The clinic in Istanbul was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city.
Knox crouched in the ventilation shaft, his breath misting in the cold air. He'd been waiting for hours, watching Thomas Holt move through his routine. The medic was methodical, precise, a creature of habit. He performed the same surgeries, ate the same meals, slept in the same room.
He's predictable. That's his weakness.
Knox studied Thomas through the grate below. The medic was preparing an IV drip, his movements slow and deliberate. He looked like a man who had all the time in the world.
He doesn't know I'm here.
Knox checked his equipment. A small vial of mute-agent, a copper cable, a concealed blade. He'd planned every detail, accounted for every variable.
Three seconds. That's all the time I'll have.
