Holden’s mistake was hoping they’d heed the warning.

He found the French SIM and nudged it into a waiting slot.

Every niche, no matter how small, had someone willing to supply the market.

Assassins were perhaps the smallest niche of all.

He powered up and dialed.

A gruff voice answered in Euskara-tinged French.

There weren’t many people Holden would trust with his location or his life, but the wiry sixty-year-old Basque who ran Janssens Outfitting out of Brussels was among them. Holden said, “Do you still offer courier service?”

“This depends on the location and the order.”

“Bonn. Germany,” Holden said. “Forty-nine and fifty-two.”

Silence hung over the line for a surprised beat, followed by a laugh—spontaneous laughter, which Holden read as relief—and Itzal said, “It is good to know you are alive, my friend. Much bad weather this week, so many accidents. You’ve heard?”

“I’ve heard.”

“A difficult season, fewer customers, the couriers don’t come to work. But give me the address. For you, I make delivery myself.”

A delivery would put the man directly in the crosshairs, and Holden couldn’t in good conscience allow that. Not that Itzal couldn’t hold his own—he’d been fighting one war or other since he was a young teenager among the Basque separatists—but this wasn’t his war to wage.

Holden said, “I’m not well. A drop would be better.”

“Then you should rest. I will come to you.”

Message received, message rejected.

Itzal would do what Itzal would do.

Holden said, “Be safe like Mozart, my friend.”

“There’s no one safer.”

Given the man’s life and all he’d survived, that was probably true.

Holden ended the call.

The SIM was trash, the phone was trash.

He had fifteen minutes to make the train.

He dropped the steak knife off the table’s edge, slid it up his sleeve, and when the server cleared the plate, he smiled his most charming, distracting smile.

He paid the bill, waited for a group at a nearby table to finish, and followed them toward the long-distance tracks and high-speed trains.

The assassin hunters fell in not far behind.

He could feel them at his elbows, woman at the right, short black hair now long and brown, jeans and jacket converted to slacks and a chic blouse, and the hipster to his left, flannel shirt and jeans, easy to pick out of the crowd because no self-respecting German would be caught looking like a lumberjack from early last century.

The Asian guy was ahead, by the tracks.

Voices echoed beneath the towering glass arch.

Pigeons squabbled and scattered in a rush of aerial acrobatics.

The restaurant group veered off for an exit, leaving him exposed.

He walked faster, senses heightened, adrenaline rushing up his skin.

Crowds were his protection.

Cameras were his protection.