Chapter 8
The final stretch to the hostel was an obstacle course through a gathering of the homeless, who had taken over an abandoned building in the last block and whose numbers had spread out onto the sidewalk. Small fires burned in improvised fire pits, and a radio blared a tinny cacophony that resembled the sound of a cat with empty cans tied to its tail, fighting its way out of a music store. The gaunt faces of men and women who hadn’t eaten in days, desperately in need of medical care for a plethora of ailments, stared up at them as they neared, and Allie hesitated, slowing Drake with her.
“Is there another way?” she asked softly.
“Not if we’re going to beat the cops to the hostel.”
“Drake…”
“Don’t worry. They’re the least of our problems,” Drake assured her, his tone more confident than he felt.
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.
Chapter 9
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 betwe
en 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.”
Roland dared a glance at the gunman. “If they get choppers in the air, we’re in serious trouble.”
“Remote chance they can respond that quickly. I like our odds.”
“It will occur to them soon enough.”
“By which time we’ll be gone.”
The heavy vehicle leaned precariously as it made the right, and the Frenchman had to fight to bring the steering back under control before decelerating to a more sane speed. All eyes were on the chain-link fence that ran alongside the dark canal, and Roland slowed further when he saw a gate.
“Can you blow through it?” the gunman asked.
“You pay the insurance, not me.”
He pointed the hood at the gate and accelerated as the SUV neared it. The gate exploded off its hinges and flew off to the side, and then they were bouncing down a rutted dirt track. Dense vegetation surrounded them, and branches scratched at the windshield and body as they tore by.
The canal was full of rushing brown water, but the driver managed to keep the vehicle’s wheels clear of it enough to achieve reasonable progress. The gunman’s phone trilled and he answered it, spoke a few hushed words, and then terminated the call. He turned to the driver.
“Can you get us to the Yamuna River by the Nizamuddin bridge?”
Roland’s eyes darted to the mirror and then back to the road. “Anything’s possible.”
The gunman gave him further instructions. “Everything’s ready.”
The Frenchman considered him. “You may wish to take a taxi. Split up. That way if we’re stopped, they’ve got nothing.”
“No time. They may be slow, but they’ll mobilize, and we could see roadblocks, at least overnight.”
The driver shrugged. “Your call.”
“That’s right, it is. Get us back on a road as soon as you see an opening. They’ll tumble to the broken gate eventually.”
Spencer and Drake watched the exchange without comment. Drake took Allie’s hand and was relieved when she didn’t pull away. Any anger she’d felt at being subjected to immediate danger after arriving had apparently been forgotten, although Drake was only cautiously optimistic.
“Who are you?” Spencer asked the gunman as the driver swerved onto a concrete ramp that led to a street above.
“I’ll explain later.”
“How about now?” Drake tried.
“Right now, the less you know, the better. If you’re captured, you know nothing. That’s the way I like it.”
The gunman’s tone didn’t leave any room for argument, and Drake settled back into the seat as the SUV accelerated and shredded through another gate. The passenger-side mirror blew off from the impact and the cracked windshield frosted on the gunman’s side, but if the Frenchman cared about the damage, he gave no sign.
The gunman checked his phone map again and nodded. “We should be there in ten minutes. Fifteen on the outside,” he said.
“We’ll want another vehicle.”
“I’ll arrange it by morning.”
“Where are we going?” Allie asked.
“Somewhere nobody will think of looking for you in a million years.”
Spencer tried again. “Why are you helping us?”
The gunman laughed humorlessly. “Obviously, because I want something.”
“Money?”
It was the driver’s turn to chuckle. “I’ll take some if you’re offering.”
The gunman shook his head. “I’ll tell you soon enough.”
“What do you want?” Drake demanded.
The gunman twisted around in his seat and studied Drake for a long beat, and then turned back around.
“I asked you a question,” Drake said.
The gunman nodded. “I heard you. Now hear me. We’ll discuss it once we’re off the road. Until then, you’re to keep your mouth shut so you don’t distract us. That’s not an option, and if you don’t like it, you can try your luck out there,” he said, pointing at a slum to their left. “You’d last about ten minutes. They’d cut your throat for your shoes, much less any money you might have, and you’d be praying for the police to find you and drag you off to prison. Want to test my patience? Because I’m in a seriously bad mood, and I’m getting tired of being interrogated like a schoolboy while I save your sorry ass.”
Drake decided to err on the side of prudence and sat back. Allie squeezed his hand, which was slim comfort as they bounced along to an unknown destination in a country he’d already grown to hate in only a few short hours.
