Jacob handed him the first two passports and said, “Start working on these. You have the passport photos for myself and Carlos, right?”

“Yeah. You know these have electronic chips in them, right? This isn’t like what I used to do on the block, ripping pictures for driver’s licenses.”

“I know, but we aren’t crossing any borders. Won’t matter. The only thing I’m worried about is the hologram. You used to be able to work through those on the DLs. It’s no different here.”

Devon shoved them in his pocket and said, “You want me to wake him up?”

“Not yet. He’s the last connection we have. You sure you’ve got all of their email addresses? You know how often they talk to their parents?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all good. They’re set for today. Next contact is supposed to be tomorrow, after they get to Rome.”

Jacob nodded and leaned over, slapping the foot of the last victim. “Hey, you ready to go? It’s getting a little chilly outside. Everyone’s waiting on you.”

The boy sat up, confused for a moment, still a little tipsy, but nowhere near as drunk as he had been before, when he was cheering on Fart Boy.

He said, “I don’t think I want to go. You guys head out without me. I’m going to bed.”

He put his head back into the pillow and Jacob said, “No, no, no. It’s all for one and one for all. You’re going.”

“No, I’m not.”

Jacob jerked him off of the bed, one hand on his collar and another on the waist of his jeans. He slammed him into the wall and said, “Yes, you fucking are. Nobody’s riding this one out. I came all the way back here to get you. You didn’t want to go, you should have said so before I left last time.”

The boy cringed in confusion and fear, his sleep-and-alcohol-addled brain trying to gain traction. He said, “Okay, okay. Sorry. Sorry. I want to go.”

Jacob pushed him toward the door, nodding at Devon.

The boy opened it and said, “Isn’t he coming?”

“No. He’s tired.”

“What?”

Jacob pushed him out the door without an answer. They walked down the stairs in silence, the boy out of fear, Jacob because he was reflecting on the mistress and missed opportunities.

Had he been paying more attention, he would have caught the signs. Seen the suspicion building in the chubby teenager in front of him, along with a latent dose of courage. But he was thinking of bigger problems.

They reached the lobby, the boy pushing open the door leading to the alley. Jacob turned back, looking one last time for the mistress, failing to see his target watching him. Waiting. He caught a flash of sharp movement and whipped back around. He saw the door swinging back, empty.

He darted forward, catching a glimpse of the teenager lumbering down the flagstones in the alley, then turning the corner. Jesus Christ. I’m worrying about the mistress and that little shit is going to destroy everything.

He broke open the door, sprinting to catch up and pulling out his cell phone. He hit speed dial, slipping on the stones as he rounded the corner. The boy was on a bridge, crossing a canal. Jacob took off again, running just to keep him in sight. Carlos answered, and, midstride, Jacob said, “Where are you? Have you docked?”

“No. I’m still coming in. What’s wrong? Why are you out of breath?”

Shit.

Jacob hung up, the use of his phone having caused him to lose distance. He increased his pace, seeing the target dart to the left into another alley. Jacob kept pushing, driving his legs, getting into the zone, like he did when he ran from the police. A blackout feeling where nothing existed but the stride and the escape.

Back then, he knew they would eventually quit if he could only keep them running. The fear then had been the speed of radio, and now the roles were reversed. He had no one to radio, and the kid had every incentive not to get caught.

But he was chubby. Out of shape. A fat altar boy. He probably hadn’t run more than a block in his life. Jacob could catch him.

Jacob rounded the corner and saw the boy leaning against a wall, gasping for air less than seventy meters away. The boy heard Jacob coming and began to run again, now a shambling trot. Jacob closed the distance to him just as he crossed another bridge, passing into a darkened square with a fountain in the center. For the first time, the kid remembered he had a voice. He stopped running and began shouting, screaming for help, the noise echoing off of the black stone. Jacob reached the far end of the bridge and saw a light flick on in an apartment overlooking the square.

The boy heard his footsteps, turned, and shrieked. Still running full-out, Jacob slammed him into the concrete of the fountain like a lineman sacking a quarterback. Stunned, the boy feebly fought for his life. Jacob saw another light come on and punched the boy in the face, then dragged him kicking into the shadows of the bridge. The boy kept struggling, releasing a keening wail over and over. Jacob wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck and slammed his head into the concrete corner of the first step of the bridge.

The initial blow shut the boy up. The second and third caused his head to crack open, warm blood flowing over Jacob’s hands and arms. The boy’s legs twitched, then grew still.

Jacob saw steps leading down into the water below the bridge and dragged the body out of sight, hearing murmuring from the windows above. He sat still, listening. He heard something clank, wood on wood, then a fragment of a song. He caught a light on the canal, coming his way.

Gondola.

He put his cell phone in his mouth and slipped into the water, dragging the body under the bridge. He waited, one hand holding on to a spike coming out of the rough exterior of the bridge, the other holding the arm of the body.

The gondola glided by, the gondolier serenading a couple wrapped in an embrace, both completely unaware of the grisly scene they were passing. When they were out of earshot, Jacob swam back to the steps, remaining out of sight of the window. He called Carlos.

“We’ve had an issue. I had to kill the last kid here, on the island.”

“You’re shitting me. What happened?”

“Not worth talking about. I’m in a canal right now. I think east of you, but definitely north of our hotel. Where are you?”

“At the dock. What do you want me to do?”

“Fucking come get me. We need to dump this guy, and you and Devon need to pack up for the train.”

“What do you mean? What about you?”

“There’s one more thing here that needs to be taken care of.”

71

Omar threaded through an outdoor eatery in a courtyard just east of the hotel, still within the pedestrian area of Toptani. He was sweating profusely and walking with his hand in his jacket pocket, drawing curious glances from the patrons.

He went through one café and entered another, the only demarcation being different-colored umbrellas and chairs. He wanted to stay within the population, keeping to areas that would prevent the Israelis from hunting. He was sure they would value operational secrecy over brute force, but he was in a dilemma. He needed to get to the airport, and to do so, he’d have to leave the safety of numbers, walking the street looking for a cab. He knew there was a stand east, on the canal road, but it was a canalized route. He’d have to walk straight down the road, the canal to his right and the road to his left. All it would take would be a simple van riding parallel to him, three seconds of chaos, and he’d be theirs, either dead in the street or tied up in the back.

He should know. He’d done the exact same thing to innumerable innocent victims in the lucrative trade of hostage ransoms in Syria. Germans, Turks, Swedes, rich Iraqis and Syrians—he’d taken many men. Some had lived, and others had died, but all had been captured with simple tactical procedures that he knew well. Procedures that were tailor-made for his walk to the taxi stand.