The Goddess Legacy

by Russell Blake

  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.

  Chapter 61

  New Delhi, India

  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.)

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  To get your free copy, just join my readers’ group here: http://bit.ly/rb-jet

  You can also follow me on Twitter at @Blakebooks, or like my Facebook page at Facebook.com/Russell.Blake.Books

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  Turn the page to read an excerpt from

  The Day After Never – Blood Honor

  Excerpt from

  The Day After Never – Blood Honor

  © Russell Blake 2016

  Author’s Note

  The Day After Never series portrays a future where civilization has broken down after a confluence of remarkable events – a deadly global pandemic and the resultant collapse of the monetary system. While it would be reassuring to say neither could happen, reality is that pandemics occur with some regularity every five to six generations, and the global monetary system is interconnected to a degree where the demise of one lynchpin player could cause a systemic collapse – one where faith is lost in paper money and the world suddenly finds itself without a mechanism to trade. Fiat currencies historically fail with some regularity, and it’s interesting to note that reserve currencies typically last thirty to forty years before a new standard supplants them. This was true when the dollar replaced the British pound in 1944, it was true when the gold-backed dollar collapsed following Nixon’s closure of the gold window in 1971–1973 (replaced by the petrodollar), and it nearly happened again in 2008 – but for global money printing by all the world’s central banks at historically unseen levels.

  The world envisioned in this scenario isn’t pretty, and The Day After Never series mines the dark side of human nature that surfaces when order collapses. My experience, having lived through a massive hurricane that shut down power, water, roads, hospitals, and the rule of law for two weeks in Mexico, is that when systems catastrophically fail, those entrusted with providing emergency services stay home to protect their own, while predators, sensing opportunity and weakn
ess, become emboldened and come out in force. The frightening part is that it only takes a small number of lawless miscreants to dominate the majority in those circumstances. What that says about us as a species isn’t pretty. But it’s been the case throughout history, and it’s only recently that a notion took hold that the world is a benign place and our better natures will prevail.

  This being a work of fiction, I’ve taken some liberties with accuracy, particularly with a small town in New Mexico and with pretty much everything about Pecos, Texas, which I’m sure is a lovely place to visit and live – only not so much in this apocalyptic future. Likewise, I’ve imagined a reality that may seem farfetched, but only to those who haven’t lived through a Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans or an Odile in Baja, Mexico. Anyone who has might find this reality far more plausible than they’d like, which for me, at least, makes it an interesting read.

  Thanks for giving The Day After Never series a shot, and I hope you enjoy this first installment, Blood Honor.

  Russell Blake

  2016

  Chapter 1

  Lucas squinted through a pair of binoculars at a horizon distorted by the heat of a broiling West Texas sun and scanned the barren landscape. Greenish-brown scrub blemished the hillsides like tumors. A big bay stallion shifted beneath him with a shake of its head, and he leaned slowly forward and patted its neck for reassurance.

  “Easy, Tango. I know it’s been a long one,” he murmured.

  The horse stilled and Lucas returned to his task, his mouth a thin line in a face dusted with two days’ growth. The straight brim of a brown beaver felt cowboy hat shaded steel gray eyes and skin bronzed from a life outdoors.

  A hot wind blew from the mountains to his left, carrying with it the scent of rain. A band of plum-colored clouds pulsed with flashes of lightning where the peaks met the sky – still a ways off, he calculated, at least four or five hours, which increased the chances that the storm might spend itself before reaching him.

  Not that he’d mind a night in the rain. He had his tent and his bedroll, and his saddlebags were loaded with sufficient gear to stand him for weeks. He couldn’t predict how long it might take to track the herd of feral horses he was pursuing, and on expeditions like this, he traveled well-prepared for anything nature or man could throw at him.

  Lucas’s attention fixed on a distant spire of brown dust. He lowered the spyglasses and glanced at the heavens. It would be dark in a few more hours. He eyed the old mechanical pilot’s watch on his wrist, not because he had much use for time anymore, but to help with reckoning. The dust was maybe five miles off, and he didn’t want to blow out his horse on the trek – Lucas would need the animal’s speed to lasso his targets, and that was the priority.

  He nodded to himself. At a moderate pace, he could make it to the dust by twilight.

  Lucas adjusted the M4A1 assault rifle strapped across his back and felt automatically for the stock of his Remington 700 Police DM .308-caliber rifle in its scabbard by his right knee.

  Not that he would need them.

  Assuming the dust was the herd.

  There wasn’t much to forage in the arid gulches, all the homes having long ago been abandoned and stripped of anything of value, but that didn’t stop looting parties from Mexico from making their way north. The situation south of what had once been the border was as bad or worse than it was here, and based on what he’d seen firsthand, life was cheap to the border scavengers. They lived hardscrabble from anything they could steal, and would kill a man just as soon as look at him – gringo or Mexican, didn’t much matter.

  That was one of the reasons Lucas avoided the deserted highways that spanned the area. Other than the pavement being hard on Tango’s hooves, there were the depressing hulks of rusting vehicles dotting the road, left where they’d run dry. Even now, five years after the day everyone had said would never come, the highway was a threat, and there were still scum who lay in wait to ambush travelers – often desperate families trundling carts loaded with their possessions, heading toward somewhere they’d heard might hold better prospects for a life. Fuel had long ago degraded and was unusable, even diesel, leaving survivors to cobble together whatever they could for transportation – bicycles, animals, it didn’t matter as long as it enabled them to keep moving.

