23I bent down and jerked the jack from the wall. My hands balled into fists. If Stefan had been in front of me, I’d have struck him. But he wasn’t here, that was the point. We had a history together. I’d been in danger before. In Poland in 1986. In Germany last winter. Neither time had I asked him for help. Yet he’d come. Fool that I was, I’d believed that he’d always come when I needed him.
I pounded my right fist into the open palm of my left hand. I was so damn mad at him.
Mad. Yes. Angry.
What had Holger said about my anger? I let my fingers uncurl. The recliner frame squeaked as I sank down onto the leather cushion. Holger had claimed that I used anger to mask my fear. I was angry. And more scared than I wanted to admit.
Somebody wanted me dead. That was frightening, certainly. Bu
