"We've got a package incoming. Couple hours, train station."
"And then?"
"Then we disappear for a while."
She doesn't ask for details. Just keeps walking. We're close to the station now. I can see the lights, the people moving in and out. Perfect cover.
We blend into the crowd at the entrance. I buy two tickets for Vienna—not because we're going to Vienna, but because tickets create a trail. Anyone tracking us will see the purchase, assume that's our destination. We'll board, then jump off at the first stop and double back. Old trick, but it works.
The station is busy even at this hour. Night trains, late arrivals, early departures. I find a bench with sight lines to the entrances, position Isabella on my left. She sits without being told, settles exactly where I want her.
She's learning.
"Couple hours is a long time to sit here," she says.
"We're not sitting. We're watching."
"For what?"
"Patterns. Faces that repeat. Anyone paying too much attention to people who don't matter." I lean back, stretch my legs out. The ribs ache but the pain is manageable. "You see the woman in the red coat?"
Isabella's eyes flick to the left. "By the kiosk?"
"Been there a while. Hasn't bought anything, hasn't moved. Either she's waiting for someone who's late, or she's watching the crowd."
"Could be both."
"It could be." I keep my attention on the woman without staring. "But if she's still there in another few minutes and still hasn't moved, we relocate."
Isabella settles in, mimicking my posture. Casual, relaxed, but alert. I notice the small adjustments—the way she positions her feet flat like mine, ready to move, the slight lean back that matches my angle. She's reading me, adapting to me.
I like it more than I should.
After a while, the woman in the red coat finally moves—meets someone, embraces them, walks away arm in arm. Civilian. Not a threat.
I relax slightly. Let my mind work through the problem.
Lazarev showing up in Prague isn't random. He doesn't do random. Every move he makes is calculated, personal. If he's here, it's because he knew I'd be here.
Which means he's got intel. Either on Cerberus operations, or on me specifically.
The question is how deep that intel goes.
If it's just surveillance, we can work around it. Cerberus is solid—Fitz vets every operative personally, runs security tighter than any agency I've worked with. No leaks, no moles. Which means Lazarev's intel is coming from somewhere else.
More likely it's tech. Lazarev's always been solid with electronics, surveillance equipment. He could have tagged me at some point, planted something I haven't found yet.
The weapon's clean—stripped and reassembled in Prague. The phone's a burner. Fitz gave me one in Sarajevo and I’ve swapped twice since then. Clothes were all changed before they hit the safe house. Which leaves the boots.
My boots.
I've had these Lucchese boots for years. Custom-made in El Paso, broken in on a dozen operations. Comfortable, reliable. And Lazarev knows I wear them. Commented on them once in Kandahar, said a man who spends that much on boots is either very confident or very stupid.
"Stay here," I tell Isabella, my hand curling around her knee briefly. A touch, a claim. "Don't move unless you have to."
"What—"
I'm already walking to the restroom. Inside, I lock the door of a stall and examine the boots. The heels first—classic hidingspot. Nothing. Then the soles, running my fingers along the edges where leather meets rubber.
