She shrugged and pointed to my face. I was painted in dirt and maybe some backsplash. “You’ve got blood.”

“Not mine. Let’s go into the house.”

I turned the light off in the drawing room, pulled her next to the wall, where the hallway met the front door. She said, “You think there are more?”

“Three down. I figure there’s someone waiting in a vehicle.”

“Nobody else on the property then.”

“Three’s a crowd in a van, with the driver. Big guys. Gear. Four with a driver would be too much. I’ll go get the guy in the vehicle. You sit tight. Keep the gun and stay away from windows.”

“Be careful, Tom.” I liked the way she said my name. As if there were an ‘e’ at the end. Like Tome, or dome.

“I’ll be careful. First, let’s move the guy you shot.”

I took the dead guy’s MP5 and handed it to Nazari. She slung it over her head. Then we dragged the body up onto the terrace, pushed him into a dark corner. There would be time later to clean up properly. She went back inside to hold the fort. I heard a whistle from down by the gatekeeper’s house.

Daniel was walking up through the trees with his French gun. The rain had stopped. We met halfway. I said, “Three so far, I’m guessing there’s a fourth in a vehicle somewhere.”

“I didn’t hear any engines, so maybe down near the bridge.”

“I thought the same.”

He nodded. “What next?”

“I’ll take care of the vehicle. Then we’ll have some cleanup to do. I’m hoping you’ve got a wheelbarrow.”

“Yes. We have two.”

“Great, we’ll need both. See you in a bit.”

I walked the perimeter once, just to make sure. Then I headed into the woods.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Don’t envy the getaway driver.

First, you’re stuck in a vehicle without options. Visibility is limited, and everyone knows where you are. Then, the boredom and uncertainty of waiting. By now the radio was dead, with no communications from his team, no response to his attempts at communication. Zero options. The van was pulled in near the bridge, next to the water, below where the forest path met the road.

I came at it from the other side of the bridge, along the river. I had walked down through the wooded path to the water, feeling my way slow and easy in the dark. Then I followed the river’s edge until I was under the bridge. From there I could see up the incline and spotted the vehicle. A rectangular shadow lurking among the trees. It was a white Renault van, a model called ‘Trafic’. I crept up from the water and stopped around twenty yards from the van, unslung the MP5 and stood behind a tree in the dark to watch.