But unless she’d already managed to put him down—and the look on her face outside the Frankfurt terminal was anything but assuring—Christopher Holden was an assassin with a liquidation team at his back, competing for a kill on their target, who may or may not be aware of the assassin tailing him. Meanwhile, headquarters had failed to notify the two teams of the others’ objectives or presence and had put them all on a collision course, with a hundred ways to die.

Beautiful.

Her thoughts turned in that direction, spinning off threads that left her so preoccupied, she didn’t register the real-world patterns until they were nearly close enough to touch. The color jolted her first.

Three times now she’d seen that same red and black coat.

She’d seen it across the street when she left the hotel.

She’d seen it pass the window when she was in the Internet café.

And here she caught it in her peripheral vision while checking for cars before crossing. She resisted the natural urge to look again and pushed on with the same distracted stride, fighting hard to keep realization from seeping into her posture.

She was vulnerable—unarmed, isolated from her team, didn’t even have a phone on her—and was being watched, shadowed by an enemy who knew what she was here to do. She’d have felt fear—probably should have felt fear—but analysis wouldn’t let her.

He could have killed them in Frankfurt.

He could kill her now.

But if he was half as good as she knew he was, she never would have become aware of his presence unless he wanted her to know he was there. Hell, if she’d been more aware of what went on outside her head, she’d have registered him the first time, and he’d have moved on.

But she hadn’t, and so he’d come incrementally closer.

What was he gonna do next? Walk up and shake her hand?

She reached the hotel doors, caught a glimpse of him in the glass.

He was close enough to touch.

Close enough that she could have accomplished what she’d failed to get close enough to do in Frankfurt, but of all the scenarios she’d thought of before leaving the hotel, bringing a weapon because the target she’d spent days trying to locate would instead locate her wasn’t one of them.

She kept her gaze low to avoid accidental eye contact, pushed into the lobby, strode for the elevators, and lingered there.

He never followed.

To the best of her knowledge, he never set foot inside.

She returned to the room and found it dark and quiet, as she’d left it.

Juan, splayed out on the nearest bed, watched television with the volume too low to hear. She handed him a coffee and pastry.

“Anything new?” she said.