Caring was dangerous. Anger was worse. Both clouded thinking, both could get a person killed, and with half their team dead, they’d be too far in on both to go back on either. Holden counted on that. He snapped the magazine into the SIG and started loading the next. “They know I want them here,” he said. “They might wait for me at the station.”

Itzal slipped out of his coat and replaced it with Holden’s jacket.

He said, “They know you’ll return?”

“They know where I need to get.”

The old man tsked. “There are other ways to travel. Only fools assume.” He motioned to Holden’s weaponry. “But you do not see them as fools.”

“No,” Holden said. “Not fools.”

He dug into the jacket’s liner, pulled out the mini phone he’d burned to call the hotel, and shoved the accompanying SIM back into place. The kill team had a better chance of getting to him here than they would at the station. They had to know that, but another nudge wouldn’t hurt. He tossed the device toward Itzal. “That links to me,” he said. “If there’s anyone you hate, now would be a really good time to call.”

Itzal rolled the phone over in his hand. “I keep this?”

Holden said, “Be my guest.” He shoved the cases under the bed, holstered the SIG, and picked up the rifle. “Did you come by car?”

“Of course.”

“How close are you?”

“Close enough.”

“Close enough to run?”

“There will be no running.”

Holden strode to the door and paused, hand on the hardware.

There were two killers headed his way, possibly more. He needed a clean here and gone, couldn’t afford a protracted firefight that locked him into the neighborhood, and every minute after the first round, and every extra round beyond the first, exponentially cut the chances of extracting without complications. The odds of lining up two clean shots directly correlated to how much risk Itzal assumed.

The prospects frustrated him.

He should have ended all four killers while he was on that plane.

He left the room without a word, continued to the access door at the end of the hall, and climbed a ladder up, methodically, rhythmically, counting time in a careful balance between the need to hurry and the need to keep his heartbeat steady.

He let himself out onto asphalt tiles.

Unlike the gables that topped every other house in sight, the Mozart’s rooftop was nearly flat, and unlike the window in his room, the rooftop gave him access to a 270-degree bird’s-eye vantage over the Yjunction.

He belly crawled toward the edge and scanned the streets, seeking movement in windows and tiny side yards, searching between parallel-parked cars and manicured hedges. Time wore on, and with time came impatience.

Late afternoon brought a slow increase in bicycles, pedestrians, and vehicles.

He fought against himself, and he fought to clear his head.