CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Both bullets found home, but not in Filip Varga. Reid fired both shots into the phone on the nightstand.
He had already killed two SIS agents—agents that would have killed me, he reasoned; agents that knew damn well what was going on in here and allowed it—but he was not about to kill a global official, even if he was a monster. Varga would face a court for what he had done.
But he had made the call, and Reid needed to get out of there. He pulled himself painfully up off the floor and stowed the gun in his jeans again.
“I know your name and your face,” he warned the politician. “This is far from over.” Then he fled from the bedroom, leaving Varga mutilated and bleeding on the floor.
He paused in the parlor. He had given the girls his keycard for the freight elevat
