PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Donovan was fairly confident they weren’t being followed. He’d learned long ago to leave nothing to chance and to expect every encounter, road trip, or restaurant outing to turn into a dangerous situation. That’s why he’d done a ninety-minute-long SDR coming out of Prague. Now heading north on European Route 55 toward the German city of Dresden, Donovan allowed himself to relax, but just a touch.
In the seat beside him, Helen was snoring lightly. The clouds had returned, and it had started raining again. The constant beating of the windshield wipers had finally gotten the best of her. He knew she’d be mad at herself for falling asleep, but he didn’t have the heart to wake her up. Helen was an interesting woman, and Donovan found himself wondering why she’d originally chosen a career in law enforcement. Smart, self-confident, fiercely competitive, and highly driven, Helen would have been enormously successful in whatever field she chose. But whatever the reason, he was thankful she’d had his back today. She’d proven herself to be a true warrior.
Donovan thought about what she’d shared with him about her dad. The former A-10 pilot. Was it because of him? Had she felt the need to prove something to him? Possibly. Family had played an important role in his life choices.
And, for better or worse, it still does. Maybe it’s the same for her.
If it hadn’t been for his brother joining the CIA, and his father being a cop, Donovan may have become a car mechanic, or an automotive engineer. For as long as he could remember, and even as a kid, when having one of his own had seemed a faraway dream, Donovan had loved cars and motorcycles. One of his best childhood memories was when his dad, who at the time was an officer with the NYPD’s Highway Patrol unit, had brought him over to the department’s fleet garage to check out the new Harley-Davidsons that had just come in. For young Donovan, the garage had looked more like a small city than anything else.
“These guys’ work isn’t acknowledged enough,” his dad had said, talking about the mechanics working on the fleet. “Without them, the department’s nine-thousand-plus vehicles would all fall apart within months.”
After showing Donovan around the armored vehicles used by the ESU—Emergency Service Unit—one of the mechanics had gestured for him and his dad to follow him.
“This is your dad’s new bike,” the mechanic had said, tapping the seat of one of the new Harley-Davidsons with his hand. “I think you guys should check it out, to make sure all’s good with it, you know?”
The sixty minutes he’d spent with his dad cruising the streets of Manhattan on that brand-new Harley—a time that would always be seared in his psyche—were some of the most joyful of his existence. From that day forward, Donovan’s interest in cars and bikes had expanded from being attracted to the rev of an engine and the jerk of speed when his dad switched from one gear to the other in their convertible Mazda Miata to wanting to learn more about what made them go, how they stopped, and how to make them work more efficiently. Sometimes he pictured himself opening his own auto repair shop but knew, as the years went by, that he’d probably never do it.
He’d have to content himself with restoring the 1973 Corvette Stingray he kept at his father’s cabin in Vermont.
Traffic was getting lighter as they drew closer to the German border. Out of habit, Donovan glanced into the rearview mirror of the Škoda Kodiaq, but it was hard to see anything in the heavy downpour.
A big fan of American muscle cars, Donovan hadn’t expected he would enjoy driving the Kodiaq as much as he was. Although not a luxurious or fast vehicle in any way, Donovan was impressed with the Czech-built SUV. Acute steering, decent suspension, and a passable seven-speed gearbox would give the Kodiaq’s more expensive competitors a run for their money.
Helen’s voice broke his reverie. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she said, giving him a tired smile. “But thanks.”
“It was more like a power nap,” he said. “You weren’t gone for more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Well,” she said, stretching her arms in front of her. “It was enough. Where are we?”
“We drove past Lovosice five minutes ago. It’s another half hour to the German border. We should be at the airport in ninety minutes or so.”
“Plenty of time. Our flight isn’t for another four and a half hours. How do you feel about stopping to grab something to eat?”
The mere mention of food made his stomach growl in the most undignified manner. Donovan hoped the rain pounding against the Škoda’s windshield had tempered the sound enough that Helen hadn’t heard.
“Oh, my God, I heard that,” Helen said, laughing.
