Russell Blake: The Goddess Legacy

He tossed back the final inch of Johnny Walker Blue Scotch that he’d poured to calm his nerves and swallowed a sleeping pill, the residual adrenaline from the last calamitous twenty-four hours buzzing through his system and threatening him with a second sleepless night. He stood at his balcony doors, looking through the bulletproof glass at the perfectly manicured lawn stretching into the darkness, and nodded at the sight of one of his guards patrolling inside the tall wrought-iron fence. All was well that ended well, he thought, and turned to his bed with a sigh, the satin sheets inviting him as the pill took hold. He glanced at the dagger on his bedside table and made a mental note to have it returned to his brother tomorrow, the final order of the entire ugly episode thereby concluded, and harmony returned to the universe.

Mehta walked to the bed and shed his robe, and then slid beneath the sheets and switched the lights off, his eyelids drooping as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Minutes later his breathing was deep and regular, his waking concerns banished by the potent combination of drugs and alcohol.

Five hours later, Mehta shifted in his sleep as a shadow crossed his face, blocking the moonlight. He kicked off the top sheet, trying to get comfortable, and then jolted awake as a hideous stench overpowered him.

Mehta’s eyes bugged out as the golden dagger stabbed into his stomach and sliced up toward his ribcage. He tried to scream, but his lungs refused to cooperate, and then the razor wire of a garrote bit into his neck, pushed down with the full weight of the cult assassin, the ropey muscles of the killer’s forearms straining from the effort. Mehta’s last vision was the black eyes of a madman glaring death into his soul as his life seeped from his body.

The cultist straightened and wiped the dagger clean on Mehta’s pillow as blood dripped from the bedspread onto the creamy white marble floor. He paused by the night table and studied the photograph of Mehta and Swami Baba Raja at the swami’s ashram. He peered in the gloom at the sacred idol of the goddess glowing in the display case in the background, and then slid the framed image and the dagger into his satchel as he vanished through the balcony doors into the New Delhi night.

Spencer went in search of a cocktail as Drake and Allie sat in the departure lounge at Indira Gandhi International Airport, waiting for their flight to Los Angeles to be called. True to his word, Monroe had made the murder charges against Spencer evaporate, and an apologetic junior inspector had met him at police headquarters to return his effects. Drake’s passport and things were untouched at the hotel, as though nothing had occurred, and other than an annoying bill for four days’ stay, during which he’d spent all of five minutes in the room, he was no worse for wear, except for a headache and two stitches from the torch blow to his face.

Allie was pensive as she stared at the planes taxiing on the tarmac, her mood morose ever since their discussion with the general. Drake shared her melancholy, the entire episode having soured him.

He reached over and took Allie’s hand, and she turned to him with a wan smile.

“Hey. You going to live?” he asked.

“The prognosis is positive.” She sighed. “I’m trying not to let this eat at me, but I’m failing miserably.”

“You did all you could, Allie. They’ll have better lives because of it. What more do you want?”

“You think Monroe would have just allowed it to continue if we hadn’t seen it? Haven’t you wondered about that? Or do you believe that he intended to shut it down all along?”

“I’d like to think our presence didn’t make him do the right thing — that it was planned.”

“You really believe that?”

“It’s unknowable, Allie. Why assume the worst? I prefer to focus on the positives. Let’s take him at his word.”

She eyed the discolored wound on his face. “Your Buddha-like serenity and acceptance amazes me sometimes.”

“It’s all an act. Inside I’m a stewing black cloud of rage.”

She brightened. “Really? That makes me feel better somehow.”

“Always glad to help.”

Allie squeezed his hand. “When we were tied to the post and the cult was coming for us — the priest or whatever was getting ready to kill us — you started to say something.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He looked away, his face flushing. “Well, whatever it was, I must have meant it, because I was convinced we were goners.”

“Deathbed confession?”

He leaned across and kissed her, taking his time, his tongue playing across her lips as his senses flooded with her smell and feel, and then pulled back, his breathing heavy. “I… the thought that I’d never see you again… that I got you into this, and we were going to die… I…”

She kissed him again, and didn’t stop until Spencer’s voice interrupted them. “There are children here. And I think that’s a nun giving you the look.”

Drake eyed him through slits. “Are you our chaperone?”

“I’ll just remind you that fiddling with smoke detectors in airplane bathrooms violates federal law.”

“Says the murderer,” Allie whispered.

Spencer looked around. “Ugly rumors, nothing more.” He grinned and took a seat next to Allie. “You want to try one more bowl of curry to go?”

“I’d rather be tied to the stake again,” Allie said. “Oh, and by the way, thank you for saving our lives.”

“Oh, finally someone remembers who risked it all to battle an army of killers. Very nice. Took you long enough.”

“Hey, I put you on my Christmas list. What more do you want?” Drake asked.

Spencer waggled his eyebrows. “Nothing says appreciation like a few dozen million. In case you think I’m hard to shop for. You don’t even have to wrap ’em.”

Drake shook his head. “Too impersonal. I was thinking a puppy. Or a donation to a home for wayward nymphomaniacs in your name.”

“Don’t be too thoughtful. I’m actually extremely shallow and easy to please,” Spencer said, and toasted them with his plastic cup of beer. “Sorry to interrupt. Name one of the kids after me. Little Spence.” He strolled away, leaving them to each other.

Allie inched closer to Drake and rested her head on his shoulder. “Just when I think I’ve seen your entire playbook, you come out of left field and throw me a curve, Drake Ramsey,” she whispered, and closed her eyes with a sigh.

Drake sat with Allie’s fingers intertwined with his and watched a hall full of strangers going about their involved business, texting and chatting and worrying about important matters in a future that was anything but assured, and he smiled to himself, his chest swelling to the bursting point at Allie’s words. He considered a thousand possible responses and opted for none, the comfortable silence and intimate connection between them saying everything he could have wanted to, and more.

There would be an eternity for words later.

Now it was time to go home.

Thanks for reading The Goddess Legacy ,

(Book III in the Drake Ramsey series.)

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