Brett Battles - The Destroyed

She reached into her bag once more, and this time pulled out the suppressor-enhanced pistol, aiming it at the man’s chest. “I don’t think you misunderstood me at all, Agent Evans.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?” he asked, all traces of his English accent gone.

“No one sent me.”

“No one?”

“I came on my own.”

He examined her face, confused. “I don’t know you.”

“Actually, you do.” She removed the glasses and pulled off the black wig. From his continued look of bewilderment, she could see he still had no clue. “How about this? Las Vegas in May of 2006? You weren’t there, but you were the one who hired me to take a package there. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

For several seconds he just stared at her. Finally he said, “Not possible. Mila Voss is dead.”

“Come now. You handed me the package yourself. In a hotel room in Arlington, remember? The ugly orange bedspreads, and the lime-green carpet? You rushed me out. I thought at the time it was because the room was too disgusting to remain in, even for you. But I think you just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss my flight.”

The blood drained from his face. “Dear God. We…we were told you were dead.” He paused. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Really? How did they come to think I was going to be a problem that had to be dealt with? It was because of the Portugal trip a month earlier, wasn’t it? Turns out you were the agent in charge of that. I don’t remember you. I’m sure you weren’t on the plane.”

“I…I was in Lisbon.”

“That explains it. So what? Did one of your men tell you they thought I needed to be looked into?”

“It wasn’t like that. I had to report it to my superiors. What they decided to do wasn’t my call. It came from the top.”

She removed a newspaper photo from her pocket and set it on the desk. Tapping it, she said, “From the Lion?”

Though his agent instincts were undoubtedly rusty, Evans was almost able to pull off keeping his face blank. But she saw it, just for a second, an instant of shock in his eyes that confirmed she was right. The Lion was indeed the same man in the picture, the one behind it all.

She had been right to come out of hiding.

Evans leaned back in his chair, his hands falling to his sides.

Mila had been so focused on what she had just learned that it took a second to register that Evans had moved. She jumped up, her gun in front of her. Evans was already twisting to the side, bringing up a gun hidden within the back of his chair.

His pistol cracked once, the bullet flying past her head and lodging in the wall behind her. Two spits through her suppressor kept him from pulling his trigger again, both her shots catching him high in the chest.

“You asshole!” she said.

She wasn’t an assassin. No matter how dangerous it would have been to leave him alive, she hadn’t wanted to kill him. The information was all she came for. If the Lion found out from Evans that she was alive, so be it. She’d still have the upper hand.

She eased over to the window that overlooked the walking street. While her shots had been muffled, his single one had not. But there was no one rushing toward the building, and no one standing by the front door pushing the intercom button. The books, she realized, had probably absorbed much of the noise.

She looked back at Evans. “Asshole,” she repeated. “Why did you do that?”

Three minutes later, a girl in jeans and a dark green tank top descended the back stairs of Johnston’s Rare Books Finding Service, and turned down Darby Drive. Her mousy blonde hair was pulled back in a single ponytail that went halfway down her back. She knew those who saw her would think she was just a teenager enjoying the sunny day.

If only.

THAILAND

For months, Quinn’s daily routine had been up before dawn, breakfast, meditation, three classes in the morning, lunch, two classes in the afternoon, work on the temple-Quinn was paying for the renovations himself-dinner, read, then sleep. Any deviations, such as helping Ton and his family with the farm, were only extensions of the other things he was doing. In the half year since he’d arrived at Wat Doi Thong, he had never traveled more than a few miles away.

Prior to leaving that morning, Quinn had apologized to the head monk for his abrupt departure, and promised he would be back as soon as possible. The money for the restorations, he assured the man, would continue to be available. His only request was that someone be sent every day to help Ton in the fields. The monk assured him that would happen.

Now he sat in the back of a speedboat with Nate on one side and Daeng on the other, heading for the chaos of Bangkok and the rest of the world. He had known he would have to reemerge one day, but in his mind it had been in the distant future.

Mila had forced the issue. The question was, why? Why had she come out of hiding?

No, he corrected himself. His only question should be: What would he have to do to get her to disappear again?

Mila, what the hell is going on?

During the voyage, Daeng made a call and arranged for them to be picked up at Thewes Pier, just north of the Rama VIII Bridge in Bangkok. When they arrived, they found a black sedan with tinted windows waiting for them.

The driver was on the large size for a Thai man. He was bald like the monks back at Wat Doi Thong, though Nate doubted he’d ever donned the orange robes. By the deference he displayed, it was clear Daeng was his boss.

“Someplace with a secured Internet connection,” Quinn said to Daeng as he climbed into the backseat with Nate.

“No problem,” Daeng said, getting into the front passenger seat. “I’ll take you to my place.”

They drove through Bangkok for twenty-five minutes before stopping in front of a high metal gate in the middle of a dirty white wall. The driver pulled out a phone and made a quick call. Seconds later, the gate was pulled open from inside.

The world within the walls felt like it had been transported from somewhere outside the city. The vibrant greens and reds and yellows and purples of the vegetation looked almost unnatural. It was a jungle, controlled, well taken care of, but a jungle nonetheless.

The house was located near the very center. It, too, was different from anything else Nate had seen in the city, a beautiful two-story home constructed of glass and metal that would have fit in nicely next door to Quinn’s place in the Hollywood Hills.

The driver parked in a designated area not too far beyond the gate, and they all climbed out.

“While I’m getting some lunch together,” Daeng said as he led them inside, “you can use one of my laptops. There’s one on the kitchen bar.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said. “Will it track what I’m doing?”

Daeng bowed slightly. “There’s tracking software on all of my computers, but it can be easily turned off.”

“Good. I’d like you to do that.”

The interior of the house was surprisingly spartan, given how the outside looked. Utilitarian furniture that was nice but not expensive, a few photographs and a handful of paintings on the white walls and that was about it. There were none of the touches a designer might have added, and nothing beyond the paintings and photographs that could be considered decorative. The only lavish item was a waterfall built into the wall in the foyer. It would have probably been beautiful but it wasn’t running, and there was no water in the small pool at its base. Through the windows of the living room, Nate could see a grass area in back where at least a dozen kids were playing while four or five women watched.

The kitchen was off to the left and opened into a dining room with a simple wooden table long enough to seat twenty people. Between the two rooms was a raised bar with a closed computer on top.