He reached the track, the train to Bonn, closed in on the rear car, gripped the handrail, hauled himself slowly up the stairs, and hitched down the aisle for an empty seat that put distance between his body and the window.

He could see them still, the two of them, running full out across the terminal, closing in on him in a race against time.

The car lurched.

The carriage moved, picking up speed.

He slid closer to the window and watched the chase, human against train, and last he saw them they were halfway down the platform, trying to catch their breath.

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

Hotel Mozart
Bonn, Germany

HOLDEN

A FIVE-MINUTE WALK FROM THE STATION TOOK HIM TO THE BOUTIQUE hotel, a stately prewar house in a quiet neighborhood of similar stately homes, and he jogged its stairs for private doors that led to a reception area that might have been a parlor in more genteel times. Itzal had arrived first. Holden caught sight of him in the hall, seated on an upholstered high-backed bench, with hard cases on the floor beside each leg and, Holden knew, handguns strapped to each shin, and two more at least beneath the leather coat.

The old Basque wore time like a badge of honor. His dark eyes and weathered face tracked Holden from door to desk to check-in to stairs and Holden finally lost sight of him on the first landing. He continued up, testing carpet tread and bannister strength, and made a full run of the third-floor hallways before looping back for his own door.

The room, small, updated, modern, had a street-facing window.

He dumped his bag on the bed, rounded for the curtains, and scanned left and right. The hotel sat at the bend of a Y junction, he had only a partial view, and the seven minutes between entering hotel and entering room were an eternity in shooter years, which left him working blind.

The killers would come—might already be here—he’d guaranteed it by calling ahead from the train to confirm the reservation, adding another radar blip to the same phone and same SIM he’d used to make the booking at Frankfurt Airport.

They knew he wasn’t careless.

They’d recognize the call as the lure it was.

But they had already shown him they had no choice but to pursue and so they’d come, and they’d compensate with resources he couldn’t see—drones, satellite access, database connections to every repository known to man.

What they wouldn’t have was on-the-ground resources.

There’d be no local police or SWAT equivalent tossing flash bangs through the windows, not unless those who ran these killers were ready to loop a diplomatic ally in on the fact they’d been running a dark op under their noses after the thing had gone to shit, and he didn’t think they were ready to burn that bridge quite yet.

They’d come quietly.