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Itwasmyturnin the chair—or the car seat, more accurately.
The stolen sedan creaked every time I shifted, which wasn’t often. The seat springs were rusted, the frame stiff from a decade of winters, and the windows had a soft glaze of frost that I had to scrape clean every twenty minutes with the edge of a chipped coin.
The warehouse sat across the block, its profile jagged against the gray skyline. Farkas called it his lab, the place where he built the thing everyone wanted, and where his silence bought his daughter’s continued existence.
Following him here had been easy. The Soviets were so engrained in their routines they’d failed to notice us fall into line behind them in traffic and tail them all the way to where Farkas worked. Egret had taken the lead, as he was the sneakiest driver among us. Thomas might’ve been our strategic genius, but Egret—he was a sneaky bastard—and that wasexactlywhat we needed.
Target acquired, we’d taken shifts, four hours on, four hours off. Egret handed off to me with a muttered joke and a pastry that was already cold. That had been almost three hours ago. I was down to a last sip of coffee—and my last shred of patience.
Surveillance equaled unparalleled boredom.
Any spy—hell, any policeman who’d ever cased a suspect—knew that. Minutes turned to hours, which turned to days. There wasn’t enough coffee in Colombia to make up for the way one’s butt tingled with sleep during a stakeout.
And yet, it was necessary.
So there I sat.
Nothing moved.
I knew, from Egret’s handoff, there were two guards inside with Farkas. The Soviets had also posted two guards outside—one at the main entrance, another pacing the side alley with a cigarette that never seemed to die. I almost felt sorry for the men shivering in Budapest’s embrace.
Only the dull tick of time bleeding forward disturbed the silence.
Wind clawed through the seams in the car door like it was searching for something warm to steal. It found my skin, my nose, my ears. It crept beneath my coat and into my gloves.
God, I hated winter.
I was rubbing warmth back into my fingers when something shifted. I felt it before I saw what came next.
A dark car rolled down the street—slower than local traffic, heavier. It was black, with tinted windows, built like a brick with tires. It turned and nosed toward the side of the warehouse, just past the alley.
The pacing guard flicked his cigarette and approached as it stopped.
The rear door opened.
My breath caught.
A man in a dingy gray suit stepped out of the front passenger’s seat. He spoke to the guards, then opened the back door. A small figure stepped out. She had curly, mid-length hair and was bundled up in a coat two sizes too big. She shied from the suited man, but he grabbed her arm and tugged her to follow. The curls beneath her wool hat bounced as she lurched forward and gazed up at the warehouse.
It was Eszter.
Even from this distance, I knew. Thomas had described her eyes as ancient in a child’s face. I couldn’t see them now, but I felt their weight.
She hesitated—or tried to.
The guard said something.
She didn’t move.
Then he forced her, practically dragging her inside.
My heart didn’t restart until the guard and Eszter reappeared, the car door closed again, and the vehicle backed away, pulling into a slow U-turn.
I sat up straight, wiped my palm down my coat.
This was it.
I slumped down in the seat to hide myself from view as the car passed by, counting to five.