Jericho squints. “What?”

  “That’s Toor Bayani.”

  Burbank rocks back in his chair, scratching his scalp. “What the hell is the ruler of Chinasia doing here?”

  “You mean the repressive, asshole dictator of Chinasia,” Maddy retorts. She knows her world affairs—and her world despots. It was never on the school curriculum.

  Banned material. So Jessica taught her at home—the whole truth about power and corruption. No matter how ugly.

  For decades, Bayani’s regime controlled the lives of more than three billion people, from the Indus River to Oceania. Like every other world despot, he was subject to the whims of Shiwan Khan. After Khan’s defeat a year ago, Bayani reasserted his grip.

  “That’s nuts,” says Jericho. “Bayani never leaves his compound. Never.”

  “You’re right,” says Hawkeye. “Why would he risk coming out of his cocoon?”

  “To enjoy the World’s Fair?” says Burbank. Silence. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  Hawkeye stops the video on a frame of Bayani in the middle of the sidewalk. “There’s only one reason a guy like this shows up this far out of his comfort zone. He’s been summoned—by somebody he’s afraid to turn down.”

  “Only one person in that category,” says Jericho.

  “The Destroyer of Worlds,” says Maddy.

  “Hey!” Burbank interrupts. “I’m getting something.”

  Maddy looks down at the console. Needles are bouncing and new coordinates pop up on a blurry printout.

  “It’s them,” says Burbank. “Lamont and Margo.”

  Maddy grabs the arm of his chair and shakes it. “What’s going on? Did something change?”

  Burbank leans forward and checks his readings. “I can tell you three things,” he says softly. “They’re alive. They’re excited. And they’re in Paris.”

  CHAPTER 72

  IT TAKES A lot to impress Margo. But I can tell that she’s dazzled tonight. There’s no way she can hide it.

  “Wow!” she says, “I’ve never seen Paris like this!”

  Neither have I.

  Spring of 1937. That was the last time Margo and I were here. Back then, the Eiffel Tower was the tallest structure for miles. Not anymore. The restaurant we’re sitting in is perched at the top of a 110-story skyscraper. At this very moment, we’re actually looking down at the famous Eiffel spire. From here, the whole tower looks like a shiny toy.

  The dining room is a large circle, with clear glass panels up to waist level all around. Above the panels, the sides are totally open to the air. Overhead, there’s a clear glass canopy with a beautiful view of the night sky. It feels like we’re floating.

  Paris is more beautiful than ever. But it can’t hold a candle to my date, especially in what she’s wearing tonight.

  When we got back to our room after our meeting in the garden room, our evening wear was already hanging in the wardrobe. For me, a perfectly fitted tux. For Margo, a strapless white gown with lace trim. Stunning. Like something she might have picked out herself in the Triangle d’Or. Same for the high heels and beaded clutch. And the elegant diamond necklace. The ride from the villa was luxurious, too—in a vintage 1990s stretch limo. Another truly guilty pleasure.

  I lean across the table and put my hand over Margo’s. “I’ll deny I ever said this. But the Destroyer of Worlds has excellent taste.”

  Margo adjusts her lacy bodice. “Sure beats a jumpsuit.”

  Out of nowhere, a waiter appears at our table. “Madame et monsieur, bonsoir.”

  He’s slim and elegant, with his dark hair combed straight back from his Gallic face. “Welcome to Ciel. Tonight the chef is preparing for you a special tasting menu. Nine courses, with wine pairings.” His English is as smooth as his French.

  “Nine courses?” says Margo. “I’ll burst a seam.”

  The waiter smiles. “Pas du tout, Madame.” Small plates. He gives us a slight bow and backs off as a stately sommelier approaches, cradling a bottle in his hands. He presents it like a small treasure. Which it is. “Chateau Lafite Bordeaux. 1937. A spectacular vintage. Compliments of the house.”

  1937. Nice touch.

  He pours a small amount into my glass. I hold the base against the tablecloth and swirl for a good twenty seconds. No rush. A wine this mature deserves a little extra time to wake up.

  I raise the glass to my lips and take a small sip, letting it roll around my tongue before I swallow. My eyes go wide. I look at Margo. “He’s right. It’s fantastic.”

