The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis Page B

there was one thing a German understood, it was the difference between a request and an order.
    He stood, counting out euros, which he tossed on the table. He and Gurt sauntered outside, each taking turns pointing at a number of sights, two tourists discovering one of Europe’s more interesting old cities. Suddenly, gestures became angry, voices lowered to keep them from passersby. Tourists had become combatants.
    Then they split, each stalking angrily away from the other.
    The two men, just exiting the tapas bar, exchanged glances. One followed Lang, the other Gurt.
    There was now no doubt.
    Lang slowed his pace, the gait of a man perhaps regretting what he had done. A couple of uncertain glances in the direction in which Gurt had departed told him his follower was keeping a consistent distance, not the move of someone intent on a street mugging or picking a pocket, two common crimes in an area with twenty-fivepercent unemployment.
    Shadows were growing longer. Lang estimated it would be dark in less than a half hour. If there were more of whoever these people were, Lang would prefer to be able to see them.
    He studied the flyspecked window of an apparel shop for a few minutes before stepping inside. Clothes, men’s suits, ladies’ coats, shoes, were dumped in random piles so close together there was little room between them. Lang idly edged between a mountain of cheap cloth handbags and brightly colored sweaters to examine a man’s faux-fur overcoat. Why someone would want such a heavy garment in the south of Spain escaped him, but the price was right. Pretending to seek the proprietor, he confirmed that his minder had entered the shop.
    Casually, Lang made his way to the rear, brushing aside a curtain that divided the store’s public space from the owner’s. Dropping the coat, he quickly stepped tothe back of the building, gratified to see a door. The dead bolt turned easily, and Lang stood in a narrow alley lined with the rears of buildings.
    He waited patiently. Inside, he heard angry voices, no doubt the shopkeeper protesting the invasion of private space by the man following Lang.
    Lang moved to the side against which the door would open. For at least a split second, it would shield him from anyone exiting. He thought of the Sig Sauer, useless in his bedside table an ocean away.
    The first thing the man did when he stepped into the alley was look in the direction away from Lang. Before he could turn his head the other way, Lang had an arm bent around the man’s neck, the elbow directly under his chin so that equal pressure was brought on both carotid arteries. The effect was to starve the brain of blood while allowing oxygen to be sucked into otherwise empty capillaries, causing them to pop like balloons. In four or five seconds, the victim would be unconscious. In twenty, he would be dead.
    A trained hand-to-hand fighter would have immediately gone limp, thereby placing his weight against the attacker’s arm and lessening the pressure. Instead, the man Lang held struggled briefly to pull the arm away, a near impossibility without substantial height advantage.
    In seconds, he was crumpled on the ground. A quick but thorough search of his pockets produced the cell phone without which no European can exist, keys, and a switchblade, which, when open, made a deadly dagger. His wallet held a few euros and a national ID card, which Lang slipped into his pocket along with the phone. The knife he hurled into the gathering dark.
    A series of tortured coughs told Lang the man would soon be conscious. He would have liked to question him, but that was not going to happen. All the followerhad to do was not speak English, or pretend not to, and interrogation would be impossible. Besides, remaining in an alley rapidly filling with night didn’t seem like a good idea.
    He looked over his shoulder as he turned back onto the main street. Losing his corner, was he?
    Gurt was waiting for him in the hotel room. Her raised eyebrows