Free Sins of the Father by Christa Faust

gun, Peter made a run for it.
    He dodged between stalls, ducked under curtains, and wound up in a small, open-air food court with colorful mats laid out on the ground behind the stage for customers to sit and eat, picnic-style. He stumbled over a row of shoes that people had taken off and left on the edge of the mats, apologizing in every language he knew along the way.
    On the way out, he took a precious minute to grab a brown Tiger Beer T-shirt from a vendor near a side exit, and throw a random handful of money at the baffled, toothless old woman behind the table. He’d taken the largest one he could spot at a glance, but it was still laughably tight, and too short for his lanky torso. A good two inches of skin was visible between his belt and the lower hem.
    Still, they wouldn’t let him on a plane without a shirt, so it would have to do. Because he needed to be on a plane—any plane—and he needed to be on it five minutes ago.
    He tore out through the side entrance and dove into the first cab waiting in the taxi rank. The driver was a cocky young guy with a hustler’s smile and a kickboxer’s lean, sinewy build under his loose pink tank top.
    “Airport,” he said to the driver.
    “Luggage?” the driver asked with an arched brow.
    Instead of an answer, Peter gave the guy money, and looked out the open window at the side entrance and the market beyond. He couldn’t see Little Eddie yet, but he could see the leading edge of the commotion and chaos that meant his nemesis wasn’t far behind.
    “Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Airport, right away, sir.”
    The kid floored the gas and peeled out. As the taxi merged into the flow of erratic Phnom Penh traffic, Peter glanced back through the rear window.
    No sign of Little Eddie.
    He’d made it. For now.
    Covering his eyes with his forearm, he sank gratefully down into the seat.



Peter sat squashed into a narrow, economy-class middle seat with his knees up to his chin and his arms folded as if he were in a coffin. Which, to tell the truth, might actually have been more comfortable. But he wasn’t complaining.
    He’d had to hustle and sweet-talk and pull favors, but eventually was lucky enough to score the last available seat on this fully packed flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. And he’d done so before Little Eddie had been able to hose off the durian stink and make his way to the airport.
    Which didn’t mean Peter was free and safe—it just bought him a little bit more time. So he had to use that time as wisely as possible. Once he was on the ground in France, he would need to finagle a flight to the United States, get his ass to Washington, DC, to meet Tessa, and figure out how to get that money from Doctor Lachaux.
    But for the moment, there was nothing he could do but try to catch whatever meager shut-eye was possible in this torturously uncomfortable seat. And try not to think about anyone named Eddie.
    He wasn’t having much luck with either.
    EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND 2007
    It had seemed to him like a sure thing.
    It wasn’t his first visit to Edinburgh, but he never got used to the place. It still seemed to him like an elaborate set for some elf movie, with its curvy, cobblestone streets, quaint old buildings, and that big gloomy castle looking down on everyone like a disapproving maiden aunt. Glasgow was uglier and grittier, but felt more like a real city to Peter. It was harder to understand the accent, but easier to get lost and go unnoticed.
    As with all cities he visited, Peter naturally gravitated toward the most touristy area, which in this case was the strip of shops along Princes Street. He’d chosen a bland, mid-range franchise hotel as his home base, but when he’d booked the room, he’d been unaware of a massive citywide construction project that had just begun tearing up the street right in front of the hotel.
    Which, in retrospect, explained the deep discount he’d received.
    So he was feeling hostile and running on too