I heaved myself to my feet and drew my Snellig dart gun, waving Ghost to a position where he’d be out of sight once I opened the door. My ears were still muzzy from the blast, but I was pretty sure these guys were no more than a dozen paces up the hall.

I eased the door open half an inch wider and peered out. The hallway was thick with smoke, and the Klaxons were much louder. I saw two figures moving toward me through the smoke. They were big and misshapen, like a couple of mountain gorillas, and it took my dazed brain a moment to realize that the figures were wearing body armor of a kind that was bulkier than the sleek stuff I wore.

Their words were distorted, but I caught some of it.

“Este chiar aici,” said one of them in Romanian, gesturing toward cell 13. It’s right here.

He was the shorter of the two. Subtracting the helmet and the thick soles of combat boots, he was probably five foot ten. The other guy was four or five inches taller. Both were broad-shouldered and fit. What was strange, though, is that they moved casually like they were taking a stroll through the park on a spring afternoon. Not the physical dynamic one typically sees in a prison break—which is what I assumed this was.

The bigger guy said, “Spaniolul a spus că primim cu toții un bonus frumos pentru asta.”

That made my pulse quicken. The Spaniard said we’re all getting a nice bonus for this.

The Spaniard!

Rafael Santoro.

Son of a bitch.

“Sigur,” said the other, “dacă vrăjitoarea nu ia totul.”

Sure, if the witch doesn’t take it all.

The witch? I had no idea who that was and no time to think about it.

They had guns in their hands, but they held them sloppily, barrels pointing nearly down at the floor like they didn’t give much of a fuck about anything. I shifted the Snellig to my left and drew the Sig Sauer with my right, whipped the door open, and leaned halfway into the hall, pointing one barrel at each man.

“Sper că voi doi sunteți angajatori,” I said.

I hope you two are undertakers.

They stopped and stared at me. I couldn’t see their eyes through the lenses of their goggles, but I could feel their surprise and knew they were trying to make sense of what was happening. I watched the same process with them I’d seen with Casanova—recognition and awareness.

“Ledger,” said the shorter of the two, almost spitting my name. “Este diavolul.”

It is the devil.

The taller one said, “Futu-ți Cristoșii și Dumnezeii mă-tii.”

That doesn’t translate well into English, but it’s not a nice thing to say to anyone pointing a gun at you.