The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 1

Old Delhi, India

A pall of exhaust hung over India’s capital city, a hazy cloud that lingered in the still night air like a toxic mist. Elliott Carson, light-headed from the third celebratory cocktail he’d downed against his better judgment only minutes before, walked unsteadily down what passed for a sidewalk, dodging piles of refuse. The restaurant’s festive lights receded in the gloom behind him, and as he made his way down the dark street, he realized that it was later than he’d thought, his meeting having taken considerably longer than planned. Still, it had been worth it, and now that the question of financing was answered, he was tantalizingly close to his objective.

The area was deserted; the daytime crowds had vanished as the sun sank into the horizon, leaving the street eerily silent. His footsteps sounded unsteady to his ear, and he picked up his pace, wary of inviting unwanted attention in a district that could get ugly at a moment’s notice.

Two men in dark robes stepped from a doorway halfway down the narrow block, and Carson’s stomach tightened. He told himself that he was too close to the main boulevard for there to be any danger, but his breath caught in his throat when he got a better look at the approaching figures, their onyx eyes glinting in the faint light from a passing car and their body language radiating menace. Adrenaline flooded his senses at the urgent determination in their stride, and he realized belatedly that he was anything but safe on the empty sidewalk.

Carson made a snap decision and darted between two cars. A loud honk blared from his right as he stepped into the street and narrowly dodged the front fender of a sedan barreling down on him. He cursed and skirted an overloaded truck lumbering along in the opposite direction, laborers on the running boards gripping the roof rack for support, and then continued across once the vehicle passed.

He hopped across a wide puddle and almost slipped when he landed hard, wrenching his ankle. He winced but kept moving and, when he reached the far curb, glanced over his shoulder.

The men were nowhere to be seen.

Carson shook his head to clear it and exhaled as he gingerly stepped onto the uneven concrete rise. A stream of noxious fluid, the surge the last of the runoff from a late afternoon cloudburst, burbled in the gutter around a clot of trash. A figure stepped into his path from the gloom and Carson stiffened. The man’s hand was outstretched, blocking Carson’s way.

A few rupees, mister? a sandpaper voice pleaded in heavily accented English.

Carson’s nose wrinkled at the stench drifting from the beggar, a rancid combination of filth, sour sweat, and decay. The vagrant eyed him hopefully through milky eyes, his jaundiced skin the texture of old leather, his trembling arm little more than bones and sinew. Carson pushed past, leaving the beggar leaning on a makeshift crutch fashioned from a broom handle, the soiled bandages that enveloped his stump of a left leg dotted with flies.

Carson’s pulse thudded in his ears as he willed himself calm, chastising himself for allowing his imagination to get the better of him. The main avenue was only two more blocks, and he’d be there in no time. He could easily do this.

Running footfalls thudded in his wake as he turned the corner, and his relief dissolved into fear – the city had a deserved reputation as treacherous for the unwary. He looked around for a taxi, but there were no cars on this street, and he swore under his breath at his carelessness. He’d dropped his guard for only a moment, but that had been enough in a town that offered no quarter. His pale complexion announced him as easy prey, a visitor in a country where he didn’t belong, and now his pursuers were closing in, no doubt planning to mug him.

Carson hurried along the narrow strip of sidewalk toward the far intersection. The long block seemed to stretch endlessly before him, leaving him to navigate around muddy gaps in the concrete where the pavement had washed away. He dared a look behind him but didn’t see anything other than iron-barred windows and shadowy doorways, and he slowed as he quelled the panic he’d succumbed to.

What was wrong with him?

It wasn’t like he was helpless – he’d spent his life in the military, where he’d seen enough combat to fuel decades of sleepless nights with the phantoms of his squad mates and those he’d gunned down. Even now he cut an imposing figure for a man of his years, his silver hair cropped close to his skull, his shoulders square, frown lines scoring a seasoned face beneath hard cobalt eyes. Any thieves foolhardy enough to tackle him would be in for an unpleasant surprise, he assured himself, although the coil of anxiety in his gut twisted tighter as he strode past crumbling, graffiti-marred façades.

Carson swerved abruptly, narrowly avoiding a pile of cow dung in his path, a regular consequence of the sacred beasts that roamed unfettered even in the cosmopolitan areas. He skirted the lump and stopped in his tracks when another figure appeared from the shadows ahead of him, moving with a cautious precision that he instantly recognized as professional.

