CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zero’s instincts kicked in immediately and he spun, ready to sprint out of the café. But two more men in plainclothes appeared suddenly at the coffee shop’s entrance. One had a hand on his hip, the holster obscured by the hem of a coat, and the other inside a jacket.
A thousand questions sped through his mind, chief among them: How? Reidigger certainly hadn’t sold them out. It must have been the forger, the real forger. But he didn’t even know who they were. All Alan had told him was that two Americans needed identification…
They don’t know who we are, he realized. This was a sting operation to catch the recipients of the forged documents. Interpol didn’t know who Zero and Karina were—because if they did, they would have brought an army.
The man who’d posed as the forg
