“Shit.”

In a blur of appendages, Sachs used the gears, the foot brake and the hand brake to decelerate and then skid around the Honda, missing the kid by inches. He didn’t even notice. Sachs saw he wore earbuds.

Then first gear, and they were on their way once more.

“Left here.” Ercole was shouting over the screams of his laboring engine.

It was a narrow street they were speeding along. Residential—no stores. Pale laundry hung above them like flags. Then into a square around a tiny anemic park, on whose scarred benches sat a half-dozen older men and women, a younger woman with a baby carriage and two children playing with scruffy dogs. It was a deserted area and the Composer could easily have slipped the victim out of his car and underground without anyone’s seeing.

“There, that’s it,” he announced, pointing to a shabby wooden doorway in the abandoned building Giacomo Schiller had referred to. This, like all the building façades nearby, was covered with graffiti. You could just make out the faded sign: Non Entrare.

Sachs brought the Mégane to a stop twenty feet from the door, leaving room for the tactical officers and ambulance. She hurried out. Ercole was close behind her.

Jogging again. But carefully. Sachs kept a close monitor on her legs—she suffered from arthritis, which had become so severe she’d nearly been sidelined from her beloved profession. Surgery had removed much, if not all, of the pain. Still, she always stayed mindful. The body can betray at any moment. But now, all functioned smoothly.

“You’re new to this, right? To entry.”

“Entry?”

That answered the question.

She’d learned enough. “First, we secure the site, make it safe from hostiles. It doesn’t help the victim, even if he’s seconds away from dying, if we die too. Okay?”

“Sì.”

“When it’s clear, we try to save him, CPR, open airways if we can, apply pressure to stop bleeding, though I don’t think blood loss is going to be a problem. After that we secure the crime scene to preserve evidence.”

“All right…Ah, no!”

“What?”

“I forgot the booties. For our shoes. You are supposed to—”

“We don’t wear those now. They’re too slippery. Here.”

She dug into her pocket and handed him rubber bands. “On the ball of your feet.”

“You carry those with you?”

They both donned the elastic.

“Gloves?” he asked. “Latex gloves.”

Sachs smiled. “No. Not in tactical situations.”

The door, she was surprised to see, was barred with the cheapest of locks and a hasp that was affixed to the wooden door and frame with small screws.

She dug into her pocket and the switchblade was in her hand. Ercole’s eyes went wide. Sachs smiled to herself as the thought occurred that the weapon was Italian—a Frank Beltrame stiletto, a four-inch blade, staghorn handle. She flicked it open and in one deft move pulled the bracket away from the wood, then tucked the knife away.

Holding her finger to her lips, she studied Ercole’s nervous, sweaty face. Some of the consternation was from the harrowing drive; the source of the remainder was clear. He was willing, but he was not battle-tested. “Stay behind me,” she whispered.