“That’s a cover,” Phelps said. “Place is used mostly to hold smuggled illegal aliens. Besides, you don’t want to know your fortune. The folks I work for aren’t too happy with you.”

Austin would have agreed that his prospects for a long and happy life were slim. In addition to Phelps, he was guarded by the tough-faced Asians, all men in their twenties, dressed in black running suits and shoes. They had red bandannas tied around their heads. They looked dangerously unpredictable, but from the cocky way they slouched around with their weapons they appeared undisciplined as well.

Phelps was a tall man in his late forties. He wore jeans, Doc Martens boots, and a black T-shirt that displayed his ropy arms. He wore a U.S. NAVY SEALS baseball cap on his head. And he had Austin’s Bowen, which he examined with appraising eyes.

“Nice piece,” he said.

“Thanks. When do I get it back?”

Phelps chuckled, and slid the pistol into its holster, which he clipped to his belt. He glanced at his watch and called to a couple of Ghost Devils. They went through a door leading to the front of the building and came back after a minute with Zavala. They shoved him over into one of the chairs and motioned Austin into the other. Both men were then handcuffed to the armrests.

Zavala’s face was caked with dried blood, but he still managed to smile when he saw Austin.

“Hi, Kurt, nice of you to crash the party. Time to leave?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Phelps. Are you okay?”

“Charlie Yoo set me up, and some of these guys used my face for a punching bag, but nothing broken that I know of.”

“We’ll have to remember to pay them back for their hospitality.” Zavala smiled through bloodied lips.

“That’s what I like about you, Kurt. The glass is always half full. Whoops—”

The warehouse went dark just then, and the two men were enveloped in almost total blackness. After a moment, a spotlight directly overhead blinked on, and they found themselves at the center of a circle of bright white light. A second overhead spot came on about twenty-five feet to the front of where they sat.

The screen was gone, revealing a table covered in green baize. Behind the table sat a woman who seemed to be scrutinizing the two men from NUMA. She was dressed in a dark purple, two-piece outfit, and a cloak the same color was draped around her shoulders. Her dark hair was parted down the middle, and high, arched brows framed a Eurasian face.

Austin stared at the woman in disbelief.

“This is crazy,” he whispered, “but I know her. She’s the Dragon Lady.”

“I’ve seen worse-looking dragons. Why don’t you introduce me?”

“Not sure I can, Joe. The Dragon Lady wasn’t a real person.”