I knew she was right.
But as I sat down at the table, surrounded by photographs of the operation that might save Switzerland, all I could think about was Thomas.
My Thomas.
Somewhere in the darkness, alone, maybe hurt, maybe worse.
And there was nothing I could do but wait.
32
Thomas
My lungs were on fire.
The industrial district was a maze of warehouses, shipping containers, and chain-link fences. I vaulted one barrier, then another, my shoulder exploding with each impact. Behind me, I heard shouting.
First one voice.
Then another.
Then a chorus of anger and purpose.
They’d mobilized fast.
Too fast.
The nervous kid must have had backup nearby, or maybe the whole district was crawling with Order operatives. Either way, I had multiple pursuers now, and they knew this terrain better than I did.
I ducked into the shadow of a loading dock and pressed myself against the cold concrete.
It was a fight to control my breathing.
My heart was a jackhammer.
My shoulder was wet. Blood seeped through the bandages from a reopened wound I’d never let heal properly.
Footsteps.
They were close.
And getting closer.
I held my breath.
A flashlight beam swept across the loading dock a few inches from my position.
I watched it pass, a bright finger probing the darkness.
I willed myself to become invisible.
The beam moved on.
The footsteps receded.
I counted to thirty.
Then I moved again.
