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window again. It took a while before she registered what she hadn't been seeing:
    The big white van across the street from their apartment wasn't there.
    Each night, whenever she had a moment alone, she had glanced out the window to find the van sitting across the street from their flat, no doubt populated by the eyes Carson had warned her about. But tonight, the stretch of cobbled street by the water was empty.
    "Mr. Van Der Luyden, is it true that the tracking system your company has developed is on the market, despite warnings from security agencies of the possible threat it poses in the wrong hands?"
    Heart thudding, Peyton pulled on her boots and a coat, in such a hurry that she left the TV on as she fled the flat.
    Down the stairs she tiptoed, her heart in her mouth, her passport in her pocket. Carson kept the cash but that was a small thing; before Roi had found her, she had her means of making a living. Her mouth pursed in distaste as she pushed the thought away.
    At the door she took a steadying breath and stepped outside.
    The night was not as cold as she expected; there was a muggy stillness in the air that nearly approached warmth. A glance at the street confirmed it was still empty. There was a small sandwich shop, shuttered for the night. Even the bike stands were empty. She pushed her head down and, determined, walked down the street.
    She walked fast, but did not run, affecting the hurrying tread of a typical city dweller eager to get home. She turned a corner and sped on, glad for the full dark, eager to get ahead.
    At the bridge towards Haarlemmerstraat she stopped to get her bearings. Where should she head next?
    The train! Central train station. Tickets to Brussels, and from there, London.
    Did trains leave at this time of night? If not, where could she spend the night—and was it enough time for her to leave without getting caught?
    She looked up, found the direction she ought to go, and pushed off towards Central Station, when a rough and callused hand suddenly clamped over her face. A scream tore from her throat but lodged against the suffocating hand against her mouth and nose; she struggled, not only to get away from the arms hugging her, but to breathe too. She tried to kick and flail but the attacker held on. Her attacker pushed against her, then turned and pinned her against the wall.
    "Stop struggling, or I'll stick you," said a thin and reedy male voice. "Same stuff from Singapore. And you wouldn't want to fall unconscious here, would you?" Despite her terror, she mastered her impulse to fight and let her body go limp. "There's a girl."
    "Mmm," he sniffed her hair, pressing heavily from behind. "Gustave did say to keep you in line, if you try'n 'scape." He transferred something from the hand embracing her to the one clamped against her mouth. After a second, there was a sharp prick on her neck. His arm pinned hers against her body while the free hand roamed over her breasts. "Yeah, that's right luv; that's a knife." The roaming hand turned insistent. "Don't scream now, pet—this'll be quick—"
    Peyton gritted her teeth. She couldn't move her head too far forward without sticking her throat against the knife, but from this angle, a crash to the nose would still hurt enough to surprise him. She shut her eyes and braced herself for the pain when there was a sudden cry of "Yopp!" from behind. The arm pinning her sprang away from her body so forcefully she pushed off the wall.
    She twisted under and away from the man's knife-wielding hand and caught her breath. Carson was twisting the man's—a tall white man with long blonde dreads—arm against his back. There was a split second where she registered the frightening expression on Carson's face, when the man ducked and slash of silver arced through the evening air.
    "Knife!" she yelled, and lunged to catch the man's elbow. He pulled and jerked against her—he was surprisingly strong, despite one arm twisted behind him and a 120-pound redhead