Vienna, Austria.
2:17 a.m.
Rain crawled down the windows of the Hotel Imperial, turning the city beyond into a watercolor of yellow streetlights and black rooftops.
Adrian Cross stood motionless in the bathroom, watching the woman through the narrow reflection of a decorative mirror.
She was approximately thirty-five, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun and a gray coat buttoned to her throat.
She stood in the hallway, apparently waiting for someone.
Her right hand was hidden inside her coat.
Adrian had never seen her before.
That was what frightened him.
Professionals were usually recognizable, if not by face, then by behavior. The way they checked reflections. The way they positioned themselves near exits. The way their eyes moved before their heads.
This woman displayed none of those habits.
She simply stood there.
Waiting.
His phone vibrated again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: DON'T OPEN THE DOOR.
A second message arrived.
SHE ISN'T THE ONE YOU SHOULD FEAR.
Adrian's eyes shifted toward the bedroom.
A faint metallic click came from the adjoining room.
Someone was already inside.
He moved before the sound finished.
The bathroom door exploded inward.
Adrian dropped beneath the first gunshot, felt hot fragments of wood strike his neck, and slammed his shoulder into the attacker.
A suppressed pistol fired twice.
The mirror shattered.
Adrian drove the man's wrist against the sink. Bone cracked. The pistol fell.
The attacker reached for a knife.
Adrian struck his throat with the edge of his hand, caught the knife arm, and twisted until the blade dropped.
The man collapsed against the bathtub, gasping.
Adrian seized the pistol.
"Who sent you?"
The attacker smiled through bloody teeth.
"You're already dead."
Adrian pressed the weapon against his forehead.
"Who?"
"Ask your father."
For the first time in years, Adrian froze.
His father had died when he was twelve.
The attacker lunged.
Adrian fired.
The sound was no louder than a heavy book hitting the floor.
Silence returned.
Then someone knocked.
Three gentle taps.
"Mr. Cross?" the woman called from the hallway. "We have less than forty seconds."
Adrian kept the pistol raised.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who knows what happened in Belgrade."
Belgrade.
Six years earlier.
A mission Adrian had spent half a decade trying to forget.
"What happened in Belgrade?" he asked.
The woman lowered her voice.
"The children weren't supposed to die."
Adrian opened the door.
And saw the blood on her fingers.
"Where did that come from?"
"Your handler."
"Victor?"
She nodded.
"He's dead."
Adrian felt something cold settle in his chest.
Victor Hale had recruited him, trained him, and protected him through eleven years of operations.
He was the closest thing Adrian had to family.
"Who killed him?"
The woman looked past Adrian toward the body in the bathroom.
"The same people who sent that man."
A distant elevator chimed.
She grabbed Adrian's sleeve.
"Now we run."