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You can’t keep up. There’s no way. I’m not trying to be cruel, Franz. Just a realist.”
    Franz slowly put his guns back into their holsters, dejected, shoulders slumped, and an air of emasculation lingering about his entire body.
    Jake continued, “I’ve gotta get moving now. It’s one thing to wait here for a couple of shooters and quite another to sit here like a fish in a barrel for any dickhead drooling for a million Euro to come along.”
    “Even the blind pigeon finds the bread crumb once in a while,” Franz said.
    Nodding, Jake went to the window and looked out over the Inn River. Maybe he could take his fly rods out one more time. Make sure he still had the action down. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the turquoise water glistened from the sun’s rays. He imagined a trout rising to his fly, coming out of the water, and his line going stiff, bending the tip of his rod to the near breaking point. God, he had to get out on a good trout river soon or he’d go crazy.
    “I can still drive, Jake. Let me take you somewhere. I can do that much.”
    Jake turned to his old friend. He had a point. Jake didn’t even have a car. And if he took public transportation, someone could find out. They were scanning passports now. Sure he could use one of his fake passports, but maybe he should let Franz have something.
    “Yeah, Franz. I’d hate to have this place shot all to hell anyway. Give me a couple minutes to pack a few things.”
    When Jake was done packing a few items in a small backpack, he glanced around the main living area of his apartment and his eyes focused on his bike. In the past couple of weeks he had looked forward to his long sessions on his new bike. He’d even taken his old mountain bike for a ride outside once. But he preferred his road bike now.
    “You got room for that in your trunk?” Jake asked, pointing to his bike.
    “Sure. If you break it down.”
    Moments later they were down at the curb, Jake’s bike and backpack in the trunk and both of them about to get inside.
    “What’s the matter?” Franz asked, holding the driver’s door open.
    Jake’s eyes scanned the street for anything out of place. There were the usual suspects moving about. He recognized most of them.
    “I forgot something,” Jake said and moved toward his apartment. He had strapped his Beretta under his left arm, hidden by a light wind breaker.
    “Hurry up,” Franz said, plopping himself behind the wheel.
    Making his way upstairs, pain shot into his left knee. He’d forgotten his pain medication and wanted to also check one more time for anything he might need. No telling how long he might be gone.
    Inside his apartment he hurried from room to room, grabbing the extra passports he’d hidden under a dresser drawer. He couldn’t believe he almost forgot them.
    Stepping out into the main living room, he caught movement at the front door and thought Franz had returned.
    Gun.
    With one fluid motion, Jake pulled his automatic pistol from its holster and dove behind his sofa.
    Bullets struck the leather with dull thuds.
    Silencer, Jake thought as he rose up with his gun and fired twice, hitting the door frame next to the shooter and making the man scoot into the hallway. Jake crawled forward and peered around the end of the sofa.
    More bullet strikes. This time on the wood floor next to his head, forcing him back.
    Jake waited a couple seconds. Listening carefully. But his ears were ringing. He flashed back to the night Anna had been killed. Anger brewed within him. This was his turf.
    Two shots from the hallway.
    Jake rose up to see a dark figure shift into his apartment. He shot twice and dropped the man with a resounding thud. The sweet sound of lead striking flesh and bone.
    More shots from the hallway.
    Franz had forced the man into his apartment, but why were there more shots? A second shooter?
    Move, Jake.
    Cautiously, he rose and made his way toward the front door, his gun leading the way. The Beretta