Page 59 of The Shadow Friends

“Together?” The woman shook her head. “We claimed this contract first. They told us it was ours. And we do not share.”

“Without Dmitry, you earn nothing. Do you want to find him or not?”

The woman spoke to the gunman. He swung his gun toward Lloyd, who gave a whimper. “Now, Ms. Margaret Bird. Tell us who sent you.”

“It’s all a mistake, I swear!” Lloyd cried out. “We don’t know anyone named Dmitry!”

“Lloyd,” said Maggie.

“We have your names,” said the woman. “With or without your cooperation, we’ll learn who you work for.”

“Half of something is worth more than all of nothing,” said Maggie.

The woman eyed her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s clear you haven’t found Dmitry on your own. If we work together, we improve the odds we find him.”

“I told you, we do not share.” The woman nodded to the gunman. “She dies first.”

The gun swung toward Maggie, and she stared straight into the suppressor barrel. Just a babysitting trip. A short trip to Amsterdam and home again. This is how it ends.

“No,” Lloyd said. “Don’t hurt her! I’m the one who made her come! She had nothing to do with—”

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, the sound fracturing against corrugated steel, bouncing back at them in a million deafening shards. At first, Maggie was too numb to feel the blood spattered on her face, too paralyzed to process the fact the bullet could not have come from the suppressor. She heard the metallic thunk of the gun hitting the concrete floor. Saw the gunman’s legs wobble and his body tip sideways before he collapsed in front of her.

The woman snatched up the fallen gun and spun around to face whoever had shot her partner. Before she could fire, a bullet slammed into her chest. She sprawled backward, arms splayed out, and drew in a frantic breath. It came out in a wet and noisy gurgle. She was still alive, but she was drowning in her own blood.

From the warehouse shadows emerged two men dressed in black, one blond, the other dark haired. The dark-haired man was clearly the one in charge, judging by his commanding presence and purposeful stride. With swift efficiency, he kicked the gun away from the fallen woman, gave the bodies a quick, appraising glance, then turned his full attention to the kneeling prisoners. Blood was pooling at his feet, and the stench of violence hung in the air, but this man was chillingly calm. He was in his early forties, with a narrow, sharply angular face and deep-set blue eyes that were impossible to read. While his colleague spoke rapid Dutch into a cell phone, the dark-haired man remained focused on Maggie. She heard the word ambulance in the phone conversation, but it was clearly too late for the dying woman, whose breaths were already irregular and stuttering. Then her breathing ceased entirely, and her face went slack in death.

“Are you uninjured, Ms. Bird?” the dark-haired man asked.

Maggie released a startled sob that sputtered into laughter. It echoed in the warehouse, like the barking of a madwoman. “We’re fine,” she finally managed to say. “We’re both fine.”

He leaned over and sliced apart the tape binding her wrists. As she massaged the feeling back into her hands, his words suddenly registered. He’d called her by name. “You know who we are,” she said.

The man turned to Lloyd, who was still pale and shaking. “You would have saved us a great deal of trouble if you’d just stayed home, Mr. Slocum.”

“I don’t understand.” Lloyd looked at Maggie. “Are we safe now? Is this all over?”

“No,” the man sighed. “It’s certainly not over.” He reached down to take Maggie’s hand and, with one easy tug, pulled her to her feet.

“You’re American,” she said. She looked at the blond man, who was now crouched over the dead gunman, emptying the pockets. “He’s Dutch intelligence?”

The American nodded. “My colleague from AIVD.”

“And you work for . . .”

“I’m sure you’ve already figured it out.”

“My old Agency,” said Maggie.

He tipped his head. “Jon Marcus. I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you, but this situation is more of an annoyance.”

“CIA and AIVD playing in the same sandbox? What’s going on?”

“Classified.”

“After tonight, I think I have a right to know.”