The door to the flat was locked. When it swung open, I saw instantly that our home had been ransacked. I drew my sidearm, but I was too late. In my peripheral vision, I saw a figure, dressed in black, standing in my office off the foyer, the glass pocket doors closed, obscuring him. I spun, bringing my weapon up, but he was quicker. The bullet ripped through the glass, into my side, and blew me back against the console table and the antique mirror that hung above it. But I didn’t lose my grip on the Sig Sauer P226. I squeezed the trigger, fired three rounds, and saw the man fall.

I spun, moved to the dining room. That action saved my life. The second man was in the kitchen. His shots into the foyer barely missed me. I fired through the wall, blind, then burst into the kitchen through the butler’s pantry, catching him from behind. I had winged him. I didn’t wait for him to turn; I shot him through the shoulder. He dropped the weapon.

I stood over him, held the gun in his face, listened for movement from my study, but heard none.

“Who sent you?”

Blood oozed from his mouth. He was European, with a close-cropped haircut, military or former military.

He gnashed his teeth, grunted. I grabbed his jaw, dug my fingers into his cheeks, separating his clenched teeth, but I was too late. He had cracked the tooth. The poison had already slid down his throat. I grabbed a ladle from the kitchen, forced the handle down his throat, and tried to gag him, but his body was already going limp.

Holding my side, I raced to the study. The other man was dead too. My files were gone. The safe lay open.

I grabbed the phone and dialed Lin’s office at the university. No answer. I tried to stop the bleeding in my side. I’d need a doctor soon. I dialed my Citium assets in London. No answer. Berlin. No answer. Hong Kong, Tokyo, New York, San Francisco. They were all gone.

I raced to our master bedroom. Drawers lay open. Our luggage was gone. So was the children’s. I counted that as a good sign.

I heard footsteps in the foyer. I peeked out into the main hall, expecting to see a bobby, but instead saw two more black-clad former military men, guns drawn, sweeping the hall, moving toward me.

I squatted, took a spare magazine from my belt, thrust the Sig Sauer around the door frame, and squeezed off round after round. I wanted the men alive, but I wanted to live more.

I heard them collapse to the floor. I put a fresh magazine in, retreated to Madison’s bathroom, found a hand mirror, and used it to peer into the hallway without exposing myself. They were down, unmoving.