Page 85 of Circle of Death
She usually does.
What I’m thinking is that Dache knows the answer to Maddy’s question. He just doesn’t want to spoil the evening. Just like I know there’s still a supply of deadly bioagent out there in the world, waiting to be found and unleashed. Not to mention a crop of evil schemers angling to fill the shoes of Toor Bayani and Lucian Diaz.
“Let it go for tonight,” whispers Margo. “Enjoy this.” She plants a kiss on my cheek.
My wife is right, as usual. I’ll take a few sweet hours to celebrate life with my family and my friends, and give thanks that we’ve all survived this far. Tomorrow, it starts all over again.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when one evil dies, another rises up to replace it. It’s been that way for as long as I’ve been alive—which is a very long time.
The Shadow’s work is never done.
EPILOGUE
THE NEXT MORNING, Dan Rickter strokes his mottled gray beard as he motors slowly down the Hudson. He’s relieved to have his high-powered speedboat back. A kayaker found it floating mid-river about ten miles north. There’s no obvious damage, but Rickter is going easy until he can have his guy at the marina check things out.
As he purrs along the shoreline, he spots a piece of smooth driftwood floating about twenty feet out. He angles to avoid it. As he passes by, something makes him turn and look again.What the hell…?
Rickter cranks the wheel around, then shuts the engines down. As the boat drifts past the object, he peers over the stern and recoils.
He’s staring at a dead man’s back.
Rickter scans the river for help. Nobody in sight. He reaches out and pokes the body with his finger. It bobs lightly. Below the waterline, he can make out dangling gold pantlegs and a head with long, jet-black hair.
Stomach turning, he grabs a length of line and loops it around the torso. He grits his teeth and hauls the corpse aboard. The dead man flops onto the deck, faceup, eyes open and blank. The left side of his skull is caved in. A string of green weeds is wrapped around his bare muscular chest.
Rickter leans forward. Suddenly, he feels a blast inside his head, so sharp it makes his knees buckle. In his mind, he sees the same man—powerfully alive—dressed in a gold robe and surrounded by bolts of lightning. His eyes are flashing, his long black hair whipping in the wind, his name echoing like the howl of a hurricane.
Khaaaan!
Rickter stumbles back in shock, blinking as his vision clears. Suddenly, the corpse’s gut begins to bulge, like it’s boiling inside. Rickter is thrown against the steering wheel. He hears a sound like ripping canvas and sees the man’s belly split open from ribs to waist.
He watches, trembling, as nine fat eels slither out of the cavity, leaving a trail of blood and mucous on the deck. They wriggle on the cockpit floor like snakes, two feet long and thick as the corpse’s forearm, with gaping jaws and razor teeth.
Rickter kicks frantically. One of his shoes flies off. An eel wraps around his bare ankle like a wet fist. As he tries to twist away, he slips and lands on the slime-covered deck. In a second, the eels are on him, working their way into the legs of his shorts and up to his throat, digging in with sharp teeth—draining the life right out of him.
Rickter’s shrieks are loud and horrible, but they don’t last long.
Their work complete, the creatures slither overboard and move in relentless undulations toward Manhattan, like nerves of a single brain.
Khaaaan!
