Now and then he’d hear one of the people he loved snore, or mumble a bit, from upstairs. In the meantime the dawn sky was getting brighter, and his big glass of coffee ran out.

Survive, fourteen letters

N—A—S—O—L—A—B—I—A—L—F—O—L—D

Survive, seven letters

D—E—T—C—O—R—D

Survive, eleven letters

R—A—D—I—O—J—A—M—M—E—R

Survive, eleven letters

P—O—S—I—T—I—O—N—I–N—G

Survive, fourteen letters

E—N—C—R—Y—P—T—I—O—N—C—O—D—E

The seemingly random scribbles—squares linked together like train cars, now filled with letters—were the exact opposite. Intentional coincidences. A clear plan.

The plan he’d been carrying inside him since he found a grenade in his youngest son’s backpack, and it had become more elaborate as the threats intensified.

He’d already made up his mind.

No more criminal activity.

No more work for someone else’s sake, not organized crime and not the police. He’d learned that lesson from both sides. If he gave in even once, he was stuck, expected to continue. Criminals, cops, it worked the same, squeeze until there was nothing left to squeeze.

He’d been given a choice—and he chose not to choose.

He chose not to carry out the mission.

He chose not to wait around for death.

Chapter 15

He kissed Luiza on her belly, and for a moment her little hand let go of the post of her crib. He kissed Rasmus’s forehead, and his youngest son paid him no mind. He kissed Hugo’s cheek, and his oldest son opened his eyes, a flash of worry, but then he turned over and went back to sleep. Zofia he held gently, put his head in her arms, lay there a moment until his breath against her sleep-warm skin woke her.

“Piet?”

“Sorry, but I had to wake you up.”

“What’s . . . Are you dressed? What time is it?”

“A quarter to six.”

She sat up a bit, balling up the pillow behind her neck.

The dawn light was shining more intensely up here than in the kitchen, the blinds ineffective since the window was open.

“I have to take care of a few things, and I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“You’re going? Right now?”

“While I’m gone you and the children cannot leave the house.”

She looked at him.

She knew.

Not what, but she knew.

“This is about that package you got, isn’t it? The phone you wouldn’t answer? The toy that Rasmus claims he found in our mailbox, which you took away from him without an explanation?”