Zoey blacked out, she had no idea for how long.
When she felt the trucks slowing to a stop again, she pried her swollen eyes open and had the sense of having come full circle: she saw the wrought-iron front gates of Arthur Livingston’s estate—no, her estate—standing closed to all unwelcome visitors, the two stone dragon pillars standing vigilant on either side. She expected the Candi hologram to appear and tell them the gates were locked, or for a crazy array of security devices to spring into action and cut them all to pieces.
Instead, the gates simply slid open.
But of course they did. Molech, after all, had someone on the inside.
Instead of looping around the winding path through all of the statues, decorations, and the Siberian tiger enclosure, Molech just pointed his hood toward the front doors and gunned it. The truck smashed through a pair of knight statues, rumbled over bushes covered in Christmas lights, and ripped through the fence around the tiger enclosure, the sleepy beasts lazily watching them pass.
They arrived in front of the massive bronze front doors, and Molech came around and ripped away the wires holding Zoey to the hood of the truck. She tumbled off onto the cobblestones, smashing her knees and elbows when she landed. A rough hand—Scott’s—hooked under her armpit and yanked her up.
She instinctively started to pull away, and walk on her own—she didn’t want to be carried, or dragged, or yanked around by that freaking arm again. She was sick of being cargo. Instead, she fell limp in his strong hands. Making him practically drag her.
The front doors started slowly creaking open, on their own.
Molech said to her, “By the way, are you curious to know who sold you out? To know who it was that you trusted, and shared a roof with, while they were tipping me off? Are you curious to know who told me Armando would be mincing along my rooftop that day?” He turned toward the open doorway and said, “Come on out here and say hi.”
A figure emerged from the shadows of the foyer and strode confidently into view, standing defiantly in the afternoon sun.
The man said, “It’s always the last one you’d suspect, isn’t it, Zoey? Always the one you underestimate. I took abuse from your father for far too long. And now, today, I finally have my revenge.”
Zoey peered at her traitor through her swollen eyes. That dark complexion, the curly hair, the goatee. The toothpick, jutting from a corner of his mouth.
Zoey said, “Who the hell are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“I … I literally don’t. I have never seen you before in my life.”
“YOU SAW ME EVERY DAY!” The man spat the words, in a rage. “In the yard? Trimming the bushes? Fixing the decorations in the courtyard? I was fixing lights on that tree two days ago! You walked right past me!”
“You’re … what? One of the landscaping guys?”
“I’M GARY! Gary O’Brien! The gardener! I worked for your father for twenty-five years! We played golf together! I slept in one of the guest rooms! Oh, I knew what you were saying. ‘We don’t need to worry about Gary. Gary’s too dumb to think up schemes like us. Well, now you’re lookin’ at Gary in a whole new light, aren’t ya?”
“I’m … sorry. I just don’t remember you.”
“I want to hear you say it! I want to hear you say you underestimated me!”
Molech said, “Calm down, yard-master. So, she says Blackwater is inside, is that true?”
“Yeah. Go up the stairs, there’s a sitting room to the left. They’re just sittin’ in there. Waiting. No ambush, no nothin’. They didn’t even notice the grounds security was off. All because in their wildest dreams, they never could have guessed that little ol’ Gary could—”
“And that’s all you know? You got no other information for me?”
“No, man, but they’re right up there. Go have at them.”
“Good. Looks like we’re done here.”
And with that, Molech stepped forward and punched the man.
There was a wet sound, like a bucket of paint splashed against a wall.
And in a blink, everything on Gary from the knees up had vaporized. Fragments of pink and white and yellow flew across the open bronze doors, spraying across the marble tile of the foyer inside. A red mist hung in the air, and then was gone. Zoey screamed, or tried to. It was just kind of a gurgle at this point. Molech hooted in celebration, a sound he’d make rooting for a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest.
He said, “God, I’ll never get bored with that.”
They stepped inside and Molech glanced around at the foyer.
“This is a nice place. I might set up shop here after this is all said and done. Let’s go.”
They stepped around the spray of gore that had been Gary the Gardener, went past the massive looming Christmas tree, and headed up the grand staircase—Molech in the lead, Scott having to drag Zoey up the stairs like a bag of trash. Doc and the other henchmen had stayed behind, maybe to make sure nobody stole their trucks—Molech clearly was not worried about being outnumbered. Below them, Zoey saw Carlton enter the foyer with a mop.
They reached the buffalo room, and Molech gestured to Zoey to open the door, presumably to take the brunt of any booby traps that lay in wait. Scott tossed her in that direction, and she tumbled to the floor. She reached up and opened the door from her knees.
There was a fire going. Soft classical music played. On the wall feed, an army could be seen swarming around the sideways Parkview building. In one of two large leather armchairs on the opposite side of the room sat Will Blackwater, looking calm to the point of boredom, swirling the scotch in his glass. As if he had been watching the whole event play out, and found it uninteresting.
Sitting in the chair next to him was Arthur Livingston.