He hoped they’d come quickly.

He had two hours before the next departure to Berlin. One way or the other, he was going to be on that train, preferably without his executioners in tow.

Knuckles beat a knock-pause-knock on wood.

Holden left the window, opened the door.

Itzal carried the two cases in, set them on the bed, stretched a hand in Holden’s direction, and when Holden took it, the old man pulled him in tight for a hug.

Holden gripped the man’s forearms, released them, and carried the cases to the window, where he could unload supplies while keeping an eye on the street.

Itzal said, “What do we face?”

Holden rummaged through the first case. “There’s no we in this, my brother.”

Itzal, soft, plainspoken, said, “To this connerie, I say non.”

Holden withdrew a couple passports, thirty thousand in cash, and a SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic. “All the same,” he said. He retrieved two spare magazines, several boxes of ammunition. “This is my problem. My war.”

“You can say with confiance who is on this target list?”

“No,” Holden said. “No confidence at all.”

“This is, yes, also my war,” Itzal said. “After first priority like you are gone, they come for the second, and after the second is gone, they come for me. You die today. I die tomorrow. You live today, there are fewer killers tomorrow. It is our war.”

Holden opened the second case, retrieved the Arctic Warfare rifle and a Bullet Blocker fleece vest. He needed to get to Berlin. He needed to be there for the rendezvous, needed to pick up whatever trail remained of the twins before it went completely cold, and pride was a waste of time. He said, “Okay.”

He stood, emptied his jacket pockets, removed its liner, pulled off the hairpiece, and handed both jacket and hairpiece over. “Give me three minutes to get to the roof. Then go be me down on the restaurant patio.”

Itzal pointed to the rifle. “I thought my help is more like so.”

Holden zipped into the vest, stuffed what he couldn’t carry back into the cases, and snapped the lids. “I know what I’m looking for,” he said. “Putting you up top will get me killed.” He dumped ammunition from a box and fed the first SIG magazine.

Itzal said, “And what is this you look for?”

Holden spoke in time to rounds clicking into place. “One male, Asian. One hundred seventy-eight centimeters. One female, Caucasian. One hundred seventy centimeters. Changing faces, changing costumes. Semiautomatic handguns. Possibly a sniper, though I haven’t spotted one yet. Possible reinforcements. Intel off-site. Unlimited resources overhead. I’ve already taken half their team. They’re angry. Now it’s personal.”

The corners of Itzal’s lips turned up in sly understanding.