He looked around for anything he could use as a weapon, but saw nothing. Carson quickly calculated the distance to the next street and his odds of dodging the newcomer, but dismissed it. Soles pounding on the street behind him decided his course, and he ran to a dark opening between two buildings – a pedestrian walkway between deteriorating tenements. He sprinted down the muddy track and then skidded to a stop when he came face-to-face with a massive head, its baleful eyes staring at him with bovine indifference.

Carson glared at the cow in the faint light and edged past it, ignoring the pink dust that rubbed on his clothes from where its hide had been festively colored by the faithful. He was just past the enormous beast when he heard his pursuers trail him into the passage. He slapped the cow’s haunch to goad it into charging them and sprinted as fast as he could for the far end, not waiting to see the effect of his effort.

At the next street he spotted a taxi creeping his way and flagged it down, hoping he didn’t look so frantic he would scare the driver off. The car slowed to a stop, and he was reaching for the rear door handle when the pair emerged from the passageway behind him. The driver blanched at the sight and stomped on the gas, leaving Carson standing alone, fully exposed.

He tore toward the glowing doorway of a curry restaurant, where a dim yellow sign over the storefront promised the best food in all India, and edged by a startled hostess in a golden sari before shouldering his way through the packed dining room, past the cash register in the rear, and through a pair of scarred double doors.

A half dozen cooks labored over pots of steaming gruel beside two dishwashers in a corner, scrubbing wooden bowls. Across from them, a wiry man chopped vegetables on a length of plywood with an oversized blade, his expression blank, head bobbing slightly with the music from a boom box on a shelf over the prep area. All looked up at Carson in surprise as he burst into the cramped cooking area and made for the rear door. A cry of protest went up from the two closest women, one of whom shook a stew-slathered ladle at him. Ignoring the commotion, he ran to the exit, hoping his pursuers had decided their easy target was now too visible to attack.

He gagged at the stench rising from the garbage cans in the hot storage area and swung the shabby wooden door wide. Outside he skirted a dumpster and shuddered at the sight of rats scurrying away down glistening pavement. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he inched along the brick wall, straining his ears for any hint of pursuit.

Satisfied that he was in the clear, he strode toward the street at the end of the access way, his footsteps the only sound other than the distant hum of traffic and the constant percussive horn toots echoing off the high walls. As he neared the alley mouth, he gasped when a figure draped in the robes of a tantric priest stepped from the darkness to block his way. Carson recoiled at the man’s filthy, matted beard and hair, and then locked on his face – a demonic vision smeared with gray ash, his mangled mouth stretched into a permanent sneer by mottled scar tissue, revealing blackened teeth filed to sharp points. The man’s eyes bored into Carson, and then a hoarse rasp issued from his ruined lips and he leaned forward. His breath stank like an open grave. Moonlight glinted off the curved blade of a knife in his hand, and he hissed at Carson like a cobra as he feinted low and lunged.

Carson tensed, prepared to parry the thrust, and then abruptly jerked backward as razor-sharp wire looped over his head in a flash and bit into his larynx. His last breath gurgled from his ruined throat as powerful arms pulled the wire through sinew, tissue, and bone with a single heave. Carson’s body twitched spasmodically and collapsed in a heap, blood pulsing from his stub of neck. His head slammed against the pavement and bounced into the alley before settling five feet from his torso, where his sightless eyes stared in surprise at the unlikely spectacle of his headless corpse spasming in a crimson pool.

The robed man nodded once to his companion, who removed a cheap plastic raincoat that had shielded his garments from the shower of blood, and pocketed the garrote. The assassin rolled the slick covering into a neat bundle while the robed man knelt and quickly went through Carson’s pockets. Finding nothing but a wallet and a room key, he straightened and shook his head.

The pair soundlessly vanished into the gloom, leaving Carson’s remains to the rats making their way from the dumpster, the prospect of an easy meal having overpowered the animals’ natural caution. The restaurant’s service door opened with a creak and an outraged cook with a meat cleaver stepped outside, but his anger turned to panic at the grisly spectacle of ravenous vermin overwhelming the body near the alley mouth.

Chapter 2

Kindly return your seat backs to their upright positions in preparation for landing.

