He knew better than to trust her, knew better than to accept at face value that she wanted this trip for the same reason he did, knew that setting himself up to depend on her was the same as putting money in front of a thief and drugs in front of an addict—knew it the way he knew his lungs needed air and his stomach needed food—and had done it anyway because she’d promised this time would be different, and he’d wanted so much to believe.

But this was who she was, and all she’d ever be, a woman who treated jobs, friends, lovers like collectible trophies in a winner-takes-all game of life in which nothing could ever hurt as long as she didn’t care enough for it to matter. In her reductive, zero-sum way of thinking, not losing was the same as winning, and Dmitry was a prize she’d rather watch slip away than risk letting him have.

His hands demanded what his vocal chords couldn’t.

She said, “Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”

In a different mood she might have slugged him, and if she had, he’d have been forced to take the beating, because to retaliate was to escalate, and she was twisted enough to set the world on fire even if that meant burning in the flames.

He couldn’t out-crazy her crazy. He cared too much to take that risk.

He shoved the second earbud into place, and turned the volume up, way up.

The wheels lifted off the ground.

Pressure in the cabin built alongside the pressure in his head.

For her, this search for Dmitry might, at best, put meaning to their mother’s past and make some sense of an upturned childhood.

Answers would be nothing more than potential weapons.

But for him they were atonement, a way to avoid repeating the mistakes of a past in which he’d taken time and opportunity for granted and lost the man who’d been the closest thing he’d known to a father.

He was willing to pay just about any price to get them.

And his sister, by forcing him to cede, had just forced his hand.

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Frankfurt (Main) Hauptbahnhof
Frankfurt, Germany

HOLDEN

HE NUDGED THE PLATE TOWARD THE TABLE’S CENTER AND ANGLED for a better view of the promenade. They were out there, three would-be killers, one browsing magazines at the newsstand across the walkway, another in the curio shop next door, the third somewhere in the direction of the long-distance tracks.

They didn’t care if he saw them.

He’d tipped his hat and said hello, and they in turn had moved on to the pack predator strategy of tundra wolves nipping at the edges to keep the herd running until exhaustion singled out weakness. They had the resources to keep him moving, sleep deprived, until he wore down and made mistakes.