Free The Destroyed by Brett Battles

and sat down in his stuffed leather desk chair.
    “You’re right on time, Ms. Carter. I appreciate that.”
    “Time is not something to be wasted.”
    “Very true.” He smiled and took a tentative sip of tea.
    “In the interest of time , perhaps we can get right to business? You said you had one of the books on my list.”
    “I do.”
    He stood again, and used a key to unlock a nearby cabinet.
    If he’d actually figured out who she was, this was the moment he’d make his move, and retrieve not a book but something more lethal. She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag, encircling the grip of the pistol inside, and pointed it at the retired spy.
    Since his body blocked her view, she couldn’t tell what was in his hand until he turned around. At the sight of the book, she released her gun.
    He set the Steinbeck on the desk in front of her. On the worn dust jacket was printed The Grapes of Wrath and the author’s name. Below this was a faded illustration of a man in overalls looking down into a valley at several trucks heading, presumably, to California.
    “Viking Press first US edition, 1939. I’m lucky enough to have two copies, but this is the one in the best condition.”
    “Good.” She pretended to examine the book. “And the others on the list?”
    “I have leads on the Maugham and two of the Greenes. Perhaps next week. The Hemingway is proving to be more difficult than I expected.”
    She shrugged. “No matter. It’s not the books that are important.”
    The man looked at her for a moment. “Pardon? I must have misunderstood you.”
    She reached into her bag once more, and this time pulled out the suppressor-enhanced pistol, aiming it at the man’s chest. “I don’t think you misunderstood me at all, Agent Evans.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?” he asked, all traces of his English accent gone.
    “No one sent me.”
    “No one?”
    “I came on my own.”
    He examined her face, confused. “I don’t know you.”
    “Actually, you do.” She removed the glasses and pulled off the black wig. From his continued look of bewilderment, she could see he still had no clue. “How about this? Las Vegas in May of 2006? You weren’t there, but you were the one who hired me to take a package there. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”
    For several seconds he just stared at her. Finally he said, “Not possible. Mila Voss is dead.”
    “Come now. You handed me the package yourself. In a hotel room in Arlington, remember? The ugly orange bedspreads, and the lime-green carpet? You rushed me out. I thought at the time it was because the room was too disgusting to remain in, even for you. But I think you just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss my flight.”
    The blood drained from his face. “Dear God. We…we were told you were dead.” He paused. “I had nothing to do with it.”
    “Really? How did they come to think I was going to be a problem that had to be dealt with? It was because of the Portugal trip a month earlier, wasn’t it? Turns out you were the agent in charge of that. I don’t remember you. I’m sure you weren’t on the plane.”
    “I…I was in Lisbon.”
    “That explains it. So what? Did one of your men tell you they thought I needed to be looked into?”
    “It wasn’t like that. I had to report it to my superiors. What they decided to do wasn’t my call. It came from the top.”
    She removed a newspaper photo from her pocket and set it on the desk. Tapping it, she said, “From the Lion?”
    Though his agent instincts were undoubtedly rusty, Evans was almost able to pull off keeping his face blank. But she saw it, just for a second, an instant of shock in his eyes that confirmed she was right. The Lion was indeed the same man in the picture, the one behind it all.
    She had been right to come out of hiding.
    Evans leaned back in his chair, his hands falling to his sides.
    Mila had been so focused on what she had just learned that it took a second to register that Evans