The Watchers Read Online Free PDF Page B

came from her own throat.
    MALIBU, CALIFORNIA, THE COLONY —ONE HOUR LATER
    The ornate glass door uttered a faint mechanical click and swayed open nearly a foot, seeming to anticipate his approach. The killer froze. He took a silent, shallow breath and cemented his decision to face whatever lay ahead.
    After all, he asked himself for the fifth time, what was the point of evasion? The Elder knew he had arrived. If they wanted to kill him, he was already as good as dead. As a frequent purveyor of their carnage, he knew that fact as well as anyone. Someone like him, an invisible and unstoppable assassin, would come and harvest him.
    Either way, defying them was out of the question. No, he told himself while trying to ignore a chill like ice water cascading through his veins, he would ride this night to its fated conclusion. And one way or the other, he would end the evening with some explanation of the bizarre force which had opposed him.
    He strained to keep his body from shifting into its customary tactical mode. Forcing it to stand still before the door and see what the moment held in store, he willed himself to stop breathing. To not move even an inch. He would bear it like a man.
    Ten seconds later he had felt nothing. No bullets piercing his body. No wisps of gas rising to his nostrils. No blackout. His reflection still stood askew in the open door, staring back at him.
    And why should they kill me now? he reassured himself. They had no way of knowing he’d failed. Or did they? True, their ability to know impossible things had never ceased to amaze him, but yet . . .
    He pushed the slab open with a nudge of an outstretched hand, glancing down at his palm-held computer to verify the address. Yes, he’d gotten it right. Besides, he told himself, front doors did not simply open of their own accord to strangers. Not in beachfront Malibu.
    Please walk straight through and meet me on the veranda was the text message’s final words. Without moving his head, he trailed his gaze across the surrounding walls. Although the house was unlit, he could still make out the high vaulted ceiling, the open contemporary architecture. There was lots of blown glass as well as squares of dark color to his left and right—framed patches of modern art. He smirked. Probably overpriced and totally incoherent .
    White seemed to be the room’s dominant palette, though it now stood dimmed in the gray of early morning. He noted that most of the scant light glowed from a large two-story window. Through it his eyes made out a band of deep blue floating over one of even deeper cobalt, both halves swimming in the luminescence of a full moon.
    The Pacific . The only neighbor to be trusted with an easy view.
    He finally allowed himself to breathe out and in again. Tried to pound into his brain the notion he had succeeded, that this was a happy occasion. Surely he would look back, ten minutes from now, and kick himself for having stolen his joy of anticipation—
    A dull noise.
    His heart stopped; his trained reflexes threw him to the floor. The blow of cold marble against his body shocked him, and he stiffened and shook his head. Suddenly his mind was awash in dread, his mouth sour with the taste of gunmetal. A thin, screaming sound stabbed his ears. He forced his awareness outward to inventory his body for injuries, for he knew that in this current state of adrenaline overload, he could be mortally wounded and hardly even know it.
    But no, his senses reported: his body was intact.
    He glanced in the direction of the sound and saw, just beyond the window, a dark shape lounging in an Adirondack chair. The round back of a silver-haired head turned as if anticipating his approach. He stood, walked to the door, opened it and forced himself to ignore the soothing kiss of cool, salt-scented air. The person, now to his left, remained still, his gaze seemingly fixed somewhere out on the dim ocean horizon.
    â€œWelcome, my Brother,”