  The sommelier pours for both of us and leaves the bottle on the table. Margo picks up her glass and sniffs. “You don’t think she’d try to poison us, do you?”

  “We’re perfectly safe.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I never told you? It’s an aftereffect of cryogenic suspension. The chemicals that kept us alive for all those years included some serious antitoxins.” I lift my glass for a little pronouncement. “We are fully and permanently inoculated against ingested poison.”

  “Well, then,” Margo clinks her glass against mine, “here’s to one less way to die.” She takes a sip then closes her eyes in bliss. “Oh, Lamont. That’s incredible.”

  The wine warms and relaxes me. I almost forget that we’re here as the guests of the most despicable human being on the planet. Obviously, she has her reasons for keeping us alive for at least a little while longer. Which buys me some time to figure out our next move. But for right now, I’m trying to just sit back and savor the company of my beautiful wife. As long as we’re together, everything feels right. Always has.

  Every table in the room is full. Our fellow diners are spaced around the perimeter—far enough apart that I can’t hear conversations, just accents. From where I’m sitting, I’m picking up French, Spanish, Russian, maybe Greek.

  Two tables away, a man with a lined face and upswept silver hair shares a table with a woman in a spectacular blue dress. She looks young enough to be his daughter. If it weren’t for Margo, she’d be the most beautiful woman in the room. Margo snaps her fingers in front of my face. Caught me looking.

  “Lamont! Eyes front. What’s the plan? Are we actually going back to the villa tonight? I’m telling you right now, there’s no way I’m letting you meet with that killer on your own. She’s a man-eater. Among other things.”

  Waiters are circulating through the room, serving succulent-looking morsels on elegant plates and small platters. My stomach is growling. “I seriously doubt that she’s still there. I think she wanted us out of the house so that she could sneak off.”

  “So we’re just letting her go?”

  “She confirmed that she has the weapon. With any luck, she’ll lead us right to it.”

  Margo takes another sip of her wine. “Always the optimist, Lamont.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl in blue excuse herself and slide out of her chair. Her companion leans back from the table, a white napkin resting on his lap. His eyes flick our way. His right hand slides across his thigh.

  I jump up and grab Margo’s arm.

  “Gun!”

  CHAPTER 73

  MARGO HITS THE floor hard. I flip our table onto its side and pull her behind it. Bullet holes explode through the wood. Across the room, a bottle shatters in the sommelier’s hands. He flies backward, a hole in his belly. Two waiters topple behind Margo, blood spraying from their necks. From under another table, two women start shrieking.

  The shooter is on his feet now, firing from the hip. Machine pistol. Long clip. How many more rounds. Thirty? Forty? He steps forward. I lunge for him. The next shots strike the ceiling. Glass rains down in thick pebbles. I hit him in the midsection and feel the air go out of him. He staggers back, trying to grab me for balance. The gun comes loose. I knock it away. He goes for my neck. I shove my hands up under his armpits and push. He’s two hundred pounds, easy, but I’m so amped he might as well be a sack of groceries.

  I force him back to the edge of the room. He tries to get traction, but his soles are smooth and I’ve got momentum on my side. With one final push, I heave him over the glass panel and into the air. He lets out one quick scream—all he has time for. A second later, he hits the top of the Eiffel spire and impales himself on an antenna, twitching like a bug on a pin.

  “Lamont!” Margo crawls from behind the table. Her white dress is splattered with blood. Her hair and face, too. I run over and yank her up onto her feet. I scan the room for other threats as we run toward the elevator.

  “Go! Don’t look! Just go!”

  On the other side of the lobby, the door to the ladies’ room swings open. The girl in the blue dress steps out and stops short. Her hand whips out from behind her back.

  She points a gun at Margo’s face.

  I reach for the girl’s arm.

  Too late!

  Margo’s already knocked her out cold.

  CHAPTER 74

  WE’RE HALFWAY ACROSS the Pont d’lena before we see that nobody’s chasing us. At least not on foot. I look left and right over the Seine, searching for drones in the sky. Nothing but stars.