The public address system crackled with an announcement warning the passengers that their flight was on final approach to Indira Gandhi International Airport. Trim flight attendants in starched uniforms strolled along the first-class aisle with professional courtesy smiles in spite of the turbulence that buffeted the big jet as it shed altitude.

Drake Ramsey offered the nearest attendant his empty glass and returned to looking through the window at the distant glow of the Indian capital’s lights. He shifted in the seat and rubbed tired fingers through his longish brown hair, wondering for the thousandth time what he was doing flying to India only ten days after returning from Myanmar. That episode had resulted in him swearing to himself that he would stay put for a while, but when Spencer had called the prior morning, everything had gone sideways.

Drake replayed the conversation as the drone of the big motors changed, the plane slowing as it descended through scattered clouds.

What do you mean ‘the game’s afoot’? Drake had demanded after his partner in crime had announced he was in New Delhi. And what are you doing in India? We just got home.

Spencer had sounded excited. One of my friends, an instructor from my misspent military years, called me out of the blue. He’d seen the coverage on our Paititi discovery, and he had a proposition for me.

So you flew halfway across the world?

This guy’s serious as a heart attack, Drake. If he says he needs to see me in person, he means it. So, yeah, I got on a plane. It’s not like I had much else to do in California, so why not?

Um, because it’s nuts, for starters?

Dude, just listen, will you? I met with him and he told me that since he retired, he’s been on the hunt for a treasure that disappeared in India a few hundred years ago. Could be bigger than Paititi, if the legends are true, Spencer said, referring to their discovery of the lost Inca city of gold.

That’s nice. But how are you involved?

He needs money.

Of course. Did he mention that he’s also the former Nigerian petroleum minister, and all he needs is to pay a few small fees so he can transfer a hundred million to you?

Drake, you’re not hearing me. The guy’s a straight arrow, and he’s onto something. But he’s not rich, so when he ran into a situation where money could take him to the next level, he reached out to me.

But your cash is all tied up, Drake said, resisting the urge to remind Spencer that he was effectively broke until the hedge fund to which he’d entrusted his fortune disgorged whatever remained of it.

Don’t remind me. But that’s where you come in. I told him about our little team, and he was willing to discuss cutting us in if we help him across the finish line.

Drake had begun to protest, but Spencer cut him off. Dude, this is huge, and he’s really close to finding the treasure. This might be a slam dunk. And we’re talking mega treasure. More than you can imagine.

Can you be more specific? No offense, but you’re asking me to fly to India, and the surf’s perfect here right now. And Allie’s supposed to arrive at the end of the week…

Think with your brain for a minute, bro. You ever hear of a guy named Nadir Shah?

Plays for the Lakers, doesn’t he? From Serbia or something?

Spencer had ignored his barb. He was the ruler of Persia back in the early eighteenth century. Meaner than a striped snake, liked to build towers out of his enemies’ bones, an old school badass in the Genghis Khan mold.

Probably wasn’t breastfed as a child.

He invaded India, and after he did his conquest thing, he looted the country, which was seriously prosperous at the time.

That’s the treasure?

Sort of. The legends tell of a caravan over a hundred and fifty miles long of treasure bearers. Elephants, cattle, horses, carts, you name it, toting massive amounts of gold and jewels.

Wait. I did read something about that. Wasn’t the Iranian throne part of the take?

Spencer had cleared his throat. That’s right. The Peacock Throne. But that’s a replica. The original vanished without a trace, although some of the jewels reappeared and are now part of the British crown jewels.

It disappeared? What happened to it?

Nobody’s sure. But the likeliest is that the Brits confiscated it and melted it down.

Bummer. But where does that leave your bud?

He’s not after that. Apparently, part of the convoy got waylaid as it passed from India to Pakistan or Afghanistan. It’s unclear exactly where, but the stories have it that a big chunk vanished when the final group got separated from the main column in a monsoon, and the treasure’s never been found.

Drake paused to absorb Spencer’s account. And your guy thinks he knows where it is?

That’s right. He’s located a relic that he believes has the clue he needs to locate it precisely. He’s got a general idea of the area, but this apparently is like a treasure map.

X marks the spot?

Nothing’s ever that easy, but you get the gist.

Drake sighed in resignation. How much does he need, Spencer? What are we talking?

It’s not just the money. He could use some help. He’s not a young guy.

How much, Spencer?

Hundred grand to start.

