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as Jake told him, it was time for the man to buy his own place. Regardless, the tenant had made a positive impact on Jake’s old place, stereotypically transforming bland white walls to various shades of aqua marine, yellows and reds. He would come back for the dozens of plants, so Jake would have to try to keep them alive while he did the same for himself.
    The first full day in his old place Jake went by taxi to a local bike shop and purchased a high-end bicycle—a touring bike for eventual rides in the country. Franz had made sure his mountain bike with front and rear suspension had been shipped to his apartment from Vienna. But Jake knew he’d have to wait to go off-road for a while. There was no way his knee could handle that pounding.
    For the rehab of his left knee and his overall musculature, he propped the road bike onto a stationary wheel, riding at least a dozen kilometers a day and building up to thirty kilometers this morning. While he rode the stationary bike, he read through the digital files Franz Martini provided him of the investigation of Anna’s murder to date, finding no great clue as to who wanted him dead. Disturbing, yes, but not entirely unexpected. The killers were professionals. Their only flaw had been not finishing the job. Not killing Jake. One of the shooters had gotten away, but Jake wasn’t overly concerned with finding him, unless that man could lead Jake to the person who had ordered the hit. Strangely enough, Jake didn’t harbor too much animosity toward a hired shooter. He was only doing a job which he or she was uniquely qualified to perform.
    If Jake was smart he’d simply lay low until he could solve this case, a case which he was nearly his own client. Sure Franz gave him a retainer of sorts with the Glock, which he carried night and day, and which even hung from a holster strapped to the handlebars of his bike while he rode, but Franz was only trying to make his continued stay in Austria legal. He needed to continue to work to maintain his visa there. He had friends in high places within the Austrian government, yet he was sure that those friendships might be somewhat strained following a few shootings in the past couple of years. Jake also knew that Franz was probably the reason he still had a carry permit in Austria—not that not having one would deter Jake anyway—without a weapon he wasn’t only a sitting duck, he was a dead one.
    But Jake didn’t depend only on the kindness of Franz for his safety. He’d gone to his local bank branch and retrieved a few items from his safe deposit box, including one of his stashed handguns—a Beretta PX4 Storm also in .40 cal, with two extra magazines. No need to keep two different calibers. He also picked up a few passports, two from the U.S., one from Canada, and one each from Germany and Austria. All with different identities and photographs. Old habits.
    His only ventures other than the bike shop, the bank, and the grocery store was spending a few hours shooting his two handguns at an indoor range. Like riding the bike, he hadn’t lost his skill at punching holes in paper. He did have to modify his stance somewhat with the new knee.
    Riding the stationary bike, he had plenty of time to think about his life—what he had and what he had lost. Was he the man he always thought he would become? If so, he wasn’t sure he liked himself too much right now. At this time, forgiveness was not a huge part of his vocabulary.
    Jake finished his bike ride and slowly dismounted, his legs tired and nearly collapsing beneath him as he stood for a moment to catch his balance on his special bike shoes. He’d given up the cane for the past couple of days and hopefully wouldn’t need it again. Although used with his left hand to take pressure from his left knee, he felt vulnerable with the cane and not as quick to pull his gun if needed.
    He lowered himself into a leather chair and glanced at his 24-inch LCD monitor, which picked up multiple