“Young man, the first time I met you, you’d been beaten by ghosts. And now I find you bleeding to death in paradise and not a soul but you to tell the tale. Maier, I decided to save your life. Again. Because of our great friendship. You owe me. What is it the Americans always say? Big time.”
Maier opened his eyes. Too bright. The world flashed as if armed with swords of light. He closed his eyes. He knew this voice. He could tell this voice from a thousand others. Sounded like a Hollywood bad guy. So much to think about. He’d been shot. He wriggled his toes. Both legs still there. What the hell had happened? Tattoos, ambush, Léon, Weltmeister. He was dead. He was definitely dead.
The likelihood of being resurrected by a gay Russian hit man was infinitesimally small. But there it was, tha