  Behind us, we can hear police sirens heading for the crime scene. My chest is heaving from the run. I stop and sit Margo down on a low wall. She’s panting, too. And barefoot. She kicked off her heels the second we got out of the elevator. Under the light of a street lamp, I can see the streaks of red on her cheeks and forehead. Her white dress is splotched with dark stains. I run my hands over her back and sides.

  “Are you sure you’re not hit? No grazes? That’s a ton of blood.”

  She shakes her head. “Everybody’s but mine.”

  We stand up and start walking. I hold Margo close, hiding the gore as we head for the Trocadéro district on the other side of the river. As we move along the walkway, we pass tourists and locals out for late-night strolls. Just ahead, a college-age kid sets his backpack against the wall and points a small camera toward the river. As we pass, I dip down and lift a plastic water bottle from his backpack sleeve.

  On the other side of the bridge, we find an empty bench tucked under a tree in front of a huge park. Margo cups her hands as I pour water into her palms. Using her fingers, she scrubs the blood from her face, leaving light pink smudges on her pale skin. I’ve got a few scrapes of my own, but nothing major. I wet my hands and wipe the blood from her hair. I probe deep into her scalp until my fingers feel something hard.

  I give a quick tug. Margo squirms and grabs my hand.

  “What the hell, Lamont! Are you operating on my skull?”

  I hold up a tiny electronic device encased in an adhesive patch, with a few blond hairs attached. “I need your biosensor.”

  “For what?”

  “For this.” I drop the sensor onto the ground and crush it with my heel. “Bang. You’re dead.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s the sign.”

  “What sign?”

  “If one of our hearts stops, Burbank gets a message to Tapper, and Tapper comes to extract the survivor. That’s how we set it up. It’s crude, but it’s clear.”

  Margo rubs her head. “Good God, Lamont. Any cruder and we’d be using smoke signals.”

  I hear a bell jangle. I whip around to see a young boy on a bike heading straight for me. He’s scrawny, no more than ten. He skids to a stop two inches from my knee. I slam my hands down on his handlebar. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

  He just looks at me. Doesn’t say a thing. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a folded note. Then he jerks the bike out of my grip, turns around, and rides away, standing on the pedals to build up speed. Margo calls after him. “Attendre! Arrêt!” But he doesn’t even look back.

  I open the note. It’s in English. I recognize the penmanship.

  My dear Lamont—

  No need to investigate what happened this evening. It was me. I sent the assassins. Your wife was the target, not you. She’s in the way, Lamont. You must know that.

  I hand the note to Margo. She reads it, then tears it up.

  “Do me a favor,” she says. “Try to be a little less irresistible.”

  CHAPTER 75

  “THAT’S IT. GOOD boy!”

  Maddy averts her eyes while Bando does his business at the edge of a flower bed—his favorite spot. The routine has been set since the family moved into the mansion a year ago. Jessica handles the morning walk. Maddy takes the after-dinner shift. The sun is already setting over the front of the building, casting long shadows over the garden.

  Bando does a cursory cover-up of his mess with his back paws, then takes off to chase a squirrel around the base of a tree. Maddy smiles. Thanks to Dache, she could be that squirrel.

  She hasn’t seen her teacher in three days—not since she threw the fireball at him. If that was really him. Now that she could really use his help in finding a killer, he’s nowhere to be found. Is he trying to teach her a lesson? Maybe he’s done with her for good. Considering her past attitude, Maddy realizes that she really couldn’t blame him.

  She sits on the garden wall while Bando takes a few more laps around the garden, then claps her hands to call him back. “Let’s go, Bando!” As they head for the rear entrance, she gives him a vigorous scratch behind the ears. Then she looks up to see Jessica standing in the doorway.

  Something in her grandmother’s expression makes Maddy tremble. When she reaches the back entrance, Jessica wraps her arms around her.

  “Grandma. What is it?” She feels Jessica’s grip tighten around her shoulders.

  “Go upstairs,” she says. “It’s Margo.”

  CHAPTER 76

  FRANTIC, MADDY RUNS up the back staircase to the third floor. She bursts into the tiny comms room. “What happened! What went wrong?”

