Page 80 of Red Line

And that way out is a no-go, too.

Nomad decided that he’d pick up a stool, hold it like a shield, and leap through the plate glass window, making a new way out. Probably less injury in that direction than fighting an entire pub full of brawlers. His job was to stay operational and on mission, whatever that took.

Man, he’d rather not jump through glass.

Nomad pulled some words from his memory. He’d been eleven when his family lived here. “Just a stranger passing through.” He smiled and held out open palms. “No disrespect to you, sir.” The “sir” felt like it could be taken either way, a sign of respect and appeasement, like a dog rolling onto its back and exposing its belly—which was Nomad’s hope—or it could be read as sarcasm.

Faded-T read it as sarcasm.

A wounded ego was fragile that way.

No reason to stare the guy down. This was obviously heading for a fight. But Nomad wouldn’t take a preemptive strike. He watched Faded-T’s chest for the split-second tells that the fight was a go—a deep inhale, a shift of balance, one of thefour limbs retracting backward to gather momentum. It was the physics of the fight.

Faded-T ballooned the cotton fabric of his shirt, loosening the cloth, giving the man’s hand practice for his next move. He shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his stance.

Now, Nomad knew this guy had a weapon. He’d lay money on it being a butterfly knife. Whipped out and swirled in the fingers to open. It looked badass. It was terrifying to have that slash through the air. Nomad’s guts clenched at the visual.

Rightly so.

It was lethal as hell. And intel or no intel, Nomad planned on walking out of the bar with his intestines still folded into their normal place in his abdominal cavity and not pooled out onto the cement floor.

“Hey, man,” Nomad kept his voice soft and friendly. “Can I buy you a drink?” Without shifting his attention, he lifted his voice, “How about I buy drinks for the house? Bartender, this next round is on me, with gratitude for the warm hospitality I’ve received in your beautiful country.”

Nobody cracked a smile. No cheers celebrated a free drink.

Nope. This was going to be a thing. And Nomad knew he had to make it fast and decisive, or the men blocking the front door were going to join in the fun of pummeling the out-of-towner.

He was still going to wait until the man made an aggressive move.

Jail, too, would be a deterrent to Nomad’s mission.

His phone pinged with a message.

He needed to find a way to scoop this goat turd out of the mission punch bowl.

And as if a miracle was sent from the Heavens above, the Netherlands got a goal.

All attention swung to the television. Fists went victoriously into the air. As the men jumped and yelled, Nomad squirmed his way out of the bar, moved down the street, and around the corner.

He took a minute to breathe in relief from his reprieve, then opened his messages:She’s on foot. Heading your way. Lost phone signal. No longer tracking her.

An anguished outcry could be heard up and down the street. Who knew what had happened on the field? Europe’s football season was no joke. Rivalries simmered. Drinking was heavy. Fighting was frequent and part of the sport’s culture.

And now, Red was walking the gauntlet from the airport to the hotel alone in the dark?

Chapter Thirty

Red

Red would admit, as she moved through the night down the street in the skirt and heels, that walking wasn’t her best decision.

With the soccer match on the televisions, the pubs were overflowing. Beer steins overfull. And the men’s alcohol levels seemed to be maxing out.

She moved off the sidewalk and into the street, hugging close to the parked cars, angry at the fashionable shoe choice she had thought would help her align with Elena. Now, she was clack-clack-clacking along. Not another female in sight.

All she had to do was get up this street and turn left. It wasn’t that much farther.

And yet.

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