“Sorry, but you got my answer loud and clear,” he replied. “We’re coming up to a town called Teplice in a mile or so.”
Every muscle in his body was sore, not just the quadriceps the flying ninja had smacked with his foot. Getting some food in his stomach would do him some good. An ice-cold beer would be nice, too. But that would have to wait.
Donovan took the exit off the highway. The exit ramp became a two-lane road that led right into Teplice, which was larger and much busier than Donovan had expected. Donovan stopped at a traffic light while Helen checked her phone, trying to find a restaurant.
He drove around town for a few minutes, admiring its classical architecture. He passed several banks, a couple of hardware stores, a school, and a few pubs, but no drive-through restaurants. Around the town center was a cluster of four-story buildings surrounded by tall hardwood trees next to a beautiful church.
“Did you know that up to World War II Teplice was nicknamed Small Paris?” Helen asked.
“Huh . . . No. Did you before you read it on Google?”
“Of course not. Now turn left at the next intersection,” Helen said. “There’s a family-owned restaurant not too far away with great reviews. Their bean and pig’s blood soup is supposedly excellent.”
Bean and pig’s blood?
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
“It’s good for you. You’ll enjoy it.”
“A soup, let alone one made with pig’s blood, isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Donovan said, having a hard time understanding how the two main ingredients could actually work together.
“Right. I forgot. You’re a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. I’m sure they’ll have something you’ll like on the menu.”
Donovan turned on his left-turn signal, looked in his side mirror, and changed lanes. But instead of turning onto the street Helen had suggested, he continued straight past the intersection. Helen was switched on and didn’t miss a beat.
“Saw something you didn’t like or is it about the bean soup?” she asked, looking into her side mirror.
“White Nissan SUV about fifty yards back,” Donovan said. “Could be nothing, but he’s been behind us for a few turns now.”
“Hard to believe we could have picked up a tail,” Helen said. “The SDR we did in Prague was extensive.”
Donovan didn’t reply but kept an eye on his rearview mirror. Two intersections later, the white SUV turned right and disappeared from view.
“The Nissan just made a right onto a side street,” Helen confirmed.
Donovan relaxed. “Maybe we should head straight to the airport. What do you think?”
“C’mon, Donovan. I swear I won’t force you to eat the bean and pig’s blood soup.”
Donovan laughed. “I was serious.”
“I know. Just pull over there next to the coffee shop,” she said, pointing to a parking space up ahead. “I need to go to the ladies’ room, then I’ll get us two coffees to go. We’ll eat at the airport.”
“Sure, but don’t tell me you accidentally dropped soy milk into my coffee, okay?”
Helen laughed again—a soft, warm laugh.
Totally addictive.
Donovan parked the Škoda Kodiaq in the open spot just as Helen’s phone began to vibrate in the cupholder.
“Text message from headquarters,” she said. “They’re checking in. They want to know if we’ll make our flight.”
“They’re wondering, without asking directly, why we stopped in Teplice,” Donovan said.
“I just told them.”
“What did you say?”
“Same thing I told you. I need to use the bathroom.”
Helen opened her door and climbed out of the Kodiaq. Donovan caught movement in his side mirror and almost froze when he saw the white Nissan slowly turn onto the street and head in their direction.
You have to be kidding me.
He glanced in Helen’s direction. She was already halfway to the café’s door, shielding her head from the rain with her hand. Donovan pulled his phone out of his pocket with the intent of snapping a few photos of the Nissan SUV. Not to make his intentions too obvious, he aimed the camera into his side mirror.
The white Nissan had vanished. What the hell?
Donovan did a shoulder check. Then his breath caught in his throat.
The Nissan had accelerated and was now almost parallel to the Kodiaq. The Nissan’s front passenger window was down, and Donovan recognized the passenger. It was the ninja from the fight in Prague. This time, though, the ninja wasn’t going for the flying kick—he had a rifle aimed directly at Donovan. Before Donovan could take cover, there was a gunshot, then the ninja opened fire on full automatic.
Then something slammed into the side of Donovan’s head.