The name Viktor burned in Adam's mind for three days.
Not Viktor Petrov. Not Viktor Markov. A different Viktor. The driver. The man who had been behind the wheel the night his father was murdered. The man who had spent thirty years hiding in South America, living a lie, while John Kosta's body rotted in a grave.
Adam sat in the garage office, the letter from South America spread on the desk. Viktor was turning himself in. Flying to Chicago. Willing to talk.
“What are you going to do?” Sandra asked from the doorway.
“I'm going to Chicago. I'm going to watch him walk into the FBI building. I'm going to see his face.”
“And then?”
“And then I'm going to decide if that's enough.”
---
The drive to Chicago took four hours.
Adam left at dawn, alone. Sandra had wanted to come. He'd told he
