A squad of men in dark uniforms jump out of the vehicles, guns in their hands. But they don’t move toward the house. They just scan the area and wait. Two seconds later, we see what they’re waiting for.

  A fourth vehicle—an even heavier one—swoops up the driveway and slides into the empty space. A couple of the gunmen fall back to guard the new arrival’s rear door.

  Jericho turns for the hallway. “I’ll get the shotgun!”

  “Wait! Hold on.” My eyes are fixed on the screen. “Nobody move. I’m going down alone.” I nod to Burbank as I back out of the room. “No matter what happens, record everything.”

  If I’m about to get shot or dismembered, at least they’ll have something to remember me by.

  CHAPTER 30

  AS SOON AS I open the door, I’m confronted by a wall of armed men. Then the wall parts, and I’m staring at a face I never expected to see in person. I do my best not to appear stunned. But I am.

  The man standing in front of me is Lucian Diaz, president of the Americas, now the most powerful politician in the Western Hemisphere. What the hell does he want with me?

  Before I can ask, two of the bodyguards pull my arms out to my sides and pat me down, shoulders to ankles, under and over my robe. Diaz stands politely at the threshold, smoothing his bespoke suit. When the guards finish, they step to the side.

  “I apologize for the indignity, Mr. Cranston,” says Diaz. “May I come in?”

  For most citizens, a visit from Lucian Diaz would be the next best thing to having Abraham Lincoln himself show up on your doorstep. But I have an instinctive distrust of politicians, even one who’s as popular and beloved as this one.

  I give the president a nod and wave him in. “No sense wasting a good body search.”

  Diaz moves into the center of the foyer. The guards take up a protective formation around him.

  “I’m aware this is a surprise, Mr. Cranston.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, it is. Which is why you caught me in my bathrobe.”

  Diaz has a light brown complexion and an accent so suave and worldly it almost sounds fake. Born in Ecuador, raised in Texas, educated in Boston. I guess he has a right to sound eclectic.

  “I’m here because of your reputation, Mr. Cranston. I know that you were instrumental in eliminating the prior regime. In a way, I owe my office to you.”

  Diaz is one of the many global politicians who stayed low during the Khan years, hoping for an opening while they tried to avoid being assassinated. With the dictator gone, strongmen of various stripes emerged to consolidate their power. The West was hungry for Diaz’s mix of purpose and principle. And his movie-star charisma didn’t hurt. After uniting a mix of constituencies, he now governs almost half of the planet, from Alaska to the tip of Cape Horn. As rulers go, Diaz is pretty high-minded. And very popular.

  “You won the election in a landslide, Mr. President. The people are behind you. What do you need from me?” I doubt that he’s here to offer me a cabinet post.

  Diaz clasps his hands in front of his chest. “I’ll come to the point, Mr. Cranston. You’ve heard of the Command?”

  I’m not sure how much I should reveal, or how much he already knows. So I hold my cards close. “I’ve seen their work.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Cranston, my ask is simple: I want your help to erase them from the planet.”

  My eyes keep flicking to the armed men behind Diaz. “Sorry if I seem antsy. The last president who stood where you’re standing tried to kill me.”

  Diaz laughs, showing the same dazzling smile that beamed from a million campaign posters. “Kill you? Mr. Cranston, from everything I’ve heard, that would be a criminal waste of talent.”

  His laugh makes me relax a little. “Well, then you probably know that I’m primarily an investigator. I gather evidence. I follow leads…”

  “Spare me the modesty,” says Diaz, his smile evaporating. “You are far more than an investigator. You have powers none of my scientists seem to be able to decipher. Supernatural abilities. The power to summon fire and lightning.” He leans in with a low whisper. “The power to shape-shift at will.”

  I don’t like where this is headed. For decades, I kept my special abilities secret. Only my closest associates ever knew what I was capable of. Putting my powers on display for the whole city to see a year ago was not my choice. Khan had to be defeated, and he picked a very public place for the battle. But the fact that a politician’s staff knows my entire skill set is not reassuring. In fact, it’s unnerving.