  “Fool’s errand,” he spat, and stopped at the dry sound of his voice. Talking to his horse was one thing; holding conversations with himself was a warning sign – one of many he was alert to. The fear that he might be cracking up was constant since things had come unraveled.

  Lucas made a clicking sound from the corner of his mouth and Tango plodded onward, the horse’s footing unsure on the loose shale. The soft sough of the wind was the only sound besides Tango’s clomping and an occasional snort. Lucas’s senses told him he was alone, but he remained alert. His clothes blended with the backdrop, and he hoped his worn jeans, tan shirt, and plate carrier in desert camouflage made him a difficult target. Unlike in the movies, it was harder than hell to tag a moving figure from any distance, especially with a brisk wind.

  He grunted as they moved over a particularly difficult section, and he urged Tango forward, Lucas’s lower back protesting the jolting ride. What he wouldn’t have given for an ATV, or even a dirt bike, much less a four-wheel drive vehicle like his old truck. He’d loved that big Chevy; the truck, like his M4, had been a perk of his service as one of the youngest Texas Rangers in the history of the force, operating with the E Division out of El Paso. But the vehicle, like the organization, hadn’t lasted, and it had been a sad day when he’d left it for dead in the high desert.

  The sun was a red ember sinking into the line of clouds when the reports of rifles reached him from the distance. The distinctive chatter of automatic weapons rattled in bursts across the landscape, barely louder than muffled firecrackers, but unmistakable. Tango drew up short, and Lucas’s eyes narrowed as he soothed the horse.

  “Looks like the dust wasn’t the herd,” he whispered.

  The shooting stopped after several minutes. He guessed that he was still at least a mile away. Lucas scanned the horizon again with the binoculars but saw nothing. Whatever had occurred had taken place out of sight, over a far crest.

  His instinct was to investigate – if there was a band of gunmen in the area, he needed to know sooner than later and would cut short his search for wild horses until they cleared out. He intended to use the animals for barter – the ranch was running low on stock items he could trade at a nearby outpost – but he had to be alive to do so, and he wouldn’t be able to cover his tracks adequately while droving unruly mustangs.

  “Come on, Tango. Time to earn your feedbag.” Lucas guided the horse to his left, opting for a circuitous path to avoid detection.

  Purple and salmon streaked the sky as he dismounted near the crest and tied Tango to a scraggly mesquite tree. He withdrew the Remington 700 rifle and patted the four spare thirty-round magazines of 5.56mm full-metal-jacketed rounds for the M4 in his ATS Aegis V2 plate carrier vest, reassured by the weight of his pride and joy, a Kimber 1911 Tactical Custom II .45 semiautomatic pistol on his hip. Lucas checked the safety and the flash suppressor on the M4, and then his gaze rose to the ebony forms of buzzards wheeling overhead.

  Lucas removed his hat as he crept toward the rise and froze behind a cover of dense brush. Bodies lay strewn around the base of a dry gulch. Lucas could tell at a glance that the group near the center had been ambushed from above – it was obvious from their position that the defenders had died staving off the attack.

  He regarded the area through his binoculars for several minutes, taking his time to study the bodies: four men wearing army-surplus camouflage shirts and pants, two with plate carriers over their shirts, clutching the distinctive shapes of their AR-15s or M16s. Two of their horses had been gunned down and were already bloating nearby, with a crude travois fashioned from a pair of crossed poles collapsed behind one of them. Nearby, thick crimson globule
s trailed up the arroyo, probably from horses that had been wounded, but not so badly they couldn’t put distance between themselves and the battleground.

  Five assailants ringed the area, their blood streaked against the hard rocks where they’d fallen as they’d closed in. In his mind’s eye Lucas could visualize the battle, which he knew from the shooting had been short and fierce. Judging by the tracks, the smaller group had been traveling northwest along the gulch toward a small lake, where they’d probably planned to spend the night. The attackers had chosen an advantageous spot and, with the sun to their backs, opened fire. But they’d been overconfident and moved in too quickly, suffering heavy casualties in their haste.

  Lucas squinted at the steep rock face of the opposite wall of the ravine, dotted with cave openings, wary of any possibility of ambush. Movement from near one of the fallen men in camo drew his attention, and he watched as a vulture withdrew its bloody beak from where it had been feasting. The big bird cocked its head in his direction and sized him up, and then flapped its ebony wings and returned to its meal, having decided Lucas posed no immediate threat from the crest.

  It was unlikely that any of the attackers remained, or the buzzards would have been more cautious. Besides, there was no reason for anyone to stick around – assuming there had been any survivors. He didn’t see any horses, so theirs had likely run off as well. More for Lucas to capture, he reasoned pragmatically. Better domesticated animals than wild ones. Easier to sell.

  Lucas had seen plenty of death since the collapse. Unmoved, he returned to Tango and remounted. The days of reckoning, of law and order, of consequences, were over, leaving in their wake a brutal alternative of predator and prey. When he’d been a Ranger, he would have made it his life’s mission to hunt down any surviving attackers and drag them to justice, but now no such concept existed, other than that issuing from the barrel of a gun.