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CASSIOPEIA SLUGGED HER ATTACKER IN THE FACE. HE WAS weakened by her blow to his groin, stunned from the pain, all the breath smashed from him. He started coughing, gasping for bits of air among the smoke.
Another punch and he collapsed, not moving.
The fire had now consumed the hallway to her left—floor, walls, and ceiling—and smoke was spreading by the second. She, too, coughed out a lungful of carbon.
Two gunshots echoed from down the corridor.
“Cotton,” she called out.
Another gunshot.
“Cotton. For God’s sake answer me.”
“I’m here,” he yelled.
“Can you get to the stairs?”
“No. I’m going out one of the windows.”
She should go to him and help. He’d come for her.
“Can you get out?” he called out over the flames.
“It’s clear here.”
She kept her gaze down the third-floor corridor, now completely engulfed by fire. Her knuckles throbbed and her lungs ached. The heat was stifling. She realized there was no choice. She had to leave. But—
“I need the lamp,” she yelled.
“I have it.”
“I’m going,” she called out.
“See you outside.”
She turned and headed for the stairs, but something below caught her attention. On the landing stood a man, his face gaunt, his black eyes locked on her. In his grasp was a bow, an arrow threaded onto the string, pulled tight.
Her gun was gone. There was nowhere to run.
The man kept his aim, his intentions clear.
He’d come to kill her.
THIRTY-ONE
NI HEARD ANOTHER OF THE THIRD-FLOOR WINDOWS SHATTER, followed by something flying out into the night. He watched as a chair crashed into the garden, then saw shadowy movement in the open window. Something else was tossed down. Smaller but heavy, it fell quickly, landing in one of the graveled paths.
“That could be what we seek,” Pau said.
A man maneuvered his way out, grabbing hold of the vines that veined the museum’s rear façade. He was not the right size or build to be Pau’s minion.
“He is the one who entered after the three,” Pau said.
Ni agreed.
Sirens were approaching. Soon the area would be crowded with emergency personnel.
“We must see if that was the lamp before he reaches the ground,” Pau said.
He agreed. “I’ll go.”
“Hurry.”
Ni fled their hiding place and crossed the darkness back to the garden. He kept one eye on the man, noting that he was skillfully using the vines to descend. Ni chose an oblique approach, advancing not along the graveled paths, cut with precision through the odorous flora, but down the edge, using the soft soil and a row of tall cypresses to mask his approach.
He spotted the chair broken into pieces, then looked where he’d seen the smaller object land, catching sight of a dark form in the middle of one of the paths.
He glanced up and saw the man struggling with the vines, slowly making his descent. Head and eyes seemed intent on finding handholds, so Ni took advantage of the moment and crept to the object.
He lifted it and found it warm.
A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with the wings of a phoenix.
The lamp.
MALONE GRIPPED THE STALKS AND EASED HIS BODY DOWNWARD. He’d managed to re-retrieve the lamp from the fire, then tossed it down to the garden. He’d noticed on his initial approach that the gravel below was fine, like ball bearings, so it should have provided a cushioned landing.
He wasn’t sorry the man inside was dead. No doubt once he’d turned over the lamp he would have been shot himself.
He kept his attention on the vines, grateful that they’d apparently flourished a long time, their meaty stalks firmly attached to the exterior. The second level had yet to catch fire, and the smoke from the top two floors spewed upward, away from him. Definitely cooler and easier to breathe here.
He glanced down to see how far remained and spotted a shadow creeping past the destroyed chair. He watched as the form quickly scooped up the lamp.
“That’s not yours,” he called out.
The form hesitated an instant, looked up, then bolted away, rushing for the garden’s far exit.
His attention on the thief caused him to ignore the vines. Blindly, he reached for his next handhold and the plant gave way with a crack.
He fell backward.
And kept falling.
NI RAN FROM THE GARDEN BUT GLANCED BACK AT THE SOUND of something snapping. He watched as the man fell ten meters. No way to know if the fall would cause an injury or if the climber would come to his feet and pursue.
But he wasn’t going to stay and find out.
He rushed through the gate, crossed the drive, and found Pau Wen.
“We must leave,” Pau said.
Ni could not argue with that move. Enough risks had been taken. He could not be discovered here.
“I realize,” Pau said, “you are concerned about the people inside the museum. But we will return home and await my brother. Then we will know the situation.”
CASSIOPEIA REALIZED THERE WAS NO WAY TO FLEE. THE ARCHER would have a clear shot across the balustrade until she reached a blazing hallway, which offered no escape. She’d also never make it anywhere near the bowman, since the arrow would find her far quicker than she could move.
Game over.
She hoped Cotton had escaped. She’d miss him, though only at this moment, facing death, had she considered how much. Why had she never expressed herself? Never said a word. Why the dance they both seemed to enjoy where neither one of them wanted to commit, yet they both always turned to the other in time of need.
She regretted not being able to help Lev Sokolov. She wondered what would happen to his son. Most likely he’d never be seen again. She’d tried. Done everything she could.
But it had not been good enough.
Strange, a person’s thoughts in the face of death. Perhaps there was an instinct that brought to the surface every regret. Was this what Henrik Thorvaldsen had experienced in Paris? If so, maybe Cotton was right and their friend did die thinking he’d been betrayed. How awful. Especially when it wasn’t true. She now understood Cotton’s anguish, his regrets at not making things right, and she wished for one more opportunity herself.
“To
u qie zhu ren de zei bi si wu yi,” the archer said.
She could not speak Chinese, so his words meant nothing.
“Get it over with,” she called out, waiting for the slap of the bowstring, then the arrow piercing her flesh.
Would it hurt?
Not for long.
Two bangs startled her.
The archer staggered and she realized that the man had been shot. She dove to the right just as he lost his grip on the bowstring. But because he was collapsing as the arrow released, its metal tip found only marble.
She pushed herself up from the floor and stared past the thick spindles.
A man walked up from the floor below, stopping at the landing where the archer’s body lay twitching in violent spasms.
Another shot and all movement stopped.
Viktor Tomas turned toward her.
She did not like the look in his eyes. He was surely angry from her attack on him back at the house. Yet he was here, holding her gun, the one that had fallen away, now aiming the weapon straight toward her, steadying his grip with both hands.
She faced the same dilemma with him that she had with the archer.
Nowhere to run.
He fired.
THIRTY-TWO
MALONE ROLLED OUT OF THE SHRUBBERY. GOD BLESS THE groundskeeper who’d groomed these hedges thick, trimming them into a perfect wall that stood six feet high. Their many branches had broken his fall, though one annoying stalk had bruised his hip.
He rose to his feet.
At forty-eight he was a little old for this, but thoughts of Cassiopeia rushed through his brain. He needed to find her. He recalled noticing on the climb down that the first two levels had yet to burn, but this might no longer be the case. Sirens were approaching, so he assumed the privacy Stephanie had arranged was gone, as were the lamp and its thief.
All in all, a total bust for the evening.
He turned toward the terrace and the doors through which they’d all first entered.
Three firemen burst out.