  The whole team is there. Hawkeye and Jericho step back to give her room. Burbank shrinks in his chair as Maddy steps up and pounds her fist on the console. She scans the screens and readouts. The biosensors! Lamont’s needle is bouncing in the green zone. Margo’s indicator is all the way to the left, in the black. Not moving.

  Maddy feels Jericho beside her. “They were in Paris,” he says. “About eleven p.m. their time. Both pulses shot into the red for a few minutes. Then hers just stopped.”

  “It’s a malfunction!” says Maddy, kicking the base of the console. “Goddamn this second-hand patchwork piece of shit!”

  “The sensor leads are pretty simple,” says Burbank softly. “On or off.”

  Maddy turns on Hawkeye. “Find another plane! Do it! I need to get there!” Hawkeye doesn’t move. Maddy pounds her fists against his chest. “Now! I mean it!” Hawkeye absorbs the blows without blinking, then grabs her wrists.

  “Maddy, stop! Even if I could find another plane, there’s nobody to fly it. Tapper’s the only jet pilot we’ve got. We’re trying to reach him right now.”

  Maddy’s mind is reeling. Planes. Wings. Flight.

  Wait! She can fly!

  Who needs a jet? She can shape-shift into a bird right now and launch herself across the Atlantic. She spins the idea out in her head for a few seconds, then comes back to reality. Three thousand miles over open water? She wouldn’t make it. She’s not that strong. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Suddenly, the shortwave speaker crackles. A burst of static. Then, a male voice, garbled and faint. Maddy whips around. “Who the hell is that?” The voice starts to cut through—stronger, but incomprehensible.

  Maddy leans in. “What is that? Norwegian?”

  Hawkeye reaches across Burbank and grabs the microphone. “No,” he says. “Swedish.” Burbank slides over and adjusts a dial on the radio panel. A second later, the static clears. The Swedish voice is gone.

  “Hello. New York base. Anybody there?” It’s Tapper.

  “Tapper! Hawkeye here. Extraction Point Echo. Repeat. Extraction Point Echo. Code Four. Do you copy?”

  “Extraction point Echo. Copy.” Then a long pause. “Code Four? Confirm.”

  Hawkeye repeats it, his head drooping. “Code four. Confirmed.”

  “Dammit!” says Tapper. “How did…?” His voice dissolves in another flood of static. Burbank twists the radio dial again but it doesn’t help. A second later, the line cuts off. Hawkeye puts the microphone down.

  “He got the message,” he says. “He’ll get it done.”

  Maddy grabs his arm. “Extraction point? What extraction point? What the hell is Code Four? Why are you talking like goddamn spies?”

  Hawkeye sets his jaw and looks straight at her. “Because that’s what we are,” he says. “We can’t use the same airfield they came in on. It’s not safe. The pickup is at a spot Lamont knows—just across the French border, in Belgium. Remote and secure. At least it should be. Nobody’s used it for a long time.”

  Maddy is burning with anger. First Moe. Then Deva. And now Margo? Not possible. Not after all that’s happened, after all they’ve been through together. “Don’t worry,” says Hawkeye, “Tapper will bring her home. Dead or alive, nobody gets left behind. That’s the code.”

  On the word dead, Maddy falls back against the wall and sinks to the floor, head in her hands. She starts sobbing. The room goes quiet for what feels like forever. When Maddy lifts her head, all three men are gone. But her grandmother is here.

  Maddy feels Jessica’s arm around her shoulder. Warm. Strong. Steady.

  Like when it was just the two of them.

  CHAPTER 77

  The Western Front, Belgium / 1918

  DEATH IS EVERYWHERE. By now, he’s numb to it.

  The lieutenant shifts his boots under six inches of muddy water and human waste. The private crouching next to him in the filthy trench is a green replacement—assigned to the platoon just that morning. Now it’s midnight, and in this winding seventy-foot stretch of the Allied forward line, they’re the only two left alive.

  The lieutenant breathes through his mouth. It doesn’t help. The smell of dead bodies rises like an invisible fog. Most of the platoon is in bloody pieces, hardly recognizable as human. He’s got a five-inch shrapnel gash in his leg from the last explosion. He barely feels it.