12
Peter
We don’t return to Japan—with Sara in the FBI’s clutches, it’s too risky. Instead, we fly to Prague, where our safe house is in a small village some twenty kilometers from the city. It snowed overnight, and the place looks remarkably picturesque, with a pristine white layer covering all the roofs and bare tree branches.
“Why couldn’t we have gone someplace warm?” Anton grumbles as he exits the car into a pile of snow. “Seriously, that safe house in India sounds f*****g good right about now.”
If I hadn’t just let go of the woman who is my life, I’d have laughed at the disgusted look on his face. But I’m not in the mood for Anton’s bullshit, so I just say tersely, “Because Eastern Europe is where we need to be.” Not that I need to say it—he knows as well as I do why we’re here.
