THIRTY
CASSIOPEIA SHOVED HERSELF AWAY FROM HER ASSAILANT AND rose to her knees. The heat from the fire, raging only a few meters away, had grown in intensity, flames edging their way toward the landing. Luckily, the walls and floor here were marble. Smoke was building, making each breath a challenge. She needed to find the lamp, but there was the matter of the black-clad man who deftly came to his feet, ready for more. Her heart pounded, a heavy throbbing that rattled her ribs. Her muscles were watery with fatigue. Two days of torture and no food had taken a toll.
The man lunged.
She dodged, grabbed his arm and forced it back, twisting his body, trying to take him down. His wild kicking threatened her grasp and he managed to reverse the hold and drive her forward into the balustrade. Over the thick railing, she caught a view of a ten-meter drop below.
She was rolled so that her spine faced downward.
The back of the man’s hand slapped her face. He then tried to force her over the side. She tasted the acrid tang of blood. Adrenaline rushed through her as she swung her right leg up and planted the heel of her boot into his groin.
He doubled forward, both hands reaching for the pain.
She jammed her knee into his face and sent him staggering back.
Advancing, she balled her fist.
MALONE USED HIS SHIRTTAIL TO CRADLE THE LAMP, ITS EXTERIOR still warm from the roasting. It seemed solid, the only opening at the dragon’s head. In the flickering light he spotted bits of melted wax that had sealed the mouth clinging to the bronze. He caught a familiar smell and brought the lamp close.
Oil.
He jostled the vessel. It seemed about half full.
He spotted Chinese characters carved into the exterior and surmised that maybe the writing could be what made the thing so important. He’d seen that before—messages from the past, still relevant today. But whatever it was, he needed to get the hell out of this burning inferno while the getting was good.
He turned.
One of the men stood a few feet away, blocking the only exit. He held a gun waist-high, aimed straight ahead.
“Got to be hot in that wool mask,” Malone said.
“Give me the lamp.”
He motioned with the artifact. “This? I just found it in the fire. Nothing special.”
“Give me the lamp.”
He detected an Asian accent in the English. Fire burned all around where they stood, not raging, but spreading, using the furniture as fuel. Fresh, hot fingers ignited along the wood floor between him and the other man.
He stepped closer.
The gun was lifted higher. “The lamp. Toss it to me.”
“I don’t think that would be—”
“Toss it.”
Malone stared down at the dragon head and the bits of wax that dripped from the mouth. He could still smell the oil and decided that if the man wanted the lamp, then that’s what he was going to get.
He arced the vessel into the air but, as he released his grasp, a flick of his wrist twisted the lamp. He was careful to provide only enough velocity so that it would fall short and his assailant would have to step forward to catch his prize.
He watched as the dragon’s head angled downward and spotted the first glimpse of liquid spilling from the mouth. The droplets met the heat below with a hiss and a flash, as the fire enjoyed what was surely a satisfying meal.
Oil spewed out as the armed man stepped forward and caught the lamp between its wings, upside down, the head pointed toward the floor.
Fresh flames ignited on the floor as the oil vaporized.
The fire searched upward for more.
When it found the lamp, a ball of heat and light erupted in the man’s hands.
A scream pierced the boiling air as the man’s clothes caught fire. He dropped the lamp and the gun, his arms flailing as his clothes disintegrated.
Malone found his Beretta on the floor and fired two shots into the man’s chest.
The burning body dropped to the floor.
He stepped close and planted one last shot in the head.
“More than you would have done for me,” he muttered.
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 facade. He was not the right size or build to be Pau’s minion.
“He is the one who entered after the three,” Pau said.
