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I don’t bother waiting for an answer before I turn and head toward the door. There’s some kind of commotion behind me, the sound of shuffling feet and chairs skidding over wood, but I keep right on walking until I’ve pushed through the front door and am out on the sidewalk, sucking in a bracing lungful of cold air. Naz and Killian silently materialize beside me, one on either side, like hulking bookends. Looking at one of the trench coat–wearing Germans loitering across the street, Naz says, “How do I get hold of you?” Killian fishes inside his suit jacket, producing a crisp white business card. He holds it out to Naz between two fingers. Naz takes it and gives it a once-over with a c****d brow. “A toll-free number?” Killian nods. “It’s international. Leave a voice mail and I’ll be co
- Writer
