Page 2 of Radar

Above him came the plaintive strains of a saxophone as someone listened to the radio.

Other than that, the only sound was Xander’s tread echoing off the cobblestones and ricocheting against the ancient walls made rough with curls of peeling paint.

Each step announced his progress toward the bar where he’d meet Anna Senko, CIA.

Maybe that was why his breath was coming heavily.

Maybe there was something about this meet-up that made his scalp prickle and itch.

Did he trust Anna and the information she was about to pass him?

Xander had been friends with Anna since he’d earned a place in the AWG—the Asymmetric Warfare Group, best known for its special forces' physical capabilities and its nerdy brains.

There, he and Anna discovered they were cousins.

With little effort, they learned they shared a Dedko Belov. Xander was a grandchild of his dedko’s first wife (divorced). Anna was the only grandchild of Dedko Belov’s second wife (also divorced).

That second wife, Anna’s grandmother, was OlgaZoricBelov from the Slovakian-based Zoric family—a highly feared and highly successful crime family that had operated for generations behind the Iron Curtain. And even decades later, The Family was pissed as hell that when the Iron Curtain was raised to allow the former countries to enter the world stage, the Zoric family's power dimmed.

They meant to put things back the way they had been.

Since the fall of the USSR, The Family had worked toward reunification, creating chaos on a global scale decade after decade.

In fact, Xander had spent his entire AWG career trying to thwart them. He continued his efforts in the DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency—when the AWG disbanded.

At the AWG, Anna had worked on the Zoric case, too, but she had done it from inside the enemy camp. She’d used her name, her native Slovak language skills, and her cunning to snake her way in and bring information out.

After Anna fell in love with an FBI special agent, the Zorics asked Anna to be a double agent of sorts, and she had—with Uncle Sam’s blessing—agreed.

Everyone seemed fine with her dual roles.

Everyone put up with it, Xander amended.

Should he trust this meet-up with Anna?

He shrugged his shoulders, getting himself primed and ready before he stepped off the curb between cars to jaywalk across the narrow street. Xander used the opportunity to seem natural as he looked both ways—as he was taught to do in preschool for traffic safety—as he was taught to do in spy school for bad-guy safety.

Casting his gaze to the right, out of the corner of his eye, Xander caught a shadow sliding up tighter against the wall just behind him on the sidewalk. Ahead on his left, Xander spotted an alleyway.

Xander slowed his gait, lowered his center of gravity, and kept himself off the wall. It was muscle memory from his time in Afghanistan that shifted his body into combat mode.

Then came the signal whistle, a light “Here, pup!” kind of tune.

Nope. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

It was good that he’d crossed the street. It gave Xander a split second more time to adjust as a man leaped from the black alleyway and sprinted toward Xander’s ten o’clock.

With the whistler racing up from behind, Xander had the wall to his right. Parked cars boxed him in on the left. Forward was the only way clear.

But forward felt like a trap. It felt like where a rat should run.

With his intuition telling him that advancing was a mistake, Xander swiveled to protect his back and square off before he discovered what was waiting for him up the street.

The two men spread their arms like linebackers, like cat herders, like barricades against escape. Xander wondered how fast they were and if he could simply pivot and dash for the bar, linebacker-style, plowing through any new roadblocks. He could burst through the door, and the bartender could pull out a protective gun. Then, Xander would be okay. He’d toss back a shot and feel like he’d dodged a bullet.

But forward felt perilous.

In most public attacks, the first line of defense was to get loud fast. Xander’s Slovakian allowed him to excuse himself if he stepped on a toe, to say thank you when handed a key card at the hotel, or to ask for the bathroom. This wasn’t a country where he frequently operated, so “Get the hell away from me!” wasn’t something he could pull out. “Stop!” was the word he finally produced. “Stop” was as close to a universal language as existed.

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