3Something cold twisted in my stomach. “After me?” I said. My voice was pitched too high, my fear too plain. I breathed deeply, tried again. “They wouldn’t come here.”
“Can’t rule that out,” Harry said. “If Stefan Krajewski was the goal, we’ve got a different soccer game. One where you’re a player.”
The cold knot in my stomach was coming undone, twisting and undulating, sending bitter liquid up my throat. Harry was trying to scare me. He was succeeding. I sat back down. “You don’t know killing Stefan was their objective.”
Harry took the chair beside me. The light from the overhead fixture glinted off the metal frames of his glasses. “Right now, we don’t know much of anything. The FBI and half of Interpol are working on it. Until they identify the culprit, you’d be wise to lie low.”
“Li
