Page 39 of Warrior's Cross

He lowered his gaze to look once more at the stalls on the far side of the bathroom. There were really only so many options in a room like this, and he knew the man he was after wasn’t exactly the type who could think on his feet. The mere fact that he’d ducked into the bathroom rather than trying forthe emergency stairs or even the bank of glass windows in the McDonald’s on the opposite side of the museum was evidence of that. He’d probablytriedto use the trash can to climb into the heating grate, fallen on his ass, and when that had failed...

He’d only had roughly thirty seconds to get away from the bathroom once Julian was alerted to his location. Julian knew he would have seen or at least heard the man if he’d made a run for it as he approached the bathrooms.

Which meant he was still in here. Hiding.

Julian moved slowly, his expensive shoes making a hollow, foreboding sound on the echoing tile as he walked. He pushed his heavy coat aside, pulling his weapon from his holster and slowly screwing a silencer onto the end of it as he moved.

He got to the first stall and pushed it open gently, holding his gun close to his face with one hand as he peered into the stall. The corner of his mouth twitched when he found it empty, and he moved on.

He skipped the second and third stalls, enjoying the knowledge that with every second that passed, his target was suffering from the tension.

It was painfully difficult, knowing you were about to die.

Sometimes the mere stress of waiting made people simply give up when they were finally found. It was always easier that way. The ones who fought back were the ones that left Julian bruised and battered.

He moved slowly, reaching the fifth stall with a heavy step. He cocked his head, listening, and then he smiled slowly. He turned, shoved at the stall door just hard enough to break the flimsy lock and pointed his silenced gun at the man cowering on the toilet within.

“Hello, Ted,” he murmured casually.

“Please, don’t kill me!” the man blurted as he held his hands in front of his face and turned away as if Julian were a light toobright for his eyes. “I have copies of the research! I’ll give it all to you, I swear! You can’t do this!”

“You had your chance,” Julian told him calmly. He pulled the trigger three times, barely blinking as the gun popped in his hand.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving the restroom and heading out into the empty hallway. Across from him was a large, enclosed cafeteria area for school trips, and Julian knew on either side of him there were stairs leading up to the main floor. Why the man hadn’t tried for them, Julian couldn’t guess. People did odd things when they ran for their lives. They also did stupid things when they were stupid people, but that was just Julian’s personal opinion.

He also knew that on the other side of that bank of windows in the McDonald’s on the far end of the museum was an outdoor courtyard surrounded by a brick wall that would be easy to scale. He headed there, not yet hurrying. He hopped over the barriers, grabbed a heavy metal trashcan, and broke the lock of the gate that was supposed to keep people out of the fast food restaurant when it was closed. He wasn’t worried about cameras; he’d already taken care of those.

He kicked the gates open and headed for the wall of windows, dragging the can behind him. The snow fell in the darkness outside, melting as soon as it hit the ground, creating a peaceful scene in the brick courtyard on the other side of the tinted windows, but not one that would hinder his plans. He couldn’t have investigators finding any tracks in the snow. Or lack thereof. Julian cocked his head, reared back, and chucked the trashcan through the nearest window.

Alarms began to blare as the glass shattered, and Julian turned on his heel and ran back into the belly of the museum, heading for the nearest stairwell and losing himself in the maze on the floor above that made up the Africa and animal exhibits.

He turned one corner, then another, and yet another as he heard the commotion behind him. The noise emanated from the lower floor, where he had just been, and Julian slowed as he walked around glass cases of preserved animals. He had all the time in the world since he’d mangled the museum’s security system to the point that it wouldn’t be up and running for quite a while.

They would find the body soon enough and call the police, and the museum would be almost as crowded with investigators and forensics people as it was during the day with tourists. It would be simple for him to use one of his fake “official” identifications to slip out through the chaos. Hanging around and waiting was so much easier than running like a criminal through the darkened alleyways of the city.

He stopped at a case near the far wall of the exhibit, his breathing and pulse slow and even as he unscrewed the silencer from his gun and replaced both pieces under the folds of his heavy coat. He pulled off the black gloves he wore and stepped closer to the glass case to study the lions inside.

He’d seen the Lions of Tsavo many times during his years in Chicago, but he was always compelled to come back. They were much smaller now than they’d been when they lived, their hides having suffered maltreatment over the years before they found their home at the Field Museum. The lions weren’t really all that impressive if you knew nothing about them. They were positioned like tame housecats, looking out at passersby with mere curiosity. The Maneater of Mfuwe on the floor below was much more physically striking.

But some people claimed the eyes of the Tsavo lions followed them when they walked by. Julian had never seen that. To him they seemed timid and conquered, held in this glass case for eternity as punishment for their sins. But underneath that, the Tsavo lions had afeelto them, one Julian knew all too well.

They were simply evil.

They had killed more than one hundred and forty men during the latter part of the nineteenth century in Africa, and that was just the men the British railway had counted. No one knew how many undocumented African and Indian workers had lost their lives to these two animals. It was far too great a number in far too short a time to have been from hunger or even territorial protection. Julian tended not to listen to the various and sundry scientific theories of why these two male lions had gone rogue and killed men together. He had his own theory.

They simply enjoyed what they did.

Julian sighed softly, cocking his head as the commotion in the far reaches of the museum died down. By his count, his tally was almost even with the lions now.

Cameron bent over, laughing so hard that he could barely stand up.

Every time he tried to stop, he’d snort and start laughing again. “God. I wish I had a camera!”

“Shut up,” Julian mumbled at him as he struggled with the four tumbling puppies. Every time he extracted one from his long, flowing scarf, another would take her place and begin tugging again. The scarf was hopelessly wrapped around the legs of one of the puppies, who was upside down and struggling to turn over, and Julian was so obviously uncomfortable with the tiny animals anyway that he could barely touch them to untangle them as his scarf choked him.

Snickering, Cameron finally dragged himself away from the door to help. “You have no idea how adorable you are right now with that look on your face.”

“They’re so little!” Julian insisted in frustration. He picked one up to demonstrate, holding it in the palm of one large hand as the puppy’s tiny tail wagged between his fingers. “How can they be so little and so mean at the same time?”

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