72

PIET TANAKA OPENED HIS EYES and blinked away blood. He took a hard, shuddering breath. The hiss of air over ruined teeth hurt so sharply he jerked up. A weight lay atop him. He shoved the form away. A man. One of Edward’s thugs, shot, unconscious.

Piet pulled himself up from the concrete. He could hear the shattering sounds of gunshots inside the brewery.

It was time to leave. The job had gone very wrong. He didn’t care who was winning on the inside: that fool who’d tricked him so badly or Edward’s people.

He saw the van’s keys, stuck in the driver’s-side door. He lurched into the van, started the engine, and accelerated into the night. When he realized his sword was gone, he felt a feverish rage take hold of his heart. Sam, you rotten bastard.

Two kilometers down the road he had an idea. He needed a safety net. Sam worked for someone. Fine. Sam’s bosses would want information. They could hide him. It was time to defect.

It had been a bar in Brussels where the manager got Sam his gear; well, Sam had used another bar manager in Amsterdam to establish his bona fides. De Rode Prins. The bars must be connected, and there he could look for Sam’s bosses to make a deal. He blinked through the pain—his tongue kept probing where his front teeth once were and his gums gave off a hard throb—and he headed for the Prinsengracht. The bar would be closed. But he could break in, find out who Peter Samson worked for.