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My finger grazes the trigger.

All I see is her forehead. Right between her eyebrows.

I inhale. My vision narrows.

“Clear,” Arty’s whisper caresses my ear. She knows when I am about to take the shot. Knows not to interrupt. But we have protocol.

And I need to know the room is empty. The time between the shot and her security mobilizing in the ensuing chaos will cover our escape.

Breathe in. Slide my finger into the trigger guard. In five, hold. Out five, hold. Inhale…

The whole world holds its breath with me. Deadly quiet.

I’m in that buzzing flow state, my thoughts fluid, drifting around my singular, perfect focus. Until?—

A shot rings out across the city a split second before I take my shot, breaking my concentration. I’m already committed. My finger squeezes. Glass shatters.

My target … isgone.

A face glances out at me to the left, hiding behind the wall divide between the hotel windows. Fuck.

“Cirs…we’ve been made—!” Artemis’s voice cuts out. I can’t tell if it was static or a scream.

Irrelevant.

My body is moving before I can think. The gun goes down the laundry shoot. My jacket, my gloves, shoved in a pack, tossed through the unfinished hallway window, across the alley behind the building, into a dumpster. The roof door slams back as I bolt toward the north corner, slipping into another coat, tyingup my hair. In seconds I’m halfway to being someone else. Then I’m leaping across the gap onto another rooftop, through the stairwell door.

Glasses. A mustache.

By the time I hit the street, breezing past the front desk of the neighboring apartment building, I’m unrecognizable. My posture slouches into a completely different stride, my arms tucked against my sides.

“Sir?” The doorman calls after me.

“Huh?” I glance over my shoulder.

“You dropped zis.” His hand reaches forward, a wallet in his fingers.

But my instincts are impeccable. Flawless.

I know his other hand is reaching for a gun.

Darting to the side, my boot flicks up, crushing the fingers on his outstretched hand. The wallet soars through the air, a glimmer of gold reflecting the light through the window.

Cop. Cop. Cop!

The pain and shock of the injury sends my would-be attacker reeling back and to the side. It buys me all the time I need to slip out the door.

I’m a block away at a dead run before I hear shouts behind me.

Cops. How are there already fucking cops?

More importantly …

“Art? Artemis!” No response. I check my backup phone. Nothing.

Five minutes and thirty twists and turns through the streets of Berlin take me back around the spot where my partner, best friend, cousin, and overall pain in my ass should have been moments ago. A glance across the alley tells me she’s likely gone to our backup rendezvous.

The only problem is…