  “So show me,” Diaz says.

  “Show you what?”

  “Shape-shift for me. Turn into something else. I want to see it for myself.”

  This gets my back up even more.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President—I’m not a trained monkey.”

  Diaz stiffens slightly and his expression clouds over. He’s clearly not accustomed to being turned down.

  “Understood,” he says. “Then let me show you something. I insist.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BURBANK, MOE, AND Jericho are standing stiffly in the hallway when I walk upstairs with the leader of half of the world. They’ve obviously been watching and listening on the monitors, but from the expressions on their faces, they still can’t believe this is happening. It’s safe to say that Lucian Diaz is the first president any of them has ever met. I make the introductions short and sweet.

  “Mr. President, my associates. Druke, Shrevnitz, and Burbank.”

  “Do they need to be here?” asks Diaz.

  “Yes, they do. They know what I know.”

  Diaz waits impatiently as the guards give all three the same vigorous pat-down that I got. Then he pulls a video stick from his jacket pocket and holds it up.

  “Somebody play this.”

  Burbank nervously plucks it from the president’s fingers. “Follow me, sir.” He leads the way to his homemade comm center. Diaz steps in behind him. The rest of us crowd in as Burbank slides the video stick into a slot in the video console. A large monitor blinks and brightens.

  The scenes are even more disturbing than the footage my source sent me, and the video has been sharpened and enlarged to make the horror even more visceral. And unlike the videos I received, this one has sound. The tiny room fills with the roar of military machines. Then gunfire, explosions, and screams of pain.

  Diaz lets the horror play out for a half minute or so, then reaches past Burbank to slide the volume down. The images keep playing in the background.

  “Bad as this is,” says Diaz, “we believe it’s just a sideshow. Destroying resources and setting populations against each other is just a way of masking the real threat.”

  He nods to Burbank. “Freeze it here.”

  Burbank taps a key.

  “Now roll it back. Slowly.”

  Burbank reverses the footage, frame by frame.

  “Stop,” says Diaz.

  Burbank freezes on the image of a figure in black ducking into a cement bunker. The location appears to be somewhere in the Asian highlands. Maybe Pakistan. Maybe Tibet. The subject is only visible in a few frames, and even with enhanced video, it’s hard to see much. He’s draped in flowing tribal robes from head to toe, and the view is from the back. We can’t see a face. There’s not enough to catch much body movement.

  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.

  So while the rest of the household is immersed in a fierce Monopoly contest, I’m content to just sip my drink and observe. I guess it’s a good sign that Maddy didn’t protest when Dache decided to hang around after their lesson. Maybe she’s getting used to him. The monk is sitting on the floor with the others—Maddy, Margo, Jessica, Jericho, Moe, and Burbank—like it’s a normal family night. And from the stack of pretend cash in front of him, he appears to be winning big.

  Bando leans his head against my seat cushion. I reach down to scratch him between the ears, his favorite spot. My mind is warm and fuzzy. I should be thinking about the president’s challenge, about a way to tackle the Command, about a plan for tracking down the World’s Fair killer. Instead, I’m just thinking how lucky I am to have the people who mean the most to me in one room.

  One evening off can’t hurt, right?

  Suddenly, I hear a blast from outside. The weakened windows shatter. Lines of black holes appear on the parlor wall, blasting off thick chunks of plaster. Armor-piercing ammo. Blasting through Khan’s reinforced glass. I hit the floor and crawl toward the others. Everybody flattens themselves on the carpet. Everybody except Dache. He sits perfectly still as furniture splinters around him.

  “The damn drones!” yells Jericho. “They’re back!”

  Dache shakes his head. “Chinasian commandos,” he shouts over the metallic bursts. “Highly skilled. And relentless.”

  I guess the president’s visit was no secret. And being on his team put a bounty on our heads. “Nobody move!” I shout.

  The gunfire gets more intense. Multiple shooters. Multiple angles. Light fixtures explode. Glassware shatters. Books are blasted into confetti. I’m waiting for a pause, deciding when to make a move. I see Dache reaching for Maddy’s hand.

