Klaus strides up to the door. His sharp nose, short, sandy hair and dark-gray, fine wool overcoat catch the eye of the woman seated in the cafe’s window table. He would be almost perfectly non-descript if not for the anger radiating from his tense gait. The way he opens the door suggests barely concealed rage, something about the sharp bend of his elbow and the quick yank of his shoulder. Lord, she thinks, I hope he doesn’t have a gun.
Klaus scans the room and pivots on his heel to mistreat the door again. With a deep exhale, she realizes that she had been holding her breath.
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