The Nearest Exit Read Online Free PDF

bags over the paintings and chatted about details of the job, the way they might discuss pretty girls they’d met on vacation. The expressions on the guards’ faces, the ticket clerk’s admirably shaped ass, the old couple’s strange air of ease as they watched the robbery take place. Then, without warning, Stefan leaned forward and vomited.
    He apologized, but they’d all been through enough jobs to know there was often one person whose nerves finally took control and emptied him completely. There was no shame in it.
    Giuseppe got them out of Zürich proper by a confusing sequence of turns he had charted out beforehand. Only once they’d reached the eastward road to Tobelhof did the rigor relax, and for a brief minute they had a peaceful view of the forest rising toward the peak of Zürichberg. A moment of naiveté, as if this peace could be theirs. They passed through Tobelhof’s scattered farms, and by the time they reached the urban landscape of Gockhausen, the feeling was gone.
    They reentered the forest on the far side of the town and took a left onto an unused dirt road where, a half mile in, a VW van and a Mercedes waited for them in a clearing. They got out and stretched. Radovan gave a Serbian curse of glee—“Jebute!”—before they transferred the paintings to the VW. Giuseppe doused the interior of their white van with a canister of gasoline.
    Milo removed a soft leather briefcase from the trunk of the Mercedes. Inside was six hundred thousand dollars’ worth of used euro bills in small denominations, divided into three Tesco grocery bags. If asked, he would have explained that they’d been liberated from a drug dealer in Nice, but no one asked. He distributed the bags and shook their hands. He thanked them for their good work, and each told him to call whenever he had another job. Milo wished Radovan luck with his mother. “It took a long time,” said Radovan, “but I’ve finally got my priorities straight. This money will pay for whatever she needs.”
    “You sound like a good son.”
    “I am,” he said without a hint of modesty. “As soon as a man loses touch with family, he might as well put a bullet in his own head.”
    Milo gave him an appreciative smile, then shook his hand, but Radovan wouldn’t let go.
    “You know, Tante, I don’t really like Americans. Not since they bombed my hometown. But you—you, I like.”
    Milo wasn’t sure how to take that. “What makes you think I’m American?”
    A big grin filled Radovan’s face. It was a familiar one, that knowing and vaguely condescending smile prevalent among Balkan men. “Let’s just say your German accent is lousy.”
    “Maybe I’m English. Or Canadian.”
    A laugh popped from Radovan’s mouth, and he slapped Milo’s arm. “No, you’re American, all right. But I won’t hold it against you.” He reached into his pocket and handed over Milo’s worn passport. He winked. “Sorry, but I like to know who I’m working with. Tschüss.”
    As Milo watched the Serb proudly join the others at the car, he thought how lucky they both were. Had he lifted something that could have connected Milo to his real name—not this Sebastian Hall passport—Radovan wouldn’t have made it out of this forest, and he didn’t feel up to killing anyone today.
    Once they were gone, he reversed the VW a few more yards away, then walked back and lit the van’s upholstery with his Zippo, leaving the doors open. He lit a Davidoff for himself and waited until the red flames had spread, turning blue as they began to melt the dash, filling the interior with poisonous smoke. He put the cigarette out on his heel, tossed it into the growing inferno, then returned to the VW and drove away.
    Farther south on the A2, which would eventually take him to Milan, his phone vibrated on the passenger seat. He didn’t need to see PRIVATE NUMBER on the screen to know who it was.
    However, the voice was not Owen Mendel’s. It was deep yet airy, like an educated