That’s it? Drake said, clearly relieved. I’ll wire it to you and still have time to catch some curls.

No, you need to call Allie and get on the first plane out. He read all about you, and it’s a package deal. I told him you’d be overjoyed.

You what?

Drake, you’re a treasure hunter. This is treasure. Time to go hunting.

I still have bruises from our last cluster fu–

Pack a bag, bring some cash, and hop the next flight here. Charter something if you have to. Clock’s ticking, and he’s afraid this one’s going to get away from him.

What does he need the hundred grand for?

He located some icon that he’s sure describes where the treasure’s stashed. He made a deal to buy it, but he only has until Friday to come up with the rest of the money. Like I said, he’s retired, and he’s burned through his savings chasing the treasure. Spencer hesitated. Come on. It’s not like you’ve got a board meeting or something you can’t miss.

I do. A longboard, to be precise, and the waves are calling.

I need your help, Drake. You and Allie. I’ll take care of the rooms.

By the end of the call, Spencer had been able to talk Drake into a mad rush to the airport, where he’d jetted to Singapore and from there caught his current flight to New Delhi. Now, twenty-four hours later, Drake was dropping from the sky like a disgraced Greek god on little more than a whim, and his only consolation was that he’d somehow managed to entice Allie to join him.

Drake’s thoughts turned to her, and he pressed back in his seat, his lower back sore from sustained confinement. A vision of soft brunette curls and the most gorgeous eyes he’d ever seen flooded his imagination, and it took a hard bump from rough air sending a shudder through the fuselage to jar him back to the present. After the Myanmar adventure, Allie had returned to Texas and was scheduled to move to California to be with Drake – or at least to pursue their budding romance and see where the trail led. After they’d discovered Paititi, they’d become gazillionaires – but Allie had quickly discovered, as had Spencer, that money brought its own problems, and litigious parasites had come out of the woodwork. But she was settling the legal actions that fortune hunters had brought, and Allie had assured him that she was ready to start a new life on the left coast. And now she was only days from making the move, which Drake had been anticipating with the optimism of a toddler waiting for Santa.

The landing gear descended with a groan and the wing flaps rose to slow the plane’s speed, and then they were bouncing along the runway, deceleration pushing him forward against the seatbelt as the terminal lights blurred by. Once at the gate Drake freed his duffel, containing little more than a few shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts, from the overhead bin. He wasn’t planning to be in India for long, and if he ran out of clothes, he figured he could just buy local to get through.

Drake passed through customs and immigration and exited the terminal into sweltering pandemonium. Voices cried out over the pitches from hotel touts and tour guides, and an anxious crowd waved at new arrivals from illegally parked cars of every imaginable variety. Drake made his way to a long taxi line, and after a ten-minute wait, took a seat in the back of a well-used sedan and gave the driver Spencer’s hotel name. The man nodded and made a cursory attempt at friendly banter, but Drake was too tired to engage; the long flights had been too rough for him to get much besides snatches of inebriated sleep.

Traffic was beyond awful as the cab worked its way along the boulevards, a rush-hour stop-and-go nightmare of kamikaze motorcyclists, stalled vehicles, cars cutting each other off for a few feet of perceived advantage, and general mayhem unlike anything Drake had ever seen. And everywhere there were the unfortunates, many of them disabled and wearing little more than rags, seated on stoops and curbs, pleading for alms or trying to hawk items they’d found or stolen.

The taxi’s air conditioning did little to alleviate the misery of muggy congestion, and by the time they neared the hotel, Drake’s T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. At the hotel’s parking entrance, Drake got his first taste of New Delhi hospitality when the car was surrounded by beggars, desperation in their eyes, every sort of infirmity on display as they pressed against the glass. He winced at the sight of seeping open sores on one man’s arms and was fishing in his pocket for change when security guards approached wielding batons, scattering the panhandlers so the car could get through.

Bloody layabouts, the driver muttered as he rolled forward, his tone hard.

The car pulled to a stop beneath a gilded overhang, where orange flames licked from two clay vessels that framed the entry. Drake paid the driver while a doorman stood by in an outfit that would have done an admiral proud, and once free of the taxi he stepped through ornately wrought iron and glass doors into the cool interior. The lobby was a stark contrast to the grime and misery of the street, all polished vanilla marble floors and sparkling chandeliers and pert, crisply attired attendants beaming welcoming smiles.

