Page 58 of Circle of Death
CHAPTER 69
THE STAIRCASE IS a massive granite spiral with a wrought iron balustrade. When we reach the ground floor, I hear birds chirping. We walk through a massive reception hall, the size of a medieval throne room. Margo points straight ahead. “There.” At the far end, a set of French doors opens onto what looks like an atrium. La Chambre Jardin.
On the way, I look around for guards, housekeepers, butlers. But the place looks totally empty. I have a sick feeling about this. We flew here to find the Destroyer. Instead, he found us. And now we’re meeting on his terms. Not good.
The sunlight hits my face as we walk into the atrium. The walls and ceiling are all glass—thick panes connected by seams of brass. The room is filled with bright flowers and leafy plants in terra cotta planters. In the center of the room is a sitting area with a large wicker sofa and two high-backed wicker chairs. The air feels thick and cool. It smells like jasmine.
I wipe the condensation off one of the glass panels with my sleeve and look outside. The setting is gorgeous—manicured lawns and long stone walls. At the top of a small knoll, I can see an ornamental railing surrounding a bunch of very old headstones.
Margo steps up beside me and looks out. “Maybe he’s got a couple of plots picked out for us.”
“Bonjour!” A woman’s voice. Then the click of heels on the tile floor. “I trust your medication has worn off.”
Margo and I both turn as she approaches—a slender Eurasian woman in an elegant silk suit and stylish high heels. Very attractive. Stunning, actually.
Why is she here? To prep us for our meeting? She seems way too refined to be a mere assistant. Maybe head of security or chief of staff. Maybe a pretty assassin.
“Good sleep, I trust?” she asks. Cantonese accent, mixed with Maghrebi and a touch of French.
“How did we get here?” I shoot right back.
The woman smiles. “In total comfort, I assure you. Much better than sweltering on that miserable train for two hours.”
She takes a step closer. I’m waiting for her to introduce herself, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, staring at me. Suddenly, I feel my chest tighten, like there’s a fist closing around my heart. My mind flashes to the video we watched with Diaz. That fleeting image of the figure in the desert. The dark robe. The tall, slim profile…
I inch closer to Margo, ready to push her behind me. I gather my strength for whatever happens next.
I realize in that moment that the Destroyer isn’t coming.
She’s already here.
CHAPTER 70
“BLACK IS NOT my favorite color,” she says. “But it works in the desert.”
I realize she knows what I’m thinking—the exact scene I’m picturing, the image I used to ID her. She bends to pluck an orchid from one of the pots. Sniffs it. Crushes it between her fingers.
“Destroyer of Worlds.Yes. I know that’s what they call me.” Her smooth brow wrinkles. “It sounds so harsh in English.”
I glance over at Margo. I can tell that she’s trying not to react. Or overreact. “If it’s you,” she says, “you’ve more than earned the title.”
The Destroyer folds her long body into one of the wicker chairs and crosses her legs. She gestures toward the sofa. I sit down next to Margo, our hips touching, ready for anything. The Destroyer gets right to the point.
“I know how you found me,” she says. “I know the names of the informants.”
A shiver passes through me. I taste bile in my throat. What am I waiting for? I should blast this bitch through the wall before she can kill anybody else, including us. The world would instantly be a better place. I feel my fists clenching, my blood rising. I plant my feet solidly on the floor and center myself, ready to move. She’s just sitting there, brushing a wrinkle out of her suit.
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Mr. Cranston. Your powers are considerably diminished at the moment. Aftereffects of the sedative.”
She’s right. I can sense it. I’m trying, but I can’t muster the energy.
“If you know what I’m thinking,” I ask, “why bother with a conversation?”
“Conversations come in many forms, Mr. Cranston. For example, I can read your mind, but you can’t read mine.” She flicks her eyes toward Margo. “And you can’t control me, Ms. Lane. You can stop trying.”
I lean forward. “So why are we here? Just so you can watch us die in person? Instead of sending your drones?”
“Don’t be crude, Mr. Cranston. I’m a businesswoman.”
