BACKTRACKER, Milo Fowler [books that read to you .txt] 📗

glass exterior of the security center and stared inside, his reflectionholding a frozen, slack-jawed expression of horror. Comical if it hadn't beenso warranted.

The wall-length vertical blinds were wide open, drawn to thesides, giving any passerby a clear view of the office. A bank of vidscreenslined the far wall, and two security officers manned the desk facing them.Donuts, coffee—and blood. Lots of blood. The overweight men sat slumped forwardin their swivel chairs, their uniforms sopping wet, drooling onto the floorwhere slick pools collected like spilled paint. Their throats cut, nearlydecapitated, they stared unseeing at the static-jittery screens before them.

Muldoon blinked through his reflection. He'd seen his share ofdeath over the years, but nothing like this. Never anything so vicious. The twomen hadn't stood a chance against their assailants. Their hands dangled nowherenear their holstered sidearms.

They know...

That woman couldn't have meant these guys. Only a couple minuteshad passed, maybe less, since his rude awakening on that bench. Judging fromthe volume of blood, the two guards had already been like this when she'd wokenhim.

So she'd meant someone else—more than a single assassin. One manor woman couldn't have done this. It would have taken a couple ninjas at least.

And they were still here.

He rotated his eyes from the glass and turned to face the lockersacross the corridor. They stood grey and silent like crypts, rows upon rows. Hefocused on a placard with holographic lettering vivid under the dim ceilinglights: 301-400.

Retrieving the keycard with one hand, he reached into his coatwith the other. Under his left arm, his fingers curled, tightening on the gripof his revolver. He slipped it from its holster, the steel barrel glinting ashe started forward, one deliberate step at a time.

The support staff would arrive within the hour. They would findthe security officers' remains and watch the surveillance footage from thetimestamp before the screens went fuzzy, when the feed had been disrupted. Whatwould they see?

Their prime suspect, asleep on a bench.

Me.

Muldoon couldn't think about that now. Keycard in one hand,revolver in the other, he strode down the aisle. There it was: #316. Heinserted the key and waited. His pulse thumped spastically along his carotidarteries.

The pinpoint of light above the locker door switched to green. Hegrasped the handle and pulled it open. With a quick glance over his shoulder,he reached inside.

Sitting all alone in the spacious locker like it had beenabandoned decades ago...sat a plastic timepiece. A wristwatch, like something a kidwould wear, but adult-sized.

His anticipation fizzled. This couldn't be it. He slipped theflimsy thing onto his fingers and stared at the square face. The digits werecorrect—time and date accurate—but otherwise, there was nothing special aboutit at all.

Obviously, the Peddler had a sick sense of humor. Maybe somedayMuldoon would find this moment funny. Not a chance of that right now. The bodiesof those two men across the corridor kept things in perspective. Muldoon wasrisking his life just being in the same building with them...and theirkillers.

He snapped the watch onto his wrist—nothing else to do with itbesides toss it into the nearest waste receptacle—and slammed the locker shutwith a curse.

"Good evening."

A bald man in a white robe stood no more than a meter away,blocking the only escape route. Arms crossed in a casual stance, he stoodbarefoot with both hands tucked into his generous sleeves. He smiled tightlywith dark, indecipherable eyes that lit upon Muldoon's revolver.

"Hey, how's it going?" Every muscle in Muldoon's frametensed at the sudden appearance of this peculiar monk. He kept his toneeasygoing even as, reflexively, he aimed his gun at the fellow's chest."You-uh, need to get in here?"

"Not anymore," said the man in a thick accent—Eurasian,maybe. But his skin looked whiter than an albino's. His smile didn't waver."You have what I came for."

Muldoon frowned. "Really?" What kind of weapon could dothe damage he'd seen in the surveillance center? A long blade maybe, short enough tohide up a baggy sleeve. But there wasn't asingle drop of blood anywhere on this guy.

Never seen anybody so white.

"The watch. Give it to me, please."

Muldoon laughed. He couldn't help it. He held up the back of hishand, and his sleeve slipped away from the timepiece. "This piece ofcrap?"

The white man's eyes locked onto the watch. "It is not crap,I assure you."

"Sure looks like it. Just the kind of junk you'd find incereal boxes back when I was a kid."

"Then you should have no problem parting with it."

Muldoon nodded. "Sound reasoning there. But here's the thing:I haven't been following much in the way of logic tonight." He shruggednonchalantly, then confided, "I'm not really acting like myself." Onany other job, I would have cut my losses and run a long time ago."Insomnia really messes with the old noggin after a while. I'm sure youknow what I'm talking about. Why else would you be out so late in yourpajamas?" Muldoon paused, tightening his grip on the revolver. "Toorowdy back at the monastery?"

The monk's smile loosened. "You try my patience."

"I'm the one with a gun here, so how about you step aside andwe'll part company amiably. This place is going to wake up soon, and I'm surethe police will want to investigate the mess you made." He gestured towardthe surveillance center. "Assuming that was your handiwork."

The man bowed at the waist. "But they are not here yet,Mr. Muldoon."

A blur of white flapped forward and up, and with it came the flashof a short sword, slicing through the air. Muldoon staggered back insurprise and fired twice, only to find that his adversary was flying, leapingwith bare feet from one side of the aisle to the other, launching himself offthe locker doors. Pulse rounds left Muldoon'srevolver like electric-blue fireballs, slamming into the far wall and ceiling, sparking with energy asthey fizzled into black burns. He brought up his arm to fire again, but thealbino's gleaming blade struck the barrel,breaking it free from his grasp. The gun skittered across the floor beyond hisreach. Then a heel plowed into his chest, doubling him over, and he went downwheezing onto hands and knees.

The man in white stood at ease before him, one hand out