And there he was beneath the shimmering dome.

Bojing.

The Albino.

Dressed in a white tuxedo, he sat at one of three tables draped in white linen and laden with beautifully arranged flowers and a variety of what looked like expertly prepared foods. When he saw me, it was as if he were seeing a long-lost, beloved brother.

“August!” he said.

“Bojing,” I said. “Nice spread you got going here.”

“I never knew Detroit had such a fine variety of food!” Bojing said. “Our clientele will appreciate it. Look! Beet elote, seafood fideuà and Szechuan lamb sausage! Oxtail tacos and curry goat from Norma G’s, blackened shrimp farro jambalaya from Savannahblue, fried bologna and waffles—whoever heard of such a thing?—from Grey Ghost, salted maple pie from Sister Pie and bacon barbeque blintzes from LaBelle’s Soul Hole patisserie! Isn’t this amazing?”

“What’s the occasion?” I said. “My birthday?”

“Your deathday!” Bojing held up a bottle of wine. “A Domaine du Comte Liger-Belair La Romanée Grand Cru Pinot Noir. I hope you don’t mind. I proceeded from the assumption you liked red.”

“Love a nice Pinot,” I said. “I think I’d enjoy it more without knowing it wasn’t going to be my last.”

Bojing gestured for me to join him at the table.

I did.

He opened the wine, poured two generous glasses and offered me one. I hesitated in taking it.

“Poison is a woman’s thing, August,” Bojing said. “And I believe an execution should come quickly after a good meal. You’ll receive a single head shot—the least I can do out of my immense respect for you and your tenacity. With all the trouble you’ve caused me, I’ve come to realize something: I’ve established eight fully functioning and profitable ‘ghost towns’ around the world. Minor hiccups. Small inconveniences. To be expected. But it’s been a very long time since I’ve faced a challenge like you. A challenge that took me back to my childhood in Djibouti, where survival was visceral. Primal. Adrenaline fueled. All while being intellectually invigorating. A game of chess played with increasingly explosive pieces. I finally realized such a challenge should be celebrated!”

“Sure you can’t let me off with just a warning?”

“I’m fairly sure,” Bojing said after a sip of wine.

“What about the missing cash and bearer bonds?”

“I have men on it,” Bojing said. “Fried bologna?”

“Trying to quit,” I said.

“Would you mind if another guest joined us, August?”

I felt the muscles in my stomach clench.

Before I could find words, Bojing yelled the name of his assistant, the young, lean psychopath Xiang.

Xiang appeared from a thicket of ferns; in one hand, he held a long ancient curved Chinese sword. In the other hand, he held the shirt collar of a badly beaten Jimmy Radmon.

“Let him go!” I said, standing.