I said, “So we have a biometric identifier, and Brett’s running it to ground.”

Jennifer said, “Wow. Like we’re tracking DNA.”

Shoshana said, “Jennifer, it’s just as real as a fingerprint. Want me to show you?”

Jennifer bristled, aggravated at the sexual harassment, but not knowing what to do with it, coming from a female. The guys felt it too, now uncomfortable themselves. The joke fell flat, as often happened with that little devil woman. I started to say something, and Shoshana stood up, speaking first.

She ignored all the men in the room, focusing on Jennifer. “I apologize. After your sacrifice, that was callous. I know why I’m walking the earth. I owe you my life, and I will never forget that. The Lost Boys will not succeed. I promise.”

Now it was really awkward. I said, “Shoshana, stop that. We did what anyone would have done. Don’t make this into something it’s not. I don’t need some death wish from you to repay a nonexistent favor.”

She said, “I have seen the mission profile. I know my life has now put others in jeopardy. You have it whether you want it or not.”

The comment made me realize where she was going. The chips she was stacking in my corner, waiting to be repaid. I didn’t need that here. I said, “Shoshana, you and Aaron are out. Done. You can’t continue on with me.”

She simply smiled. I looked at Aaron and said, “Hey, man, you guys have to get out of here. Get back to the kibbutz or whatever else you guys do in Israel. No more with me. I’ll get my ass kicked for using you here in the first place.”

He said, “Pike, I know. We will leave. But Shoshana may make me go where you go.”

“Screw that. Jesus. Go home. Or wherever you top secret Mossad types go. Scandinavia. Paris. I don’t care.”

Aaron said, “I need a vacation. Maybe we’ll stay in Italy. Maybe Tuscany or Rome.”

Aaron looked at Shoshana, and she nodded. I could smell the connection coming off of them. Weirdest thing in the world. A lesbian and a straight guy, both paid assassins in the employ of Israel. I couldn’t make it up if I tried.

I said, “That’s perfect. Get on the train to Rome.”

The door to the room opened, and Brett entered, all triumphant. “Got her! Big tits and all!”

The witticism didn’t work like he wanted. He saw the somber mood and said, “What’s going on?”

I said, “Nothing. What do you have?”

“Her name is Christine Spalding, and she’s done with Venice. I have no idea what she has to do with the Lost Boys, but it’s definitely her.”

“What do you mean she’s done with Venice?”

“According to the front desk—who remembers her very well—she bought a train ticket. She’s out of here.”

“Where’s she going?”

“Rome. And she’s not ‘going.’ She left. An hour ago.”

I glared at Shoshana, wondering how the hell she’d known what was going to happen. She took Aaron’s hand in her own and squeezed it, then gave me her disembodied stare. He looked at me with pity.

She said, “I had no idea where this was leading, but I’m not changing my vacation destination. Someone is going to pay for me being alive. You know it and I know it. It will not be a stranger I’ve never met. And it will not be you, Nephilim Logan. It will never be you again.”

75

From the back of the cabin, Jacob Driscoll watched the woman get on the train. Watched her load her luggage. Watched her fiddle around, getting comfortable, and wondered if she knew none of that mattered. She was dead.

He actually felt a little sorry for her. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. All she owned was a large set of breasts, and she’d plied them into a vacation in Venice. Unfortunately, those same assets she’d flashed at countless nightclubs, gaining nothing more than a free drink for a grope, were now going to cause her death.

He wished she’d taken a different path. All she had to do was go back to America, taking her lumps of rejection with her. The flight alone would have been long enough to ensure the success of his mission. Instead, she’d purchased a ticket to Rome.

He had no doubt she would attempt to make contact with Chris, and in so doing, she sealed her fate.

He’d spent the night in Chris’s room, conducting online checkout and tidying up various email contacts through Chris’s computer, informing the church and his family that he’d dropped his phone in a toilet and it no longer functioned. A partial truth.

Jacob had made sure that Carlos and Devon were on the first train leaving for Rome, using the forged passports and tickets from the boys, then spent the morning sitting in the lobby. Watching and waiting.

He’d decided that if she didn’t show, he would leave tonight, assuming she’d given up. Just before noon, she’d approached the front desk, and he saw she wasn’t the bimbo she appeared to be. She was both determined and smart, using guile, subterfuge, and an ample showing of cleavage to the concierge at Chris’s hotel. Without disclosing why she was asking, camouflaging her important questions in the cloak of those less meaningful, she’d learned that Chris had “checked out,” and had discovered the partner hotel in Rome where the church group had their next reservation. A reservation that would never be used.

He’d followed her from there, tracing her back to her hotel, where she’d purchased a ticket through her own concierge. To Rome.

She had no idea Chris was dead. And no idea that she was as well.

Sitting four seats behind her, Jacob wanted more than anything to kill her on the train, but he couldn’t. He would have to wait for a better chance, and knew time wasn’t on his side. He would have only a small window before she caused trouble.

He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

Omar knocked on the door and heard shuffling inside. He waited, letting Jacob use the peephole. The door opened, and he found himself looking at Carlos. Instantly suspicious, he said, “Where’s Jacob?”

“Still in Venice.” Carlos handed him a letter. “He told me to give you this.”

Omar opened it, saying, “Get my bags. Careful with the last two.”

Carlos shouted at Devon, then went into the hallway, lugging in a large, hard-sided suitcase. Devon followed with another. Omar pretended to read the note, but in reality assessed the pair of shahid. They showed no outward signs of deception, displaying fawning grins and gangly struggles with the bags. He turned to the note.

It was short and to the point. Jacob was tracking a woman connected to the identity of the man Omar was to assume. According to Jacob, she was a potential threat to the mission with a determination to find out what had happened to the church leader, and he was going to ensure she was eliminated. At the end of the note was a new cell phone number, purchased courtesy of the church leader’s credit card. A clean one.

Omar crumpled the paper, wondering if it was real. Carlos came back to the door, bounced from one foot to the other, eyes downcast, then said, “We had no trouble getting in. The envelope was in the locker you said it would be.”

Omar said, “And the guns? Were they here?”

“Yes. Two pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. Some bullets. Nothing more.”

“That’s fine. We shouldn’t need them anyway. Those suitcases have the real weapons.”

He pushed inside, getting off the cobblestone street and surveying his new home. Spartan, with a threadbare couch, a wooden kitchen table, one bedroom upstairs and one down. It would do.

Omar had coordinated for a contact in Georgia to rent an apartment from a service called AirBnB. Really just a clearinghouse on the web for people who wished to rent whatever space they had available, it listed everything from a tree house in Spain to a castle in Croatia. Anyone who wanted to list a room, no matter how small or strange, could do so. His contact had found a first-floor flat in the Trastevere area of Rome, south of Vatican City and just west of the Tiber River. He’d rented it for a month, placing the weapons in a closet and the keys to the flat in a locker in the train station. With no maid service or other bothersome intrusions, the apartment would work perfectly for the rehearsals they needed to conduct. But first, they had a more specific rehearsal.