Toys was shaving in the upstairs bathroom when his cell phone rang. It was Church. He took a steadying breath before answering.

“Look,” Toys said instead of hello, “before you tell me what a failure I am, let me—”

“Save it,” said Church. “Tell Violin her jet is fueled and waiting for the three of you.”

“What? Why? To go where?”

“Romania,” said Church. “Mrs. Gondek thinks she’s found Ledger.”

“I—”

“No time,” said Church. “Go.”

CHAPTER 124

RTI SAFE HOUSE

KRAMPENBERGER STRASSE

BERLIN, GERMANY

Otto Jäger was not a happy man.

Partly because he was deeply embarrassed. He had been in various covert ops groups for thirteen years and had worked with Aunt Sallie and Mr. Church for much of that time, following seven years in the Deutsches Heer, where he’d been a stabsfeldwebel, and one of distinction. Being appointed the in-country liaison to Rogue Team International had been a big thing, a sign of trust, and a position of which he was rightly proud.

And then Joe Ledger had knocked on the door and shot him with a Sandman dart. Just like that. There wasn’t even a good brawl to look back on. No one would have expected him to win such a fight, but at least the anecdote would be better. In the right circles, he could dine out on tales of a knockdown bout of fisticuffs with the legendary Colonel Joe Ledger.

But no. Just a dart. Not even a conversation. Ledger had not gone so far as to show him the courtesy of a cover story or even a simple greeting. The door opened and the lights went out. Jäger woke on the couch with a blanket over him and a nice pillow under his head.

So, Otto Jäger was not particularly cheerful.

What made things worse was now Mr. Church, Scott Wilson, and the others at Phoenix House were being nice to him. Nice. He was getting emails from staff members asking if he was okay.

He spent most of the day wandering around the safe house cursing Joe Ledger and everyone in his family going back seven generations.

Inventorying what Ledger stole was his ostensible job, but that only took ten minutes. Now he had to “rest and feel better, old chap,” as Wilson had said three times.

“Leck mich am arsch,” he snarled, and wished he had a picture of Ledger—and maybe one of Scott Wilson—that he could piss on. Or wipe his ass with.

When he heard a knock on the door while making coffee, he froze.

Was it him again?

There were no other RTI agents in Germany that he knew of, and no one else knew this place was anything more than a house where a bachelor lived a quiet life.