Page 129 of The Lazarus Protocol

Ice snuck around the building, dragging his jacket closed over the wound. Commotion erupted inside as they realized he was gone. Ice pulled out the wallet he’d stolen and fished out the cash and credit cards, dropping the leather billfold on the ground by an overflowing trash can.

The yelling was outside now. They’d come out the back.

He ducked out the gate and raced along the sidewalk, keeping an even stride as he picked up his pace. The stitches in his abdomen pulled, but he ignored the sensation and went left down a residential street, down the side of a random house. Through their backyard, where he hopped a fence and came out a street over. Couple more turns, and he was back on a busy street where he spotted a bus stop on the far side, and a bus approaching.

Ice jogged across the street, joined the crowd, and got on the bus, collapsing into a window seat close to the back.

When the bus turned past the bar, he watched them congregate outside, gesturing wildly while they tried to figure out where he’d gone. He opened the Maps app on his phone and figured out how to get to the CIA safehouse.

Almost half an hour later, Ice disembarked the bus and zipped up his jacket, turning up the collar. He walked three quarters of a mile and found the small house with a blue Fiat parked in front, on a stretch of concrete between the house and a low brick wall that separated it from the busy street.

Cars buzzed past, the whip of air ruffling his hair. He went down the side of the redbrick house, to a side door beside the kitchen window. White UPVC door with a semicircle window.

Ice knocked and waited.

The handle turned down, and the door opened. The agent in residence was at least six two, dark hair long and loose almost down to his shoulders. Hair tie on one wrist.

“They told me to come here.” Ice could use the injury as cover to convince this guy he needed help, but announcing his injury would put him at a disadvantage.

The guy stepped back. “I got a communiqué. You’re Division Zero?”

Ice nodded and entered the residence. “Nice place. Smells like Cheetos.”

“Can’t get ’em here. Every time I go Stateside, I stock up.” The guy sniffed. “I’m Jim.”

“Calvin,” Ice said. Two steps got him into the kitchen, a long narrow room with the sink at the far end and the washing machine under the counter opposite the refrigerator.

“Help yourself to whatever. I gotta check on something.” Jim wandered off down the hall, walking stiffly like he too was injured.

“Thanks,” Ice called back. “I could use a sandwich or something.”

Ice bent and pulled open the door of the small fridge—not without pain, though he didn’t show it even if he was alone. He found it stocked with a couple of microwave meals and two pints of milk in glass bottles. The tiny freezer compartment at the top had one ice cube tray and a small box with one chicken nugget.

A slight scuff of the guy’s shoe gave it away when he came back.

The fact he was attempting to disguise his approach told Ice all he needed to know. He dug his fingers in the box and feinted, ducking the other direction.

Jim swiped down with a knife.

Lured here so the CIA could kill him. Why? Ice would probably never know, apart from the fact that he had reason to believe Silas Ilman—Steph’s father—was dead. Whatever Kraus’ reason, Ice had to live long enough to ask and try to get a straight answer.

As if a guy could do that with someone like Kraus.

Ice slammed the frozen-solid chicken nugget into Jim’s nose, driving it upward, then grabbed his knife hand. Squeezed the wrist and brought his other arm down on the guy’s forearm, breaking both bones. Jim roared with pain-filled anger, his knees giving out.

Ice brought up his knee and shoved the cartilage of Jim’s nose the rest of the way into his brain.

Jim fell to the floor.

Ice went to find the agent’s computer so he could fish for more answers. Like where his team was being held—and exactly how wrapped up in this the CIA would turn out to be.

He pulled up a secure browser and found a message board the team used.

Bingo.

FORTY-FOUR

Somewhere in the Philippine Sea