The bus station was a cathedral of transience, smelling of diesel fumes, cheap perfume, and despair. Karl moved through it like a draft, unseen. He'd ditched the duffel bag in a dumpster miles back. Everything he now owned was on his body or in the pockets of a faded navy windbreaker he'd taken from a charity bin. The SIG was a cold, hard weight against the small of his back.
He didn't look at the departure boards. He already knew. He'd memorized the schedule days ago, a contingency plan he'd never wanted to use. He bought a ticket for a regional coach heading south with cash from a thin roll of bills, not meeting the ticket agent's eyes. "One way," he'd said, his voice a low, unremarkable gravel.
He chose a seat in the middle of the bus, away from the windows and the toilet. It was occupied by the human flotsam of early morning travel: students with headphones, weary-looking women with too many shopping bags, a man who smelled vaguely of sawdust. Karl became one of them. He slumped his shoulders, let his head loll slightly against the window as if dozing. His eyes, hidden behind a pair of non-prescription glasses with plain lenses, remained open, reflecting the passing industrial outskirts in their flat, watchful gaze.
He was not Karl here. He was a man named Paul Renshaw, a name plucked from a gravestone he'd seen once in Ohio. Paul Renshaw had a social security number, a date of birth, and a history that would withstand a casual check. It was one of several identities, a skin he could slip into. The Ghost's real armor wasn't Kevlar; it was paperwork.
The bus groaned out of the terminal, joining the river of traffic on the highway. With every mile that unspooled behind them, Karl felt the terrible, screaming tension in his neck and shoulders begin to loosen, increment by infinitesimal increment. They didn't know where he was. They didn't know which river stone he'd slipped under.
Four hours later, the bus hissed to a stop in a town that was little more than a wide spot in the road, a dot on the map between larger cities. He disembarked, his movements slow and unhurried, just a tired traveler. The air here was different—drier, carrying the scent of pine and distant earth.
He walked for twenty minutes, leaving the tiny bus depot behind, until he found what he was looking for: a no-tell motel called The Spruce Haven. It was a single-story L-shaped building of peeling pink paint, its vacancy sign flickering erratically.
The man behind the bulletproof glass didn't look up from his small television. Karl slid cash—exact change for two nights—through the metal tray. "Name?" the man grunted.
"Renshaw," Karl said, his voice softer, higher than his own.
A key, attached to a large, heavy green diamond of plastic, was pushed back through the slot. No ID. No questions. Room 11.
The room was exactly what he paid for: stale air, thin floral curtains, a bedspread with a pattern that hid a universe of stains, the pervasive smell of bleach trying and failing to mask something darker. It was perfect.
He locked the door, engaged the flimsy chain, and pushed a straight-backed chair under the doorknob. It was a pathetic barricade, but it would make noise. Noise was warning.
Then, and only then, did he allow himself to stop.
He stood in the center of the worn carpet and took his first full breath in what felt like days. The silence was different here. It wasn't the peaceful silence of his kitchen. It was the hollow, temporary silence of a waystation. But it was his.
He methodically swept the room for bugs, a practiced, silent dance. He found nothing. He placed his pistol on the nightstand, within easy reach.
He walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, looking at the stranger in the mirror. Paul Renshaw looked tired, ordinary, anonymous. Karl Vorlender, the man with a multi-million dollar price on his head, was nowhere to be seen.
He returned to the main room, drew the curtains closed, and sat on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned in protest. Outside, a truck rumbled past.
He was safe. For now. The hunt continued, but the hounds had lost the scent. The Ghost had found another shadow to inhabit. The only task that remained was to wait, to rest, and to plan his next move in the endless, bloody game of staying alive.