There was a commotion. The camera that had been pointed at Molech’s face suddenly swung away, creating a disorienting effect as the image on the henchman’s facemask blurred and shifted.
Standing at the door to Molech’s hospital room was his right-hand man, Black Scott. He was smiling. Relaxed.
Zoey did not like that look.
Scott said, “You got to see this. Patch in to T-Bone, up on the top floor. T-Bone, you hear me? Molech is on.”
The view on the faceplate switched again. It was now bouncing down the shadowy hallway of a burned building, past smoke-browned plaster on walls that were rotting to pieces from neglected water damage. The camera finally arrived at a shattered plate-glass window.
Lying in front of it was a body, sprawled in a pool of blood. It had an electrical extension cord cinched around its waist.
The man wearing the camera approached and Zoey held her breath once again—she knew what was surely coming next. She hadn’t understood Will’s play with the supposed “brain code” but it was clear what was happening here—this was how they would get them to let their guard down. When they turned the body over, it would surely turn out to be one of Molech’s henchmen. Then Armando would spring out with his ambush, or fly into Molech’s hospital room.
The view drew closer and the bad guys were still unaware of the ruse—the body was wearing a black suit and red shirt, just like Armando’s. Maybe he’d had time to switch clothes with a guard. And he’d chosen his double well—even facedown, she could see this man also had Armando’s trademark five o’clock shadow.
Molech’s men arrived at the body and a foot emerged from the bottom of the frame, rolling the corpse over. Zoey realized she had been mistaken about the nature of the ploy—this was in fact Armando, who was playing possum—the “blood” would turn out to be a can of paint left behind by one of the construction crews, or something. The moment the henchmen let their guard down, he’d spring up and slice them to pieces.
Molech’s men gathered around Armando, snickering. Armando continued not to move. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest was not moving. Finally the man wearing the camera knelt over him and turned Armando’s head, to bring the other side of his neck fully into view.
The henchman said, “Look, boss! He has gills!”
One bullet. That’s all it took. One of the desperate last shots of that falling madman from the collapsed bridge, who would never know that his last shot had landed true. The bullet left a deep gouge, slicing across Armando’s Adam’s apple and tearing through his jugular. He had swung through the window and was probably in the middle of untying the cord when he felt the wet, hot gush soaking his black suit, turning his shirt the wrong shade of red. He probably hadn’t even have time to register what exactly had gone wrong, before the blood drained away from his brain and caused the rest of his body to drop to the floor, like an action figure that some toddler had suddenly gotten bored with.
And then, Zoey heard laughter. Molech, laughing so hard it sounded like he was going to choke.
That was the last sound Zoey heard. She saw the ceiling, and then she saw nothing. She had fainted.