Page 40 of Sigma

He’s got the gun in his hand—he’s never put it away. He groans in annoyance, says something in German which sounds like cursing. “Ja, ja. Fine.”

He says something to the driver, who digs in the console under the armrest and comes up with a few brown paper napkins and hands them back to me, then unlocks the door.

The man beside me points the gun at me. “You wait.”

He exits and rounds to my side, opens the door for me. Gestures. I exit and head for the nearest concrete pillar some twenty or thirty feet away, and he follows me.

I go around the far side, and glance at him. “You’re gonna watch?”

He hesitates. “I will turn away, but no funny business,ja?”

“No funny business, just potty business.”

“A jokester, I see.” He turns around, pistol held at his thigh. “Be quick.”

“Why, are we in a hurry? I have no idea where Anselm is or how long we’ll be waiting.”

I lower my jeans and underwear to my ankles, lean back against the pillar and shuffle my feet forward so I’m doing a deep wall-sit.

Cut loose. It’s loud, a forceful stream splattering noisily. Some splatters back on my butt and thighs.

The man snickers. “You were telling a truth, I think.”

I use the napkins to clean myself as well as I can. Put my clothing back to rights and clear my throat. “All right. I’m done.”

He turns back around, gun still held down at his thigh. Eyes the puddle of urine. “A lot.”

I shrug. “I really had to pee. It was a long flight, and coffee goes through me, you know?”

“Ja,I know this. But I waspolizei, so I can drink coffee all day and never have to piss. My doctor says this is no good.” He gestures with the gun. “Kommst du. Back the automobile.”

He waits for me, expecting to follow me.

Now.

My blood sings, adrenaline racing through me. I move as if to breeze past him. Instead, I turn abruptly and hit him in the throat as hard as I can with the web between finger and thumb, striking at his Adam’s apple. At the same time, my other hand seizes his gun hand and twists it the wrong way. Stunned and gasping for breath, there’s a split second where his reflexes haven’t kicked in yet. I drive my knee up into his groin, using all of my weight with an upward drive of my braced leg, leaping upward to lend additional momentum to the strike. He doubles over, knees buckling. I still have his gun hand in mine, twisting it away—I finish the twist, stripping the gun away from him and jamming it into the side of his head.

“On your knees.”

He shakes his head, but sinks to his knees, gasping, choking. “M-mis…mistake,” he gurgles.

“Possibly.” I shove the gun harder against his skull when his hand begins drifting toward his body. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you.”

He lifts his hands. “What do you plan? He will kill your daughter.”

“Will he? It’s me he’s after.”

“And your husband.”

“I figured as much.” I dig in his suit coat pockets—he has another pistol there, a compact one.

I take it, shove it in my waistband at my back. He has a folding knife in his hip pocket, a pair of extra magazines, one for each pistol. ID, cash, and cards bound in a rubber band. His phone. I take everything.

“Now what will you do?” he asks. “A moment more andmeine freundewill come.”

“If you and your boss thought we’d all just go along with this nice and easy, that was a very big mistake.” I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back, jam the barrel under his chin. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”