Page 11 of The 9th Man

LUKE WAS IMPRESSED.

Jillian had chosen their meeting location well.

Brussels’ Grand Place, or Grote Markt, was aUNESCO World Heritage Site that began its life eight hundred years earlier as a common feature of most Belgian towns, a central location around which commerce and politics thrived.

The cobblestoned square, which Luke determined from Google Earth to be the size of two football fields, was flanked by opulent, spired guild halls, a town hall, and the King’s House where the city’s daily bread yield was once sold and traded. Today it served as the Brussels City Museum with its rooms partitioned into gift shops, chocolatiers, and restaurants. There was, Luke had noticed, even a Starbucks and a Hard Rock Cafe. While he had no problem with either business, their presence here left a sour taste in his mouth, like finding a Chuck E. Cheese beside the Victoria Memorial at Buckingham Palace.

He arrived shortly before 4:00 and spent twenty minutes getting a feel for the area. As best he could tell, vehicle traffic was prohibited within a hundred yards of the Grand Place including the alleys—seven of them—that fed directly into the square proper. He counted no less than five police cars roving the perimeter. At 4:00 on the dot he circled the Peugeot back to the public lot he’d spotted on Herb Market Street about a quarter mile away and parked.

He climbed out and texted Jillian.

Here. Same spot?

Her reply was immediate.

Y.

He found the De Gulden Boot, or Gold Boat, restaurant beside a Godiva chocolate shop in one of the guildhalls on the square’s south side. Twenty euros to the hostess and he was shown to one of the red-and-green-umbrella tables outside. He perused the menu, then texted,Still partial to cappuccino?Though Jillian’s forte had been combat, not intel work, she was a smart cookie and he hoped she was already watching from a distance. Over the past twelve hours the house she was staying in had been attacked, her grandfather had been murdered, and the man she’d called for help had come through her front door at the same time as the killers.

She had every right to be wary.

What or who was behind all this he did not know, but one thing was certain. They were shoulder-deep in a dangerous situation. Both of their heads had to be in the right place.

His burner phone trilled.

“Depends on the day,” Jillian said when he answered. “Today feels like an espresso.”

“Okay. This is your dance. What’s the tune?”

“Were you followed?”

“If I wassomebody got ahold of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.”

“Order a Donko’s—”

“A what?”

“Just do it and sit for a bit,” she said. “At 4:30—”

“Make it longer,” he said. “If we’ve got company, they’ll be more patient than that.”

Open meeting locations like this could be double-edged swords, providing cover for both predator and prey. But he still liked them. He always found it amusing in movies and TV where the clandestine meetings occurred in some dark, secluded space. Talk about stupid. There was definitely safety in numbers.

“Quarter till, then,” she said. “Meet outside the Belgian Brewers Museum.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“It’s a museum, Luke, not a pub. Directly across from you.”

“Got it. If you spot anything that makes you froggy, go ahead and jump. Text meabort, clear the area, then contact me again when safe.”

“Should I be nervous?”

“Until we know there’s nothing to be nervous about, absolutely.”

He passed the time people-watching and sipping what he judged the best cup of coffee he’d ever had. Donko’s, it turned out, was a Belgian coffee company whose dark roast had won countless awards. The name was a bit off plumb, but a brew that good could’ve been named Pig Spit for all he cared.

At 4:45, having heard nothing from Jillian, he paid his bill, rose, and started across the square. Though it was a sunny, cloudless, barely spring day, tourist season wasn’t yet in full swing. That meant foot traffic was light, perhaps a couple hundred people milling about in all directions. When he reached the museum’s entrance Jillian textedInside.