  “Come, Madeline,” he says. “Let’s show them who you are.”

  Maddy pushes herself up from the floor and stands in the middle of the room, as bullets whiz around her. I grab for her leg to pull her back down. “No!”

  Margo screams, “Stop! Don’t do it!”

  Dache puts his arm around Maddy and walks her across the floor toward the front entrance. He yanks her to the side as another stream of bullets blasts through the shattered windows. He looks back at us, his voice calm, but firm. “If you don’t trust me, how can she?”

  He nods to Maddy. She opens the door.

  CHAPTER 34

  MADDY WALKS OUT onto the dark lawn with Dache at her side. For a moment, the shooting stops. She feels the adrenaline rush that always accompanies fear. But there is no fear. Instead, it’s a feeling she couldn’t describe if she wanted to. Her mind now separates from the danger—from the obvious fact that there are killers in the darkness. And that they want to see her die.

  As her eyes adjust, she sees black-masked commandos filtering out from behind foliage and walls. A dozen, maybe more. Long metal magazines hang from their flat-black guns. The man in the lead raises his weapon and points it at her face. He pulls the trigger. Maddy’s in another zone now—a zone where she can actually see the bullets as they leave the barrel of the gun. She stares, unblinking, as the slugs stop an inch from her face, then watches them drip onto the grass like beads of mercury.

  She hears Dache call out an order in Mandarin, which she somehow understands. His voice is calm and assured. The commandos stop in mid-step and lower their weapons, letting them dangle from straps around their shoulders. One by one, they walk to a storm grate near the entrance and slide their weapons into the opening. Maddy hears the rattles and splashes from the sewer chamber beneath the street.

  Dache whispers into her ear. She calls out a phrase in perfect Mandarin, which she can now speak. The commandos move back onto the lawn, peeling off their tactical outfits until they’re down to their black underwear. All at once, they drop to their knees and bow in prayer, as if in a temple.

  “Good job,” says Dache, waving his arm over the group. “New converts.”

  “You have a weird sense of humor,” says Maddy.

  Dache gives her a respectful bow. “Coming from you, Madeline, that is a true compliment.”

  CHAPTER 35

  AT MIDNIGHT. I’M the last one still up. I’m staring at the shattered parlor windows, wondering how long our luck can hold out. A man’s home is his castle, but this place is starting to feel like a shooting gallery. For tonight at least, we’re all still breathing. Thanks to Dache and Maddy.

  A few hours ago, Dache lined up the Chinasian commandos on the front lawn and sent them on their way, single file, to a monastery upstate. A fifty-mile overnight hike. I wanted to question them first, but Dache said it would be a waste of time. The commandos had been trained by Toor Bayani, and they were as mindless as Dr. Mocquino’s bloodsuckers. They had nothing in their heads but the mission. And now, not even that. Dache says none of them will ever touch a weapon again.

  I take one last look out one of the broken windows and then head upstairs. As I walk down the hallway, I hear voices and laughter from Maddy’s room, like she’s having some kind of slumber party. I knock on the door, announce myself, and peek in. The laughter is coming from Dache, high-pitched and silly. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with Maddy’s antique tape player in his lap, volume up full. Maddy is sitting across from him, clearly enjoying his reaction.

  They’re listening to one of the old Shadow radio shows from Maddy’s collection, and Dache is clearly eating it up. Maddy obviously knows the script by heart. She’s mouthing every word from every character. She must have heard this tape a hundred times.

  She must not have heard me. Neither did Dache, who’s listening to the program intently, moving his body in sync with the action—feeling every twist in the drama. As the episode ends, the radio announcer intones, “As ye sow evil, so shall ye reap evil. Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows!”

  Dache throws his head back in delight, clapping and whistling.

  Maddy reaches over and clicks the player off.

  “I thought you’d like it,” she says.

  “Like it? Madeline, I loved it.” He hands her the tape player and rests his palm gently on her knee. “Perfect end to a perfect night. You did well.” And then he disappears.