René regarded the caulked-over crack in the frame above the door. His smile spread his lips flat to the sides, his face slightly off kilter on his skull.

Folding his arms, he drummed his fingers on the fine tweed of his blazer sleeve. “I’ll allow you your temper tantrum,” he said. “After all, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”

Evan said, “Are we in Switzerland or Liechtenstein?”

René blinked and then blinked again. “Why not Romania or Russia?”

“The outlets,” Evan said. “The C plug behind the desk puts us in Europe and knocks out the UK. But the J in the bathroom is only used in Switzerland and Liechtenstein.”

“Well traveled, are you?”

Evan stood by the foot of the bed, tense on his feet. “Are we gonna keep answering questions with questions?”

René turned to Dex. “I like him.”

Evan waited, his gaze steady. The front man grimaced, showing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth, the grill both ridiculous and menacing at the same time. He had lush curly hair tamped down by a purple Dorados de Chihuahua cap featuring a mustachioed baseball wearing a sombrero.

At last René pivoted back to face Evan. “Graubünden,” he conceded.

The easternmost canton of Switzerland.

Evan hadn’t been here before but had stayed in neighboring Ticino. After he escaped, he would get across the border to Liechtenstein. He had a papers guy in Triesenberg who lived in the cellar of an eighteenth-century parish church. Once Evan was set up with a new passport, he’d hightail it to Vienna, lie low, make his way back to the States. Then he’d intercept the Horizon Express and free Alison Siegler.

René said, “I hope we can agree that you’re helpless here. You’re outmanned, outgunned, and overpowered to an extent you’re not even aware of yet. Your surrendering to these realities is inevitable.”

Evan considered. Then he feinted at the group, nothing more than a twitch of his shoulders. The front man jerked away so fast he lost his footing and stumbled. The other two narcos had their shotguns up instantly.

Evan said, “Nothing is inevitable.”

The third shotgun rose, trembling, and for a moment Evan thought the front man might just be nervous enough to pull the trigger accidentally. René rested a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Manny.”

At this range, aimed at Evan’s head, the less-lethal shotgun might prove to be not so less-lethal.

René alone remained unshaken. He continued as if there’d been no interruption. “You’re a very difficult man to track.”

Evan looked past the three shotgun bores at René. Dex stared back from the rear, a head taller than the others, his face as expressionless as ever. Just another casual conversation.

“Why are you interested in me?” Evan asked.

“I’m not interested in people. I’m interested in bank accounts.” René peered out from the stretched mask of his face. “Your bank account in particular.”

Account. Singular.