My absolutely phenomenal editor over at Aethon Books, Rob Salerno, asked me why Ethan insists on driving all across Europe, especially when planes and trains are so readily available, and frequently faster.
In writing my response to him, I thought you readers might also appreciate a little insight into the man.
Note, this question came about during the editing of Book 2: The Geneva Incident, and there are slight references (no spoilers) to events in that book.
It’s not the first time someone has questioned my refusal to board a plane.
But it’s the first time my author’s editor has pointed out how much faster it would be to cross Europe by rail or air than by the endless kilometers of asphalt I insist on covering behind the wheel.
My answer is simple, though the reasons are not.
I trust what I can control. Nothing more.
A commercial flight means security checkpoints. Facial recognition. Biometric scans. ID verification. A digital trail as clear as footprints in fresh snow. In a world where Division 8 has eyes everywhere—airport security systems, train station cameras, border control databases—I might as well paint a target on my back and send up a flare.
A car’s cabin is my mobile safe house. No unexpected passengers. No unknown variables. No surveillance I haven’t already swept for and neutralized. Diplomatic plates mean border crossings are most often perfunctory at best. Cursory glances from guards who see nothing but another bureaucrat on official business.
My loadout is meticulously customized—my modified Glock 19, SilencerCo Osprey 9 suppressor, TOPS knife, and other tactical gear. Driving allows me to keep my full equipment suite with me at all times, ready for immediate deployment.
Try explaining that loadout to airport security.
The FROST serum transport made this painfully obvious. A temperature-controlled biological agent with a precise stability window wouldn’t have made it through customs without questions I couldn’t afford to answer.
Adaptability keeps me alive. Always has.
When the jackknifed truck blocked the Alpine pass, I simply downshifted, checked my mental map, and diverted onto a logging road that didn’t appear on GPS. The switchbacks were treacherous, loose gravel skittering beneath the tires, but I maintained control.
A train would have stopped. A plane would have diverted to another airport, stranding me kilometers from my objective.
Behind the wheel, I exist in a state of perpetual awareness. Eyes scanning mirrors. Cataloging vehicles that appear more than once. Noting the unmarked van that hangs back three cars too long. Identifying choke points. Planning escape routes. My mind works constantly, calculating angles, distances, timing.
Hargrove calls me “Nomad” for a reason. Twenty-five years of constant motion has shaped me. I feel most myself with my hands at ten and two, the road unwinding before me like a threat assessment in real time.
The anonymity is essential. European trains demand paperwork. Airlines require identification that can be cross-referenced. Security cameras track faces. Pattern recognition software flags anomalies.
In traffic, I’m just another sedan. Another suit. Invisible by design.
And after Division 8’s manipulation—after twenty-five years of lies and betrayal—surrendering control isn’t an option. Being trapped in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet with no escape route isn’t just tactically unsound. It violates everything my survival instincts demand.
The two-day drive from Berlin to Madrid isn’t inefficiency.
It’s survival.
I understand the question. I recognize the logic behind it. But logic hasn’t kept me alive for a quarter century in a profession where retirement usually comes in the form of a body bag.
Control has.
Behind the wheel, I remain the architect of my own destiny. The moment I surrender that control is the moment I become vulnerable.
And vulnerability, in my world, is just another word for dead.