The Goddess Legacy

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.