The concern—from him, of all people—had threatened to rupture the membrane that contained the flood. She’d squeezed his hand and hurried away before what was left of her spilled all over the floor, which was how she’d gotten to where she was now, striding beneath skylights under a dark sky, call card in hand, fighting back tears on her way to the public phones. Their own equipment was in a Prague luggage locker, left behind for the same reason she’d gone to ground, and the same reason she already had tickets in hand for the next train to Bratislava. She didn’t know what the hell had gone down in Republic Square, but she damn sure knew headquarters had withheld information and that withholding it had gotten half her team killed. She wasn’t willing to bet against a cleanup crew coming for the two that got away.

She’d chosen Wien for its flexibility.

This new central station had turned Vienna into a major artery on the European rail lines, which meant quick access to trains in any cardinal direction, and the station wasn’t far from both international airport and highway, and Austria itself was small, which meant nearby land borders, all of which mattered if she was forced to run.

But first, she had to make this call.

She reached the phone bank, chose the handset with the best view of the concourse and, using the number Nick had given her for emergencies, bypassed Liv Wilson for Steven Hayes, the man at the apex of whatever headquarters was.

She’d met him just once at a briefing, a handshake the extent of their interaction. He was smart, short, balding, and buzzed with the low hum of a burned-out fluorescent bulb, which she’d chalked up to a decade of substituting neurotropics and edible caffeine for sleep. Calling him directly was a breach of protocol that would get someone far more important shitcanned, but she was beyond caring.

She was loyal to Nick, loyal to family and to country, and she’d saluted enough men and women undeserving of the uniform to mistake loyalty for obedience.

Hayes answered with a clipped hello.

She said, “Novak calling on behalf of Carson.”

“Novak,” he said.

The repeat wasn’t a statement, wasn’t a question, and wasn’t a greeting.

It was information for someone else’s benefit, and in her mind’s eye, she saw him snapping for attention, circling fingers, summoning the desk jockeys to get a real-time trace. He said, “Are you secure?”

“Not the line,” she said.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She checked her surroundings, scanned the concourse.

“Carson and Marino, KIA. I’ll have IRR and analysis within twenty-four hours. I’m resigning position and requesting a return to station.”