but at the last moment Sky Key reached out and touched Earth Key and in a flash of light the little girl disappeared, taking an unconscious Maccabee with her, and the mutilated body of Baitsakhan as well.
The only living person left in that room is Shari Chopra, knocked out, with a large lump on her head courtesy of Maccabee. He could have killed her too but, perhaps out of mercy or righteousness or empathy, Maccabee let her live.
Where Maccabee and the keys are now, none of them know. It could be that they went to Bolivia, or to the bottom of the ocean, or are in an Endgame-finishing audience with kepler 22b himself.
All that is left here, in the routed Harappan fortress carved out of the Sikkimese Himalayas, are these Players and Aisling’s friends.
All that is left is their fear and their anger and their confusion.
And their guns.
Most of which are pointed at one another.
“Just chill out,” the man implores again. “No one else has to die today,” he says.
You might, Sarah thinks, her pistol trained on the man’s throat. Sarah refused to kill the Chopra girl, but she wouldn’t think twice about shooting this man, or the people with him, if it means escape.
The man steps around Aisling, places a hand on the barrel of her rifle, forces it down two inches. It’s now aimed at Sarah’s chest rather than her forehead. The man’s other hand is empty and palm forward. His eyes are wide and pleading. His breath quick.
A peacemaker, Sarah thinks.
The man licks his lips.
Sarah says, “I’ll chill out when none of you are standing in our way.” Her voice is calm. Sarah notices that Aisling Kopp is flushed. She has a smear of blood on her skin—maybe hers, but probably not.
Blood. And sweat. And grime.
Aisling asks, “Where’s Sky Key?”
Sarah’s gun is light. One bullet. Maybe two.
“Move out of our way,” Jago insists. His pistol is aimed at Aisling’s head. Aisling looks different from when he last saw her. Older, harder, sadder. They must all appear so. Endgame was simpler in the early stages, before any of the keys had been recovered. Now it is vastly more complicated.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Aisling says, her eyes not moving from Sarah’s. “Not until we find out where Sky Key is.”
Sarah says, “Well, she’s not here.”
Shoot her! Sarah orders herself. Do it!
But she doesn’t.
She can’t.
Aisling tried to do what Sarah couldn’t. She tried to kill the little girl.
Aisling tried to stop Endgame.
Which means that Aisling and her friends can’t be all bad.
Sarah glances at the other men in the room, the ones who haven’t spoken. One is old but formidable-looking, an eye clouded and white. Maybe a former La Tène Player. The other is middle-aged, a contemporary of the Peacemaker. He has a bandanna tied over his head, wears round eyeglasses, and is strapped with a heavy-looking pack spilling with communications equipment. He also carries a sniper rifle, which he doesn’t bother to aim at anyone. Instead, he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a hand-rolled cigarette. He puts it in his mouth but doesn’t light it.
Both men look spent.
Long day, Sarah thinks.
Long week.
Long fucking life.
Sarah figures she could jump backward and fire simultaneously, killing Peacemaker. Aisling would instantly return fire, but since Peacemaker has his hand parked on her rifle, this shot would miss. Jago would kill Aisling. Then they would finish the old Celt and the hippie walkie-talkie. Provided no one else is hidden nearby, she and Jago could let their guard down and fall into each other’s arms and exhale. They could walk out unscathed. They could continue their mission to stop Endgame. Sarah puts their chances of killing these four people at 60 or 65 percent. Not bad odds, but not great.
“Don’t do it,” Peacemaker says, as if he can read Sarah’s thoughts.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Just hear me out.” He glances at Aisling. “Please.”
“Here it comes,” the man with the cigarette mumbles, breaking his silence. The old man with the white eye stays mum, his gaze dancing from person to person.
The man says, “My name is Greg Jordan. I’m a retired, twenty-plus-year vet of the CIA. I’m associates—no, friends—with Aisling here. I know all about Endgame. Maybe more than any of you know about it, believe it or not.” He glances at Aisling. “More than I’ve been letting on,” he says apologetically. Aisling’s left eye twitches. The old man exhales loudly. “Anyway, I’ve seen my share of Mexican standoffs, and this qualifies big time. One wrong move and we all die in this hallway pretty easily. Like I said, no one else has to die today. A lot of people already have.” Sarah doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She doesn’t know that Aisling and Greg and the other two men—and also a woman, now dead, named Bridget McCloskey—spent the previous day marching into the mountains and killing everyone they met. Killing, killing, killing. By the end of the day many, many Harappan were dead. Well over 50.
Too many.
The man sighs. “Let’s not add to the body count.”
Aisling’s shoulders slump, her burgeoning guilt palpable. Greg Jordan’s words so far make some sense. Bullets remain in chambers. Feet remain planted on the ground. Sarah’s and Jago’s faces say, Go on.
Greg Jordan continues. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I think we can all be friends. I think we all want the same thing—namely, to put a stop to this madness. Am I right? Whadya say, guys? Friends? At least until we’ve had a few minutes to chat and are out of this Himalayan fortress?”
Pause.
Then Jago whispers, “Screw these guys, Sarah.”
And a part of Sarah is inclined to agree, but before she does anything rash Aisling asks, “Why didn’t you kill her, Sarah? Why couldn’t you do it?” As she speaks she lets her rifle fall to her side. Aisling is now completely defenseless, and that counts for something.
The Celt steps past Greg Jordan. “Why?” she repeats, staring intently at Sarah, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aisling wants the game to end badly. She wants to stop it. She wants to save lives.
Just like Sarah and Jago do.
Sarah’s forearm pounds, reminding her that in the fight with Maccabee and Baitsakhan she suffered a gunshot wound that needs attention. Her head spins a little. Her grip on the pistol loosens. “I know I should have …”
“Damn
