The Final Trade Read Online Free PDF Page A

through it holding the tray near her stomach, head high. Before her the narrow stairway rises to the second floor while to the right the first level stretches out in a sprawl of chairs, couches, and a long mahogany bar that will be disassembled within the hour. Wen stops at the top landing. Another guard waits at the doorway to the second floor. He knocks once on the hardwood behind him and a muffled reply comes from within. Stepping aside, he opens the door, letting her pass.
    Even though she’s been in the upstairs room countless times, it never ceases to surprise her when compared to the bland surroundings.
    The walls are a comfortable beige, but most of them are hidden behind lavishly draped bolts of red velvet suspended from the high ceiling. Portraits hang from the three windowless walls, their abstract subjects always looking like something different to her. The floor is polished tile the color of desert soil. A pool table with bright purple felt rests before the two windows that look out over the camp, and a ring of overstuffed leather chairs surrounds a small bar of polished wood. At the rear of the room a doorway leads to the bedroom. Not that she’s ever been inside it, only seen glimpses of it as they pass into and out of it. And as she watches, the door opens.
    Elliot and Sasha Preston stroll into the main room like royalty.
    Elliot comes first, his strange, sweeping saunter eerie in a way that nearly raises goose bumps on Wen’s flesh even after all these years. The ringmaster’s brown eyes find her and move on almost at once. His gray hair is almost white and has been trimmed since the night before, the precise edge of his crew cut sharp and defined. He wears, as always, a loose, long-sleeved shirt that billows around him, concealing the small pistol strapped to his right forearm. She once saw Elliot shoot a man in the throat who had been caught hoarding food. He’d simply brought up his arm and a gun had been in his hand, like magic. She supposes that’s why he likes the contraption so much.
    Sasha glides behind him in a white, full-length gown complete with satin collars and cuffs as well as sparkling stones Wen knows are real diamonds. Her blond hair, piled high on top of her head, doesn’t have so much as a hint of gray. The cruel lines of her face jut against taut skin, plastic surgery from years before that looks demonic now without the proper upkeep.
    “Good morning,” Wen says after Sasha shuts the bedroom door tightly.
    “Good morning to you, dear,” Elliot says, coming forward. “I believe you’re several minutes late.”
    “Apologies. The stove heated slower than usual this morning.” Elliot seems to accept this but Sasha continues to stare holes through her, the wall beyond, the world. Wen walks to the table between two of the largest chairs and sets the tray down. With a flourish, she draws the covers off the plates and the delicious smell of herbs fills the room.
    “I never get tired of that,” Elliot says, smiling. It is a showman’s grin full of trickery and, at the same time, contempt. A snake’s smile. His teeth are gray behind pallid lips. He motions to the tray and Wen bends forward, picking up an extra fork.
    She cuts a small piece of one omelet off before doing the same to the other. She stabs both pieces and places them in her mouth, chewing quietly and swallowing.
    “Very good, dear. Now step over by Hemming if you will.”
    Wen’s head snaps around in spite of herself. The albino is so thin and wiry, she’s sure if he stepped into the sun it would shine through him. Hemming smiles, the white skin of his face crinkling like crumpled paper, bald head polished and smooth. He wears a black T-shirt, black jeans, and shining black boots, the whole ensemble clashing marvelously with his pigmentless skin. What unnerves her the most is how he can move without being seen or heard. She’s sure she was alone when she entered the room.
    Wen steps to the bodyguard’s right and