn club. Every single one of them. The whole fucking organization. At the same time.”

“I’m serious—what does your plan look like?”

“Listen: that IS my plan.”

It didn’t take long to find the pages he sought, they even had a tiny fold in one corner, as if whoever sent them didn’t want him to miss them.