The interior of Klaus's sedan smelled like old leather, gunpowder, and the same cloyingly sweet clove cigarettes he had been smoking at the station. Outside, the rain was a torrential downpour, blurring the world into a smear of grey and black.
Ren sat in the backseat, his chest heaving, his hands still trembling so hard he had to sit on them to make them stop. Beside him, Jace was slumped against the door, his face a roadmap of bruises, clutching the stolen revolver like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
"Don't get blood on the upholstery," Klaus muttered, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "It's hard to get out, and I'm planning on selling this car once we hit the border."
"The border?" Ren's voice was a whisper. "Klaus, my father... he said—"
"I heard what he said," Klaus interrupted, his voice like grinding gravel. "The police scanner is already lighting up. Arthur Laurent didn't just call the cops, kid. He called the 'Cleaners.' He put a 5-million-euro bounty on the 'recovery' of his son and the 'disposal' of the thief."
Jace let out a jagged, painful laugh. "Five million? Damn, Ren. I knew you were expensive, but I didn't know I was worth a death sentence."
"It's not funny, Jace!" Ren turned to him, his eyes stinging with fresh tears. "He's going to kill you. He'll pay anyone to do it."
"He has to find us first," Jace rasped, reaching out with his good hand to squeeze Ren's knee. His fingers were cold, but his grip was steady. "We've got the Ghost of Berlin driving us, right?"
Klaus didn't smile. He took a sharp turn, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt. "The Ghost of Berlin isn't a charity, Jace. Five million euros is enough to make a saint turn into a demon. Every low-life from here to Hamburg is looking for a black sedan and a boy who looks like a piano prodigy."
Ren looked at Klaus's profile in the dim light of the dashboard. The man's face was unreadable. Was he taking them to a safe house, or was he just driving them to the highest bidder?
"Why are you helping us then?" Ren asked, his voice growing cold. "Five million is a lot of money, Klaus. Why not just hand us over?"
Klaus slowed the car down as they approached a flickering neon sign for a roadside motel—the 'Silver Swan.' It looked like the kind of place where people went to disappear or die.
"Because Jace's father owed me a life," Klaus said, pulling the car into a dark corner of the lot, far from the streetlights. "And because I hate Arthur Laurent more than I love money. But don't mistake my spite for kindness. You have exactly six hours before my protection expires."
He turned off the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic thump-thump of the rain on the roof.
"Get out," Klaus commanded. "Room 14. There's a medical kit and a change of clothes. If you stay in those silks, you might as well wear a neon sign that says 'Shoot Me.'"
Ren helped Jace out of the car, half-carrying him toward the rusted door of Room 14. Inside, the room was bleak—a flickering lightbulb, a stained carpet, and the smell of mildew. But it was a sanctuary.
Ren stripped off his torn, blood-stained shirt, throwing it into the trash. He felt naked without the weight of his father's expectations, but for the first time, he felt real. He opened the medical kit and began to clean the gash on Jace's forehead.
"You're getting good at this," Jace whispered, his eyes fluttering closed as Ren pressed a cool cloth to his skin.
"I'm learning," Ren said. He looked at the heavy brass keys he had used to hit his father. They were sitting on the nightstand, next to the revolver.
Suddenly, Jace's eyes snapped open. He grabbed Ren's wrist. "Did you hear that?"
Ren froze.
From the parking lot outside, the sound of a heavy engine idling drifted through the thin walls. Not Klaus's sedan. Something heavier. Something professional.
Then, a soft click echoed from the front door. The sound of a keycard being bypassed.
Ren's heart stopped. Klaus had the only other key.
The door creaked open an inch. A silhouette stood there—not Klaus. It was a woman in a tactical jacket, a suppressed pistol held low at her side. She didn't look like a kidnapper. She looked like a professional hunter.
She looked at Ren, then at Jace, and then at the 5-million-euro bounty staring back at her.
"Ren Laurent?" she asked, her voice as cold as the rain. "Your father wants you home. The drummer, however... he's optional."
Jace lunged for the revolver on the nightstand, but the woman was faster. She kicked the table over, sending the gun skidding across the floor.
"Don't make this messy," she said, raising her weapon. "I get paid the same whether he's breathing or not."
Ren stepped in front of Jace, spreading his arms wide, his chest bared to the cold barrel of the gun. "If you kill him, you'll have to kill me. And my father won't pay a cent for a corpse."
The woman paused, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
Then, the window behind her shattered.