Page 79 of Red Line

In the eyes of the public, men like Nomad were easy to pigeonhole.

They were hard.

They drank hard, hit hard, worked hard. And well … yeah, women made them hard—a fact they acted on often and with both gusto and at least some finesse—at least in the retelling.

Was that myth true for all special forces operators?

Who the hell knew? Some of it, sure.

It was a perception that Nomad blamed on movies and popular fiction.

That and the visual.

His lifestyle of physical training day in and day out, year after year, made him look the part conjured in fiction.

There were benefits. Ladies aside, there were times when Nomad knew he skated through a situation because of his size.

Unfortunately, tonight didn’t look like it would work out that way.

Nomad had simply walked into a pub along the route a taxi would use to transport Red to her hotel.

If she came on foot or by car, he’d see her.

And not knowing her time frame, this was a place that gave Nomad significant cover.

The goals were simple: initiate contact, then escort Red back to the airport where a brush pass would provide Red with her new persona. Then, he’d jump on his final flight to Casablanca. Easy day. All he needed to do was sit in front of a beer and wait.

Once inside the bar, Nomad spotted the perfect vantage point.

But on his way to the stool in front of the plate glass window, he was stopped in his tracks by a guy who locked Nomad in an unblinking stare.

Shorter by five or six inches, he weighed about fifty pounds less than Nomad, but he looked wiry under his faded T. Looked like someone who fought dirty and enjoyed the sensations of dominance. Thrived on it. The kind of guy that ate other’s pain and fear for its nutritional value to fuel whatever the crap messed up this man’s ego.

This isn’t good timing, my dude.

Right now, Faded-T looked like his ego needed a boost. And he thought squaring off with Nomad was the way to get that dopamine hit he craved.

While men got violent when they felt powerless in their personal situations, that was none of Nomad’s business.

Faded-T was stepping on his op.

“Hey, big man, youthinkyou’re a big man?” He spoke in Dutch. It had been a while since Nomad had spoken the language. Decades. It took a hot second for Nomad’s brain to adjust to the language and register the words. “You think you can come in here to this place—my place—without my express permission?”

Resting his focus on the man’s chest—the best place to focus in a fight—Nomad’s peripheral vision took in the movement in the small room.

On the way in, he’d clocked two exits—the front and the other in the back between the kitchen and the bathroom.

He’d noticed the television was playing a soccer match. And he knew from his walk down a road filled with pubs that Germany was up two points. Everyone on this street had been shaking their fists and yelling at the screens.

Nomad had picked this place because it seemed relatively settled.

But he’d been wrong. Not only was this the pub’s bully. But the patrons were used to his antics. As soon as this guy’s chest puffed up, they were choosing a door.

Those who pressed toward the back looked like they’d lived their violence in earlier days and now enjoyed it as a spectator sport. They chuckled with anticipation.

Okay, if things get bad, they’ll try to get out back. That will block that egress. That’s a no-go.

The others stood up from their seats and stacked behind Faded-T, effectively blocking the front door.

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