Rudy paused for a long time, clearly weighing his words with care. “It is very dangerous, Junie. To Joe and to anyone—and I do mean anyone—who might get between Joe and his goal of finding and killing Rafael Santoro and Kuga.”

“And you let him go into the field?” roared Junie.

“No, no, please,” pleaded Rudy, holding his hands up, palms out. “I did everything I could to stop him. I spoke to Jane Holliday, Scott Wilson, and Church and—”

“And they all agreed?”

“No,” said Rudy quickly. “Jane and Scott were totally opposed to the idea of Joe returning to active duty. Not merely in the short term but ever.”

Junie stared at him, her fists clenching so tightly that her knuckles ached. “Church let him go?”

“Yes,” said Rudy.

“Why?”

“I’ve asked him that question a hundred times, and I always get the same answer.”

“Which is what?”

“He tells me that this is war. And that’s all he’ll say.”

CHAPTER 54

HOTEL EDEN

ROME, ITALY

The burly fellow with the bushy mustache never saw the other man come out of the stairwell. He did not hear him come up behind him. He was entirely unaware of the man’s presence until he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the nape of his neck.

“Easy does it, Luigi,” said the man.

“Who…?”

“An old friend. Here, let me have that key card. Jolly good.” The man with the gun swiped the card, turned the handle with his free hand, and then nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. “Inside. There you go. And don’t try any of your stunts on me, Luigi. You didn’t take enough karate to help last time, either.”

Luigi stepped inside, frowning, trying to connect the voice to a face, a name.

“Face the wall,” said the man with the gun as he closed the door. “I’m going to pat you down. You know how this works. Good. Spread your feet wider. Brilliant.”

The pat-down was quick but thorough, and it was very professional. The gunman removed a small Beretta from a belt clip and a switchblade from a pocket. Then he stepped back.

“You can turn around now, old son,” said the gunman.

Luigi turned, and when he saw who it was, he gave a small, sharp cry. A yip, like a kicked poodle. He gaped, sputtered, stammered, and finally choked out a name.

“Toys?”

“Surprise, surprise, old chum.”

Toys held his little automatic with the comfort of a professional, keeping it low and out of reach, the barrel pointed center mass.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Luigi. “I thought you were dead.”

“I get that a lot,” said Toys. “But, no. Still a bad penny.”

“What is this? Why come after me with a gun? What have I ever done to you? Are you an assassin now? Is that it?”