spring this Gustav guy but then snatch me off a train en route to do that. Unless it was a ruse? But that doesn’t add up either . . . they could have grabbed me off a street in Paris.
So who are Sack-Dress and Beard-Stubble? And who’s calling the shots?
The train slows as we pull into Karlsruhe, the last stopbefore Stuttgart, where we have to transfer to another train for Munich.
I wonder if Evan has fallen asleep—he certainly hasn’t come looking for me, and I’ve now been gone at least twenty minutes.
Sack-Dress grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet before propelling me out of the car, into a line of departing passengers, and then down the steps to the platform. Beard-Stubble is right behind me. I pretend to trip and fall—he grabs me and pulls me upright.
There’s a family of four waiting to board—two little boys and their parents. I reach back while Stubble is distracted and lift the flap of his coat so that the gun in his pocket is clearly visible.
One of the little boys points. “Papa! That man has a gun!”
“A gun?” repeats his brother loudly.
“Gun!” screams the mother. She grabs her sons and hits the pavement, while her husband crouches protectively over them.
Chaos erupts in the busy train station. People run screaming; a couple of German cops in khaki uniforms come running.
I take full advantage, kicking Stubble in the balls and twisting out of Sack-Dress’s grip. I sprint back to the train, which is about to pull out of the station.
But she’s got quick reflexes. She comes back after me, as Stubble rolls on the ground clutching himself.
I kick out and slam her in the chest, but she recovers and drops back to the next entrance. She makes it ontothe train at the same time I do, just on the opposite end of the car, which is deserted since a big group of people just got off.
Great.
I cannot give her time to pull that gun and aim it at me.
So I rush her like a small linebacker, then aim a roundhouse kick at her face. She dodges it, but it throws her off-balance. I aim another kick between her shoulder blades, and she goes facedown into the aisle. Lick the floor and like it, lady.
I hurdle over her and erupt through the doors of the car, slamming into a startled porter.
“Hey!” He goes head over heels.
As he rights himself, brushing off his pants, Sack-Dress knocks him flying again.
“Herr Gott!” He follows this with a series of curses.
I just keep running—until Sack-Dress body-slams me into the floor before I get to the doors of the next car. My turn to eat dirt.
Where is Evan when I need him? Or Matthis, who could at least stick out a foot and trip this woman? They can’t be more than two cars away—if that.
“Kincaid!” I shriek. “Help!”
Her knee is in the small of my back, and she’s got me by the hair. I buck with all my might, ignoring the pain and the ripping sound. I dislodge her enough to roll onto my side, then chop the heel of my hand into her windpipe.
She falls back, clutches at it, and makes a gurgling noise.
Then, and only then, does Evan pop up out of nowhere.
There’s a waft of elegant aftershave, a blur of French blue poplin shirt, and then presto! Evan’s sitting astride her, her face is squashed into the floor, and he’s zip-tying her hands behind her back.
Zip ties? I lift an eyebrow. Really?
I scrape myself up and out of the aisle. I tear my gaze from his buns—hey, it was impossible not to notice them—and drop into a seat, panting. “Where did you get those?”
He turns his head, evaluates me in one laser-swift glance, then gives me a sweet, devastating smile. “The zip ties? They’re never missing from the Kinky Aid Kit. Didn’t you know?”
“The what ?”
Matthis appears, his eyes wide and solemn behind the blue metallic frames of his glasses.
“Kincaid. Kinky Aid. Ha, ha. Get it?”
I close my eyes. “Seriously?”
When I open them again, Evan’s grin has widened.
“Are you okay?” Matthis ventures.
But
So who are Sack-Dress and Beard-Stubble? And who’s calling the shots?
The train slows as we pull into Karlsruhe, the last stopbefore Stuttgart, where we have to transfer to another train for Munich.
I wonder if Evan has fallen asleep—he certainly hasn’t come looking for me, and I’ve now been gone at least twenty minutes.
Sack-Dress grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet before propelling me out of the car, into a line of departing passengers, and then down the steps to the platform. Beard-Stubble is right behind me. I pretend to trip and fall—he grabs me and pulls me upright.
There’s a family of four waiting to board—two little boys and their parents. I reach back while Stubble is distracted and lift the flap of his coat so that the gun in his pocket is clearly visible.
One of the little boys points. “Papa! That man has a gun!”
“A gun?” repeats his brother loudly.
“Gun!” screams the mother. She grabs her sons and hits the pavement, while her husband crouches protectively over them.
Chaos erupts in the busy train station. People run screaming; a couple of German cops in khaki uniforms come running.
I take full advantage, kicking Stubble in the balls and twisting out of Sack-Dress’s grip. I sprint back to the train, which is about to pull out of the station.
But she’s got quick reflexes. She comes back after me, as Stubble rolls on the ground clutching himself.
I kick out and slam her in the chest, but she recovers and drops back to the next entrance. She makes it ontothe train at the same time I do, just on the opposite end of the car, which is deserted since a big group of people just got off.
Great.
I cannot give her time to pull that gun and aim it at me.
So I rush her like a small linebacker, then aim a roundhouse kick at her face. She dodges it, but it throws her off-balance. I aim another kick between her shoulder blades, and she goes facedown into the aisle. Lick the floor and like it, lady.
I hurdle over her and erupt through the doors of the car, slamming into a startled porter.
“Hey!” He goes head over heels.
As he rights himself, brushing off his pants, Sack-Dress knocks him flying again.
“Herr Gott!” He follows this with a series of curses.
I just keep running—until Sack-Dress body-slams me into the floor before I get to the doors of the next car. My turn to eat dirt.
Where is Evan when I need him? Or Matthis, who could at least stick out a foot and trip this woman? They can’t be more than two cars away—if that.
“Kincaid!” I shriek. “Help!”
Her knee is in the small of my back, and she’s got me by the hair. I buck with all my might, ignoring the pain and the ripping sound. I dislodge her enough to roll onto my side, then chop the heel of my hand into her windpipe.
She falls back, clutches at it, and makes a gurgling noise.
Then, and only then, does Evan pop up out of nowhere.
There’s a waft of elegant aftershave, a blur of French blue poplin shirt, and then presto! Evan’s sitting astride her, her face is squashed into the floor, and he’s zip-tying her hands behind her back.
Zip ties? I lift an eyebrow. Really?
I scrape myself up and out of the aisle. I tear my gaze from his buns—hey, it was impossible not to notice them—and drop into a seat, panting. “Where did you get those?”
He turns his head, evaluates me in one laser-swift glance, then gives me a sweet, devastating smile. “The zip ties? They’re never missing from the Kinky Aid Kit. Didn’t you know?”
“The what ?”
Matthis appears, his eyes wide and solemn behind the blue metallic frames of his glasses.
“Kincaid. Kinky Aid. Ha, ha. Get it?”
I close my eyes. “Seriously?”
When I open them again, Evan’s grin has widened.
“Are you okay?” Matthis ventures.
But
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