Better to get this over with now.

He ordered espresso, one final round before the chase, and he retrieved a packet of SIM cards from his jacket liner. They were burner numbers, activated over time as part of the ongoing process required to stay connected in a life that called for complete disconnection. They were utterly worthless without phones, but about the only thing that’d have drawn more unwanted attention than hauling a bag of cell phones through airport security was if he’d tried a bag of cash or a bottle of water, so he’d split the difference with minis, unlocked GSM devices about the size of a pack of gum.

They were shit quality and had no Wi-Fi capability, but they were cheap, disposable, easy to hide, and right now they were all he had.

One SIM, one location, one call, that was the burn rate of attrition.

He had started with three, had burned one at the airport to give his would-be murderers a signal to follow, and had led them here.

He didn’t want to kill them, not on any personal level.

He wanted to be left alone—wanted to get to Berlin—needed to get to Berlin before he lost the twins and the trail went cold, and dealing with this ate away time he didn’t have and would cost them a whole lot more than they thought it would.

They’d have been better served waiting for another day.

He’d warned them.

He’d taken one of their team while on the flight, the one with the pilot bag.

Had waited until the meal service was done and the cabin lights went off and the woman in the seat behind him had left to use the restroom, and he’d slipped in to take her place. In a dark filled with noise-reduction headphones, face masks, and movie screens, no one had noticed—hadn’t noticed him, or the gloved hand between seatbacks, or the piece of gauze as it rested against the man’s skin.

A few seconds was all he’d needed.

There was no ego in sneaking in and sneaking away, but that’s why he still breathed when others more skilled didn’t.

In his world longevity required invisibility.

He’d been content to let carfentanil do his work.

The big-game tranquilizer was a hundred times more potent than fentanyl, which was in itself fifty times more potent than heroin. It didn’t need to be injected or imbibed to work, and a dose no larger than a couple grains of salt brushed up against unprotected skin was enough to shut down the involuntary nervous system.

No violence. No sense of foul play.

Until an autopsy showed otherwise, he’d have simply gone to sleep and never woken—an easier, happier death than Holden could have expected had the roles been reversed—but the man’s teammates would understand and know.