Russell Blake: The Goddess Legacy

They continued through the spread of bodies, some moaning, others snoring, still others looking blankly at them with hopeless eyes that protruded from their emaciated faces. And then they were past the encampment and nearing the hostel’s flickering sign, the ratty façade a palace compared to what they’d just seen. As they neared, Drake whispered to Allie, “We’re on the second floor. You want to wait downstairs while I get him?”

“You’re not leaving me alone,” she warned with a shudder.

“No. Of course not,” he assured her.

The lobby was empty, nobody behind the desk, the television playing a commercial for a cheap domestic motor scooter. Dr. Dre boomed from the bar as they mounted the stairs, Drake in the lead. When they arrived at the second floor, they could hear yelling from the end of the corridor and saw that a few of the doors were open with curious, sleepy backpackers staring down the hall.

Allie and Drake exchanged a worried look. When they arrived at Spencer’s room, the door stood open and five locals surrounded Spencer, who was seated on the wood floor, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, his clothes disheveled. Drake eyed the wood staffs and knives the men were wielding, and held out a hand to stop Allie from trying to enter.

The hotel clerk shook a butcher knife at Drake. “Don’t you try anything. He’s a murderer. We’re holding him until the police arrive.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” Drake tried, but even to his ears it sounded hollow.

“No. I saw him on the television. It’s him. Don’t try to lie your way out of it.”

Drake looked at Spencer. “Are you okay?”

“They jumped me. I got in a few good ones, but there were too many,” Spencer said, and spit blood at the clerk’s feet.

“Surely there’s some way to work things out,” Allie tried. “We have money.”

“Your money’s no good here. He cut off a man’s head. You think you can buy our silence?” one of the younger men snapped, waggling his club at her. “You people sicken me.”

Drake looked to Spencer, who shook his head slightly. His message was clear — don’t try anything or you’ll get hurt. The Indians picked up on his thinking and the clerk took a menacing step toward Drake.

“Your friend here will face the police. We have no fight with you. But we’re not backing down, and if we have to, we’ll hurt you.”

“Look, he’s not the man you’re looking for. Maybe he looks a little like him? You’re holding him for no reason,” Drake insisted.

“So you say,” the younger man snarled.

“Come on,” Allie said, pulling on Drake’s arm.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go until the police get here, either,” the clerk said.

“What, now we’re your murderer, too? Make up your mind,” Allie said. The clerk looked unsure of himself, and Drake allowed himself to be dragged from the room by Allie. She whispered to him as they retreated a few steps, “We need to find a weapon.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. The cops will be here any second.”

“I can probably take at least two of them. Maybe Spencer can knock the ones closest to him out. We can still do this.”

“You’re going to get stabbed, Drake,” she warned.

“We can’t just leave him,” Drake said, his tone hardening. “Do you have anything in your bag?”

“Are you kidding? With airport security? Not even nail clippers.”

Drake wordlessly handed her the bag and returned to the room.

The clerk looked surprised, but Drake didn’t give him the opportunity to react, instead throwing himself at the nearest man and receiving a sharp blow to his bruised ribs with a wooden dowel as his reward. Drake grunted in pain but knocked the dowel loose, and then another blow from the man’s companion dropped Drake to his knees. Spencer tried to kick the feet out from under the assailant in front of him, but he saw it coming and dodged it.

Allie screamed as the clerk lunged to stab Drake, and then a gunshot rang out, deafening everyone in the small room. All heads swiveled toward the doorway, where a man in his mid-thirties stood with a pistol leveled at the Indians. The newcomer’s red hair and pale skin shone in stark contrast to the locals’ swarthy complexions.

“All right. Party’s over. Let them go,” he barked in American-accented English, shifting his aim to the pair by Spencer. “Now, or the next shot will be one of you.”

“You’re… you’re not the police,” the clerk stammered, fear in his eyes.

“Let them go or I’m the last thing you’ll ever see. That’s who I am.”

The Indians stepped away from Drake and Spencer. The man nodded. “Good. Now drop your weapons.”

They did as instructed, and Drake struggled to his feet. Spencer joined him, and the gunman cocked his head, his eyes never leaving the locals. He stepped aside so Drake and Spencer could edge past him, and then spoke quietly to the Indians in fluent Hindi. When he was done, they all nodded, the color drained from their faces. He swept the room with the pistol to drive home whatever point he’d made, and the clerk kicked the knives and clubs to the door, where the gunman toed the weapons into the hall.

“Follow me. We don’t have much time,” the gunman hissed as he brushed past them and then hurried toward the rear stairs, not waiting for a response. Spencer, Drake, and Allie exchanged confused looks and then bolted after their mystery savior as sirens approached on the street below.

A dark SUV idled at the rear of the hostel, and the gunman ran to its rear fender and beckoned to them to hurry. He slid through the passenger door and turned to the driver, a white-haired man with a gray pallor who reeked of nicotine, as they piled into the rear and pulled the door closed.

“Get us out of here, Roland.”

The driver floored the gas and the SUV lurched forward, its big engine propelling them down the alley like a rocket. He slowed at the last possible minute and skidded around the corner onto a larger street, nearly colliding with a rickshaw, which swerved and struck a bicyclist, sending the hapless rider sprawling. The motor revved as the driver worked the gears to maximize traction, and then his eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

“We’ve got company,” he said in French-accented English.

“Damn,” the gunman said. “We have to lose them.”

“Hard to outrun a radio,” Spencer remarked from the backseat.

The gunman ignored him and whipped a phone from his shirt pocket. He thumbed the screen to life and tapped at a menu. A map filled the display and he zoomed in. “Take the next left,” he ordered.

The Frenchman didn’t hesitate or slow, rounding the corner at sufficient speed to send the SUV into a controlled drift as the tires protested with a howl like a wounded animal. Allie’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the door handle, and Drake watched grimly as they narrowly avoided slamming into the back of a bus. Roland braked at the last possible instant and downshifted like a Formula One champion, and then they were past the bus and barreling along the street. The SUV’s passenger-side fender slammed into a cart that appeared from between two cars, sending fruit flying and splattering against the windshield. The driver swore as the glass cracked, and then cursed again when the wipers merely smeared orange goop across half the windshield, effectively blinding him. He pressed the washer button repeatedly and some of the covering dissolved enough to see.

“I hope you’ve got some ideas,” he muttered.

“There’s a right coming up in sixty meters. Take it, and then slow down,” the gunman said. “There’s a canal on the left — there may be a maintenance gate or something. It’s worth a try.”