Brian asked, “Not the first time you’ve done this for him, is it?”
“No.”
“How’s he pay you?”
“Money . . . cash.”
“Were you there the night the Dassault came in and took off?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about it,” Dominic said.
“Four passengers, Middle Eastern, came in a limousine. They got aboard, and the plane took off. That’s it.”
“Can you describe any of them?”
Rolf shook his head. “It was too dark. You said something about the Radish. Someone else looking for me?”
Brian said, “According to the waitress. Four Middle Eastern men. Any idea why they’re looking for you?”
Rolf glared at him. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, sorry.”
Dominic and Brian left Maria with Anton and stepped into the hall. “You think he’s telling the truth?” Brian asked.
“Yeah, I do. He’s scared shitless, and happy as hell we were white faces coming through the door.”
“Doesn’t change much, though. He’s got nothing we can use. No name, no faces, no paper trail—just Middle Easterners traveling incognito to who knows where. If DHS or the FBI had Hlasek or his pilot, they wouldn’t have asked Zurich and Stockholm to beat the bushes.”
“Probably right,” Dominic replied.
“What about those two?”
“Best we can do is get them to Stockholm. If Anton’s smart, he’ll turn himself in to the Rikskriminalpolisen and pray they’re interested in his story.”
Dominic watched over Anton and Maria as they gathered their things. Brian left through the back to retrieve the car. He returned three minutes later, panting. “Problem. Tires on our rental are slashed.”
Dominic turned to Anton. “Your friends?”
“No. I told them not to come back.”
From outside came the squelch of brakes. Dominic shut off the table lamp. Brian locked the front door and peered through the peephole. “Four men,” he whispered. “Armed. Two coming to the front, two going around back.”
“You were followed,” Dominic told Maria.
“I didn’t see anyone—”
“That’s sort of the point.”
“You have a gun?” Brian asked Anton.
“No.”
Dominic and Brian exchanged glances. Each knew what the other was thinking: too late to call the cops. And even if it wasn’t, their involvement would bring more problems than it would solutions.
“Get in the kitchen,” Dominic ordered Anton and Maria. “Lock the door, then get on the floor. Stay quiet.” Dominic and Brian followed them there. “Knives?” Brian whispered to Anton, who pointed to a drawer. Hunched beneath the level of the window, Brian walked over, slid the drawer open, and found a pair of five-inch stainless-steel steak knives. He handed one to Dominic, then pointed to himself, then the living room, then moved that way. Dominic followed, and together they shoved the couch, the coffee table, and a side chair up against the door. It wouldn’t stop whoever was coming, but it would slow them down and, they hoped, even the odds. Though unavoidable, Brian and Dominic had, in fact, brought knives to a gunfight. Dominic gave his brother a good-luck wave, then returned to the kitchen. Brian took up station at the end of the hall, eyes fixed on the front door.
From the floor, Maria whispered, “What—”
Dominic held his palm up, shook his head.
Outside the kitchen window came a pair of hushed voices. Ten seconds passed. The doorknob on the back door turned, creaking, first one way, then the other. Dominic crab-walked around Anton and Maria, then pressed himself against the wall beside the door on the knob side.
Silence.
More hushed voices.
From the side of the house came shattering glass. Dominic heard what sounded like a rock thump against the floor. A feint, he decided, knowing Brian would have reached the same conclusion. The screen door creaked open.
Something bulky crashed against the door. Then again. The wooden jamb beside Dominic’s head splintered. On the third crash, the door flew inward. A forearm and a hand holding a revolver appeared first, followed a second later by a face. Dominic waited for his target—the soft spot just beneath the earlobe—to appear, then straight-armed the knife, burying it to the hilt in the man’s throat, then using it as a lever to bring him farther in the doorway. The man dropped the gun. Dominic kicked it down the hall, where Brian scooped it up. Dominic withdrew the knife, then reached across, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut, driving the man back outside.
From the front came two gunshots. The windows shattered. Brian crouched down and pointed the revolver at the front door. Dominic stepped around Maria and Rolf, ducked down, then peeked through the kitchen window. Outside, two men were kneeling