She paused, drew a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, and waited to see what he would do. For one thing, he was moving along as though he was searching, yet with an air of owning the terrain.
Shit, it was one of Ramirez's men, out on patrol. She recognized him. It was one of the European hoods who had barged into Command the fateful evening now half a lifetime away.
Quickly she tried to melt into the shadow of a tall bush, but she was too late. His head jerked around and he saw her. Up came an automatic.
He was dressed in black, and as he approached her, he flashed a crooked smile, then produced a German accent. "So, it's you. We've been missing you."
"Which one of them are you?" She didn't know what else to say.
"I am Max Schindler," he replied, in heavily accented English. He was at least thirty pounds overweight, the hard-earned rewards of a lifetime of potatoes and strudel. He looked like a puffing, black balloon. "Number One vill be pleased to have you return to us. He thought you were an assault." He laughed as he gestured her forward with the weapon. "Come on. This morning, I think, is going to go quickly. Just another couple of hours and the real excitement will begin."
"I can hardly wait."
"Good"—it sounded more like goot—"you are going to have a circle-side seat." He seemed extremely pleased with himself, both with his own humor and with the fact that he had been the one who would be bringing her back.
"You mean ringside. Great." The time was already flashing by, she thought—the eight minutes she had given ARM were undoubtedly up—which meant they probably would be changing plans again, working their way. Would they just forget about her and move on? "Tell me, how did a smart guy like you end up working for a maniac like Ramirez?"
"Who?"