Page 144 of Dark Night of the Soul

“Any complications?” Kincade asked.

“None.”

They knew each other. Of course they did.

I watched unfamiliar streets blur past, trying to get my bearings. He hadn’t told me much. He hadn’t even told me we were being picked up from the airport. Hell, he may not have known until the man showed up.

It reminded me of my uncle. Need-to-know basis. Information doled out like rations.

Some things never changed.

As far as I could tell, we were heading south into residential areas. Quiet streets, German signs I couldn’t read, architecture I didn’t recognize. Then commercial districts, then something in between.

The stranger drove with the same methodical precision he’d used positioning that car door. Checking mirrors. Noting side streets. Every movement deliberate.

Kincade watched the road ahead, face unreadable in the passing streetlights.

And I sat in the back, being transported to a destination I didn’t know, for a mission I hadn’t been briefed on, in a city I’d never visited.

Trusting that wherever we were going, whatever came next, he had it handled.

Living the dream.

At least the stranger drove well. That was something.

“You were not followed,” the man said.

Well, that was reassuring.

Streetlights blurred past. A tram rattled somewhere to the left. And I realized my breathing had slowed to match the cadence of the car.

We turned down a narrow residential street with buildings pressed close and stacked balconies. He parked the sedan in front of an older building, then cut the engine. Kincade and the stranger popped open their doors at the same time. Before I could move, the stranger came to my side and opened the door for me.

Chivalry wasn’t dead. It was armed and operating a getaway vehicle.

Curious, I glanced from him to Kincade. His expression was flat. Like he didn’t mind someone else leading the way. He wasn’t looking at me, anyway. He was scanning the street, eyeing the dark empty sidewalk. Doing that thing he always did when we entered a new place.

I found this strange dynamic fascinating. Kincade letting someone else lead. Someone else open doors. Someone else be in charge of the keys.

Either this guy was trusted, or I was about to learn something new about how the Quiet Watch operated.

Possibly both.

We followed the stranger up the sidewalk, through a doorway, and up a flight of stairs to the fourth floor. He unlocked a door, pushed it open, and waited. Kincade entered first, flipping on lights. I followed. The stranger came last, closing the door behind him, turning the lock.

The apartment didn’t pretend to be safe. It was in that sparse, functional way that screamed “tactical retreat” rather than “cozy getaway.”

Muted colors. Worn furniture. Lights that came up in stages instead of all at once, like someone wanted to see who was waiting before committing to full illumination. No personal touches, no softness—clean lines and deliberate emptiness.

A battered sofa. An armchair angled toward the window for sightlines. A scarred coffee table that looked like it’d been moved more than it’d been used.

Against one wall, a small dining table with four mismatched chairs, none of them tucked in, everything ready to shift at a moment’s notice. On the table sat a thick folder. Intel or plans for whatever we were walking into.

The kitchen was narrow and efficient, cupboards half-empty but orderly, supplies lined up with intention. Down the short hall, I caught glimpses of a bare bedroom and a bathroom that smelled faintly of bleach, towels folded tight, mirror angled to show the door before your own reflection.

The space felt scrubbed of history—functional, anonymous, prepared.

I breathed out, not because I was comfortable, but because I felt accounted for. And here, that was enough.