Chapter 10
India-governed Jammu and Kashmir
Two men carried a stretcher down a trail toward a clearing near the ruins of an ancient stone structure, now little more than rubble. Three more toted torches, whose flames provided light in the darkness. Fog curled around them, lending them the appearances of spectral phantoms as they trudged down the path. All wore the traditional garb of mountain peasants: stained, ragged handmade robes and callused bare feet.
At the clearing, they approached a tall post at the center of a flat stone area, perhaps once a terrace or courtyard but now unrecognizable. The men were obviously nervous, glancing around furtively as they set the stretcher on the ground.
A rail-thin young man lay on the coarse canvas, clad only in an orange loincloth, his form so emaciated that his ribs jutted through his skin. He moaned and glanced at his bearers first in confusion and then in growing horror as he realized where he’d been taken. He’d never been to the cursed place, but the legends were of nightmare proportion, and evil seemed to emanate from the ruins like poison smoke.
“No…” he managed, his voice a croak. “Please. I beg you.”
The torch carriers looked away, and one of the two stretcher bearers grunted as he knelt beside him. “Your time is almost at hand. Be brave. It is an honor,” he said.
“It’s…a…a…gah,” he gasped, his energy spent.
“Your approval is not required.”
“Please. Water.”
The other stretcher bearer frowned. “Why waste it on the likes of him?”
The two men lifted the boy’s frail form and dragged him to the post, where they lashed his wrists behind him so the pole supported him in a standing position. Even in the dark they could make out the stained stone beneath it, the regular rains insufficient to rinse them completely clean. After studying their handiwork, one of the torchbearers walked to an old brass bell suspended from a nearby tree and rang it twice, and then tossed his torch onto a pile of branches and kindling ringed by stones. Orange tongues of flame licked from the fire pit as he raced to rejoin his companions, his expression frightened.
The bell’s last peal echoed through the area as the men rushed back up the path, and soon the faint glow of their torches had dimmed to nothing. The youth’s eyes drifted shut as silence reclaimed the clearing. His breathing was shallow, and his chin rested on his emaciated chest.
A sound from across the field jolted him back to full alertness, and his eyes popped open in terror. A procession of robed figures shambled toward him from out of the darkness. A monotone chant preceded them, one word, over and over, barely distinguishable, but to the youth as clear as the ringing of the bell. The name of the goddess of destruction, the deity that the approaching cult worshipped, the object of their devotion…and bloodlust.
Kali.
He offered a silent prayer and resolved to accept his
fate without resistance. His strength had long since abandoned him; his body was nothing but a shell, powerless to fight an unstoppable force older than history. Nothing he said, no plea or offer, would halt the cult’s macabre ceremony, and he wouldn’t spend his last moments demeaning himself. He knew that he was wasting away from the illness that had claimed so many of his brethren – a byproduct of the work he’d been laboring at since a toddler – so at worst, these twisted animals would deprive him of the lingering moments of agony a death from that affliction would entail. In the end, perhaps they were doing him a favor, and he begged the universe to make his departure swift and painless.
The column stopped before him, and the leader looked him in the eyes, chilling his blood. The youth was looking into the face of hell – he knew then that the whispered rumors of timeless evil were no exaggeration. The man’s distorted grimace, the scars where his lips and tongue had been seared away with a glowing brand upon childhood initiation into the cult, the teeth honed to spikes – all were worse than the legends, as was the reek wafting from him as he leaned forward and hissed at the youth like a snake, unable to speak or form words, his dark goddess’s name a hoarse moan when mangled in atonal chant. His hair and beard were threaded with long strips of dry human skin, and a necklace of finger bones and desiccated ears hung low over the man’s bare chest smeared with ash and tattooed with forbidden occult talismans.
These were the infamous descendants of the Thuggee, the murderous cult that had preyed on India for centuries before supposedly being eradicated by the British, from which the English term thug had been derived. Most of the Thuggee had been opportunistic robbers, who would infiltrate caravans as innocent travelers, and once having earned their trust, would turn on them, strangling them and stealing their riches. But this sect was the worst of the worst, an extremist offshoot that had survived in the remotest reaches of the country, whose worship of the goddess of destruction was the stuff of whispered infamy and whose practices were abominations – cannibalism, human sacrifice, necrophilia…every imaginable desecration, including living in burial grounds and smearing themselves with excrement and the rotting flesh of the dead.
The Goddess Legacy Page 5