The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 60

Peacocks prowled the grounds of Mehta’s palatial residence as he prepared to go to sleep. The day had been trying, and he hadn’t gotten back to Delhi until early evening, the trek from the hills and wait for his private jet to arrive having consumed most of his time. He’d contacted his people in the Indian government and notified them of the attack on the mine, and they’d agreed to shield him from any repercussions. Only an hour ago he’d spoken to the number three man in the administration, who’d filled him in on the latest events: the Americans, working with the Indian government, had blown the caverns, sealing them forever against prying eyes, and India had declared the area a protected heritage site, off-limits without special approval that would never be issued under any circumstances.

The slave population had been bused to a remote staging area fifty miles away, and Mehta was asked to donate funds to secure each survivor a workable plot of land — for which he’d receive a full tax deduction, of course. He’d agreed, and the problem was solved, just like that, without Mehta having to admit to any culpability. As to the yellowcake that the terrorists had purchased, there was no mention, and he assumed that the Americans had spirited the evidence away.

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.