It should have concerned her, not knowing whom they worked for, but the absence of information didn’t change the situation.

These guys were Russian. Either they worked for Dmitry or they didn’t, and that’s exactly where they’d been with this yesterday morning.

The keys, though, those were interesting.

Keys were things people carried when they owned or rented or borrowed things, and usually not when the thing was stolen or taken by force.

These guys hadn’t broken in. That added a whole new layer of context to this invitation from so-called Dmitry.

What it meant, though, was still a question.

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

Savignyplatz
Berlin, Germany

JILL

SERVICE STAFF AND DELIVERY VEHICLES MARKED THE START OF A NEW daily grind, and soon after came the lightening sky. Light gave color and depth to the hustle below, the workday pedestrian trickle thickened into a rush of morning commute, and from her rooftop vantage she searched slow-moving figures and fast-moving strides for her brother, for Dmitry, and for the source of unease, which had grown stronger with each passing hour.

She’d left the apartment as she’d found it—rifle, ammunition, and equipment exactly where they’d been placed—and returned to where her hunt had begun.

Morning had broken without any sign of the Americans.

No Russian presence, either, other than those she’d decommissioned. But there was something out there, something more, something she hadn’t located.

She sensed it the way wild things smelled threat on the wind.

Jack came into view across the plaza, hands stuffed into pockets, shoes shuffling along the cobblestones, slouched and sloppy in grays and browns, everything about him well worn and local, as if he’d walked into someone’s house and chosen clothes straight out of their wardrobe and dresser drawers.

For all she knew, that’s exactly what he’d done.

But now he was here, saying hello, letting her know he was around, and giving her a chance to communicate anything she might need him to know. That was how they operated, always had, traveling dark, carrying no electronics—not even burners, because anything capable of sending a signal was trackable if they knew where to look, and in Clare’s paranoid world, they always knew where to look—leapfrogging and leap-of-faithing, trusting that the other would do what needed doing. In the best of times they’d handed off the same position as if they were a single person.

They’d had some fun, the two of them.

The memories hurt and they made her smile.

She hated her brother and loved him and couldn’t escape him.

He crossed the plaza and rounded the corner that led off toward the station.

She rescanned windows and doorways, rooftops and rail lines, tracking commuters and service staff, trying to locate the source of unease.

Minutes ticked on. Her insides itched.