Free The Informationist: A Thriller by Taylor Stevens

dollar. He could bankroll a snowboarding trip in the Alps while she waited for babysitter Miles fucking Bradford to arrive.
    From Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhof she took the next express train bound for Zurich.
    I T WAS AN early afternoon four days later when Munroe returned to Frankfurt. The FedEx envelope from Kate was waiting, as was a fax from Burbank’s office with Miles Bradford’s flight arrival information.
    In her room Munroe sat on the edge of the bed with the envelope in her hands. She tapped it against her knuckles, stared at it, and then, unable to bring herself to open it, tossed it on the bed and went to the window to watch the river and the boats and the happy couples strolling along its manicured banks.
    Against this picturesque display, she deliberated rescinding the contract. Doing so would mean failure, but failure was always an eventuality. The nonstop success would hit a bump sooner or later, and if there was going to be a washout, this would be a good time to have it happen.
    Returning to the past was inevitable. Somehow in the last nine years she’d managed to stay upright on a tightrope stretched between brilliance and insanity, the blackness of the abyss always with her, leaving her sometimes wondering if letting go might in the end be easiest of all.
    Work had kept her sane, kept the line taut. It wasn’t fear that held her back from Burbank’s assignment or where it would lead, nor was it the contents of the envelope, symbols of the past that they were. It was uncertainty: If the line should snap, on which side of the abyss would she land? She’d planned to return when she no longer cared.
    Munroe walked to the bed, picked up the envelope, and ripped away the plastic ribbon of sealant. Maybe she’d always care, maybe there was never going to be a good time, maybe she’d be running forever. Carpe diem. She emptied the contents onto the bed and ran her fingers over three pieces of history: a Cameroonian residency card, a vaccination card, and a forged Spanish passport.

chapter 5
    O f the eight people Richard Burbank had provided personnel files on, Munroe had to agree that Miles Bradford was best suited for the job—especially when it came to the mechanics of it all. His file, thick with details of a job history that had taken him through countries as diverse and hazardous as those she’d worked, was sparse when it came to personal information. There was little provided of use in building a composite of who the man was. This she knew: Miles was in his mid-thirties and former Special Forces. He now handled high-stakes private security.
    “Mercenary” was the only word she had for a man like him, a former soldier who hired out his skills. And like the Cameroonian documents stuffed into her backpack, the word brought with it much unwanted baggage.
    Munroe arrived at Frankfurt’s airport before Bradford’s flight touched down. Blending with others who waited, she stood opposite a large plate-glass wall that separated the waiting area from the luggage collection. She spotted Bradford as soon as he entered the hall. Short-cropped hair betrayed a tinge of red, his eyes were murky green, and he was average height with above-average looks. His overcoat outlined a well-built physique, and he moved with the relaxed assurance of a man who knew where he was going and was in no hurry to get there.A small wheeled overnight bag trailed behind him, and he didn’t stop at the luggage carousel.
    Munroe left the area before he could spot her; he knew who he was looking for as well as she did. He would contact her at the hotel, and she would be away when the call came. He would wait for her—he had no choice—and that was how it should be.
    She returned his call in the late afternoon, offering a plastic apology and arranging to meet him for dinner at Gargantua in the Westend, where she’d made reservations.
    She wasn’t being deliberately cruel in setting the first meeting there, but she was deliberately