think it’s a contact from Voges,” answered Astriz, zooming in on the pair across the street. “Voges is a fixer; he can supply anything for a fee—guns, mercenaries, new identity, money. Whatever Cano’s planning, Voges can help him set it up. I can’t make anything out.” Astriz handed the binoculars back and Nikki refocused them to take another look, scrutinizing the table. Cano was easy enough to identify from his pictures. He had a suntanned complexion, a scar across his left eye, and a wild shock of black hair. His hands were wide, hirsute, and the knuckles were flattened and scarred. The other person had smaller hands, one of which was clenched around a cell phone; the other held a plastic-looking rectangle. He, or she, Nikki couldn’t be sure, was dressed in a gray jogging suit.
“The other person is holding something in one of his hands,” said Astriz.
“I’m trying to figure that out now. It has a picture of a devil on it,” said Nikki, squinting and trying to get a closer look at the plastic card in the hands of the gray-suited figure.
“A devil?” repeated Astriz. “What’s that got to do … oh scheisse .” Nikki heard the thump of Astriz’s fist on the glass and refocused the binoculars. Across the street, a woman on a motorcycle revved the engine.
“It’s Camille,” said Nikki, recognizing the woman as she pulled on a helmet and flipped the visor down. Together they watched as Camille drove straight through the plate-glass window at the front of the café.
Nikki pounded down the stairs, Astriz behind her. Her thoughts tripped through her head, colliding with each other before leaving. She didn’t have a gun. She never told Z’ev that she loved him. Astriz had better have a gun. Camille was going to get them all killed.
They exited onto the street in time to see Cano’s backup charging into the café, gun drawn, and from the back of the café Nikki could see the person in the gray jogging suit, hood now up, running down the street. Astriz hesitated, clearly torn.
“I’ve got the contact,” yelled Nikki. “You go after Cano, and for God’s sake, get Camille out of here!” Astriz gave her a thumbs-up and ran toward the café.
Nikki sprinted after the gray tracksuit. The dark streets were the perfect cover, and Nikki could only catch glimpses of the person whenever they were illuminated by an errant streetlight or pair of headlights. Dodging cars, Nikki slid on the wet, slushy pavement and rounded a corner, just in time to see her quarry scramble over a chain-link fence.
Swarming over the fence, Nikki dropped down, seconds behind Tracksuit, in a parking lot. The enormous bulk of the stadium squatted across the asphalt from her, looming over the packed parking lot. There was a dull thrumming in her ears and she shook her head, only then realizing it was the sound of musicemanating from the stadium. Tracksuit had ceased to dodge and weave; he was now in a full-out sprint for the back of the stadium. Nikki gave chase, sweat pouring down her face.
Tracksuit dodged some roadies and ran up a ramp leading to an intake bay. A large security guard lumbered into view as Tracksuit flew past.
“Hey!” he yelled, apparently not seeing Tracksuit but spotting Nikki right off. He was a large man, standing a good six feet, six inches tall, with a neck thicker than his head and hands the size of dinner plates. Nikki dove under one of his meaty paws, but he was quicker than he looked and managed to make contact with the other, sending her crashing to the floor. Spinning onto her back, Nikki took aim at his groin and thumped her foot upward. The security guard grimaced and hesitated before falling to one knee. He was hardly out for the count, but it was all the time Nikki needed to get back up and send a roundhouse kick whistling into the side of his head. Continuing forward without waiting to see the results, she heard the crash and smiled as the security guard hit the floor behind her.
“The other person is holding something in one of his hands,” said Astriz.
“I’m trying to figure that out now. It has a picture of a devil on it,” said Nikki, squinting and trying to get a closer look at the plastic card in the hands of the gray-suited figure.
“A devil?” repeated Astriz. “What’s that got to do … oh scheisse .” Nikki heard the thump of Astriz’s fist on the glass and refocused the binoculars. Across the street, a woman on a motorcycle revved the engine.
“It’s Camille,” said Nikki, recognizing the woman as she pulled on a helmet and flipped the visor down. Together they watched as Camille drove straight through the plate-glass window at the front of the café.
Nikki pounded down the stairs, Astriz behind her. Her thoughts tripped through her head, colliding with each other before leaving. She didn’t have a gun. She never told Z’ev that she loved him. Astriz had better have a gun. Camille was going to get them all killed.
They exited onto the street in time to see Cano’s backup charging into the café, gun drawn, and from the back of the café Nikki could see the person in the gray jogging suit, hood now up, running down the street. Astriz hesitated, clearly torn.
“I’ve got the contact,” yelled Nikki. “You go after Cano, and for God’s sake, get Camille out of here!” Astriz gave her a thumbs-up and ran toward the café.
Nikki sprinted after the gray tracksuit. The dark streets were the perfect cover, and Nikki could only catch glimpses of the person whenever they were illuminated by an errant streetlight or pair of headlights. Dodging cars, Nikki slid on the wet, slushy pavement and rounded a corner, just in time to see her quarry scramble over a chain-link fence.
Swarming over the fence, Nikki dropped down, seconds behind Tracksuit, in a parking lot. The enormous bulk of the stadium squatted across the asphalt from her, looming over the packed parking lot. There was a dull thrumming in her ears and she shook her head, only then realizing it was the sound of musicemanating from the stadium. Tracksuit had ceased to dodge and weave; he was now in a full-out sprint for the back of the stadium. Nikki gave chase, sweat pouring down her face.
Tracksuit dodged some roadies and ran up a ramp leading to an intake bay. A large security guard lumbered into view as Tracksuit flew past.
“Hey!” he yelled, apparently not seeing Tracksuit but spotting Nikki right off. He was a large man, standing a good six feet, six inches tall, with a neck thicker than his head and hands the size of dinner plates. Nikki dove under one of his meaty paws, but he was quicker than he looked and managed to make contact with the other, sending her crashing to the floor. Spinning onto her back, Nikki took aim at his groin and thumped her foot upward. The security guard grimaced and hesitated before falling to one knee. He was hardly out for the count, but it was all the time Nikki needed to get back up and send a roundhouse kick whistling into the side of his head. Continuing forward without waiting to see the results, she heard the crash and smiled as the security guard hit the floor behind her.
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