One of a dozen staff behind the reception counter hurried to greet him, her silky hair shining in a raven cascade, a traditional turquoise sari complementing her sparkling almond eyes.

Yes, sir. Welcome to the Royal Jasmine, she said, glancing at his small duffel with a neutral expression. Do you require assistance with your bags?

No, I’ve got it. You have a reservation for me. Drake Ramsey?

She tapped at a keyboard and nodded. Yes, sir. Right here. A suite on the second floor. May I see your passport?

Drake handed it over and waited while she retreated into the rear offices. Several minutes passed before she returned with a look of concern. I’m sorry, sir, but our Xerox machine seems to be down. Would you mind leaving your passport until we can run a copy?

Drake shrugged. That’s fine.

She handed him a golden key on a fob and nodded to a waiting bellman. Very good, sir. If you’d sign the register, Daljit will show you to your room.

Drake obliged as the bellman approached, and Drake followed him to a wide curved stairway. My apologies, sir. The elevator is out of order, Daljit said, and beckoned with a white-gloved hand to the stone slab steps. May I help you with your luggage?

No need. Just lead the way.

The second-floor hallway matched the lobby’s opulence, the tall room doors hand-carved and gleaming with fresh varnish. They continued to the end of the corridor, and Daljit stopped in front of the second-to-last entrance and held out his hand for the key. Drake passed it to him and he swung the door open and entered, flicking on the light before moving to the thermostat and activating the air conditioning. Drake patiently listened as the man offered a brief orientation of the suite’s many features, and slid several bills into his hand when he returned to the small foyer.

Ring us if you require anything at all. We’re here to make your stay pleasant and memorable, Daljit said with a small bow. Drake resisted the urge to return the gesture, electing to nod instead.

When Daljit had departed, Drake locked the door behind him and walked into the bedroom, where the bellman had placed his bag on a rack near a strip closet that ran the width of the wall. Drake sighed in relief beneath a stream of frigid air blowing from an overhead grill and headed into the bathroom. After a glance at his two-day growth in the mirror, he splashed water on his face. Fatigue was evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the discoloration making him look older than his twentysomething years. He was drying himself when he heard a clunk from the sitting room, and frowned as he tossed the towel aside and went to investigate.

Drake froze when one of the gold curtains that framed the glass balcony door stirred, and then Spencer stepped from behind it with an alarmed expression.

Spencer! Drake exclaimed. His friend crossed the room in three strides.

Quiet. We’ve got to get out of here now, Spencer hissed, eyes roaming the room. He grabbed Drake’s arm, practically dragging him to the open balcony doors.

What the hell–

Follow me, Spencer whispered, and then vanished through the gap, leaving Drake to follow him into the sweltering gloom.

Chapter 3

Spencer stood motionless on the balcony, head cocked at an angle as he listened intently. Drake nearly ran into him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Spencer held out a warning hand as a muffled pounding sounded from next door. He held a finger to his lips and then leaned into Drake, perspiration streaming from his hairline down his neck.

We can make it to the ground floor from the balcony. I’ll go first, he murmured.

What? Who’s after you? Drake whispered.

Spencer edged to the railing as though Drake hadn’t spoken and vaulted over in one smooth move. Drake could see his fingers gripping the metal lip, and then they disappeared, and he heard Spencer land on the veranda below with a thump. A crash echoed from the adjacent room – someone had kicked down the door.

The noise spurred Drake into action and he sped to the railing. Spencer was staring up at the balcony, motionless. Drake swung himself over the railing and hung suspended for a split second before dropping the remaining six feet and landing in an unsteady crouch. Spencer whispered to him as he scanned the manicured grounds.

You okay?

I…yeah.

Spencer pointed at an arch over a walkway that led along one wing of the hotel. If we’re lucky, we can give them the slip.

Drake had a thousand questions, but one glance at Spencer’s drawn expression convinced him to save them for later. Spencer led the way to the path and then stopped at the sight of police emergency lights strobing at the far end, by the hotel entrance. He looked around and met Drake’s eyes with an angry glare.

Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.

They returned to the arch and Spencer gestured at a dark grove of trees. Over there, he said, and with a final glance at the balcony, took off at a run, covering the twenty yards from the main building to the grove in seconds. Drake mimicked his sprint and paused beside