escape route on the other side. He peered into the gloom, and then the footsteps picked up their pace, making his decision for him.
Heinrich scrambled up the gate, driven by fear and desperation, and was at the top, hoisting himself over, when his coat caught on one of the faux spear heads that served as flimsy protection against attempting precisely what he was doing. He pulled at it, desperately trying to free himself, the sound of his pursuers now too close for comfort.
The coat gave with a tear and he dropped inside, falling against the cement walkway and landing on his arm, which snapped with a muffled crack, the pain instant and mind-numbing. Tears welled in his eyes as he stifled a cry, and then he forced himself to his feet, his breath stopped in his chest from the agony. It was at least a fracture, if not worse, but the sound of running footsteps urged him forward. He edged down the cramped side passage, a service access way for the building that was primarily used to haul leaking garbage bins, judging by the stink of it.
He was nearly to the rear corner of the building when two men stopped at the gate. He was far enough that they wouldn’t see him. Unless they had flashlights.
Heinrich watched them, willing his breathing to a shallow draw, and tried to shrink into the surrounding concrete, pressing himself against the wall, groping, hoping to find a recess he could use for cover. His fingers felt along the edge of the building and had reached the rim of a doorway when his heart sank. One of the two men was pointing at the top of the gate, where a thin strip of overcoat fluttered in the breeze.
He bolted into the inky black at the far end of the walkway, and then a chip of concrete struck his face, ripping a gash as his ears registered the distinctive pop of a silenced small-caliber pistol, followed almost instantly by the tell-tale whistle of a ricochet. Another pop, and then the whine of a slug skimming the wall on the opposite side, only five feet away. He instinctively ducked and threw himself onto the hard cement path, hoping he could crawl to a position of relative safety behind the building, out of range of the rounds his assailants were firing blindly in the hopes of a lucky hit.
Blood ran freely down his face from the cut, but he ignored it – the least of his worries at the moment. He almost fainted from the pain radiating from his ruined arm, but he inched along, using his good hand and his legs to further himself from the danger at the gate. He’d just reached the corner when he heard the iron barrier clatter as one of the men pulled himself to the top, and Heinrich understood that he would only have seconds to find a way out, or die cold and alone from a gunman’s slug to the back of the head. If he was lucky. If not, they would torture him for hours first, in an effort to get him to reveal what he knew.
And then he was clear of the passageway and at the back of the building. He drew himself to his feet and stumbled blindly in the gloom, hoping for a reprieve of some sort as the sound of his pursuers moving towards him echoed off the walls, their footsteps bringing with them the certainty of his life ending in moments, barring a miracle.
Chapter 2
Two Weeks Earlier, Prague, Czech Republic
The bridges spanning the Vltava River in Prague were quiet at dawn as the sun’s tentative rays burned through the clouds that lingered over the city like a fog, an occasional drizzle marring the otherwise tranquil Monday morning. Traffic would begin clogging the arteries into the city center in a few more hours, but for now the roads were largely empty except for an occasional delivery truck bringing produce to the restaurants that ringed the downtown.
A black Mercedes sedan rolled across the Charles Bridge, the sole vehicle on the massive span, moving slowly as it approached the ministry buildings so as not to jostle the passenger, who was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. His hours were unconventional for a public servant, but Milan Rejt was no ordinary bureaucrat. As the finance minister for the Czech Republic, he controlled the destiny of the nation, and typically worked twelve-hour days – a man consumed by his