Page 30 of Circle of Death
If I had to testify in court, I’d say that the person of interest was tall and thin. Beyond that, I’d be guessing.
“Who the hell is that?” asks Jericho. Never afraid to speak up.
“We never saw this guy before,” adds Moe, drafting off Jericho’s nerve.
Diaz ignores them both.
“You think that’s the Destroyer of Worlds?” I ask.
“That’s my opinion,” says Diaz. “It’s the only image we have.”
I lean in toward the screen. “So this one person runs the Command? He’s orchestrating all this insanity?”
Diaz nods. “The Destroyer is stirring the pot to prepare for something bigger. We believe that he’s close to perfecting a superweapon, capable of wiping out entire populations in seconds.” He leans toward me. “And we have to find it before Toor Bayani does.”
I’m trying not to show it, but this is worse than I thought. Toor Bayani rules Chinasia—the forced union of China, Japan, and the entire Asian subcontinent under one totalitarian regime. Bayani is a brutal despot, and a bitter rival to his counterparts in Europe and the West. Diaz is content to run one hemisphere. Bayani wants to run the whole world. With a mega-weapon in his hands, he’d be a big step closer.
“What’s the technology?” I ask. “Who’s working on it? Where’s the factory?”
“If I knew any of that,” says Diaz, “I wouldn’t need you.” He looks at me as if we’re the only two people in this uncomfortably stuffy room. “So. Are you with me, Mr. Cranston? Will you help?”
It would be hard to say no. But before I answer, I feel the need to do one thing.
Suddenly, the guards are jumping toward the president, guns out. Can’t blame them. Because I’m now sitting on his shoulder, having shape-shifted into a chattering rhesus monkey.
“Well,” Moe chuckles, “you wanted a demo, right?”
As the guards grab for me, I jump to Jericho, clinging to his thick arm like it’s a tree branch. Jericho elbows the guards aside until he’s face-to-face with Diaz.
“We’re in,” he says. “All of us. Whatever it takes.”
Exactly what I would have said. If monkeys could talk.
CHAPTER 32
Singpa, Bangladesh / Midnight
THE MOON IS obscured behind heavy clouds. The embers of cooking fires are the only bright spots in the darkness. The tiny jungle settlement is swollen with refugees, huddled in makeshift shelters.
The young mother, just seventeen, is exhausted after a twelve-hour trek with her baby boy, just two months old. Lines on maps are meaningless to her. All she knows is that her village on the other side of the river is gone, the men and boys taken. She feels lucky to find shelter here in the middle of the rain forest.
While the mother suckles her baby, the old woman whose tiny tent they’re sharing sits smoking in the corner. They’ll be safe here, the old woman says. No roads.
Boats are the only way in. No army will find them. Not even Toor Bayani’s.
The air outside is alive with the clicks and chirps of insects. As the mother shifts her baby to the other breast, she hears the buzzing intensify, as if some huge hive had suddenly been stirred.
The old woman steps forward and parts the tent flap. There’s a loud zipping sound and the back of the tent is splattered with blood. The woman drops with a heavy thud, her head split open like a melon. The teenage mother crawls to the opening, clutching her baby to her chest. The buzzing is louder now. She sees red lights coming through the darkness, weaving through the trees.
Suddenly, the village is raked by a stream of bullets. Tents and huts are demolished as if sliced by a scythe. Screams. Panic. The mother pulls her baby tight and starts to run. But now the whole village is surrounded by flames. And the flying machines with the red eyes are everywhere. No escape. There is only one small mercy for the young mother. She doesn’t see her son die.
She dies first.
CHAPTER 33
I CAN FEEL my eyes glazing over as I watch the fire crackling in the parlor fireplace. The hundred-year-old Scotch is having its effect. Numbing. Pleasant. Then I hear Dache shout from the other side of the room. “Park Place! Pay up!” I turn to see Jericho handing over a thick stack of pastel-colored play money.
I hate board games. Always have. Too much luck, not enough logic.
