Reign of Evil

“There are some who look at America and places England once called their own and remember how great we were.” Ian took another sip. “They forget that America lives today because of our greatness. Had we not set the colonies in motion you might never have existed.”

“It’s hard not to look back,” YaYa said, “knowing the rich history you’ve had. My own culture has its own share of problems trying to merge past greatness with the realities of today.”

Preeti joined in. “Add to that the rising sentiment that immigration is destroying our great nation.” She shook her head. “They don’t realize that I don’t think of myself as Indian first. I think of myself as English first.”

“Whenever things start going bad fingers start pointing.” Laws adjusted his sling and rubbed his shoulder where he’d had surgery. An eye patch covered one eye. “We have the same issues at home. People forget that America was created through immigration. What is it etched on the Statue of Liberty? Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” Laws grinned broadly. “And look at us. We are the sum, rather than the parts.”

Everyone drank at the same time, giving them a long quiet moment.

“Hey,” Yank asked. “Anyone hear from Genie?”

He’d been gone when they’d returned. Even Preeti didn’t know what had become of him. He hadn’t said good-bye.

Holmes set his glass down. “Get this. I got a report from NAVSPECWARCOM. He left his enlistment over a year ago.”

Everyone’s eyes shot wide.

Walker was the first to ask what everyone wanted to know. “What the hell was he doing, then?”

Holmes shrugged. “By all accounts, he helped us.”

Laws regarded his ale with narrow eyes. “But there had to be something in it for him?”

“If there was, I don’t know what it could be.” Holmes spread his hands. “I’ll see what I can find out when we get back.”

WEST OF SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA.

The rental car turned off Bohemian Highway before it crossed the Russian River into Monte Rio. The driver found himself on Bohemian Avenue. He drove past twenty people holding signs railing against the Cremation of Care and continued down the road until he reached a security shack beside a gate. The guard looked out and recognized the driver. He pressed a button and the gate rose. The car rolled forward, passing several groups of houses until the road ended at a large building. The driver got out and went to the front door of the building. He was met at the front door by an elderly Caucasian man who’d be recognized for his three terms in the U.S. Senate.

“Did you get it?”

“It took a while.”

“But you got it, right?”

“A witch almost destroyed it. It’s weak, but it’s here.” He unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a three-crescent tattoo etched into his black skin. It glowed faintly. “Just in time for the next ceremony.”

The senator smiled. “You done good.”

“Can we get it out, now? It feels a little itchy in here.”

“All in good time. All in good time. The board’s about to convene. Come in and have a drink with us. Tell us what happened.”

Genaro Stewart thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I could use a drink.” Then he followed the man inside and closed the door behind him.

ALSO BY WESTON OCHSE

Seal Team 666

Age of Blood

Border Dogs

About the Author

WESTON OCHSE has won the Bram Stoker Award and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. In addition to his previous SEAL Team 666 novels, his work has appeared in comic books and magazines such as Cemetery Dance and Soldier of Fortune. He is a retired U.S. Army intelligence officer and current intelligence officer for the Defense Intelligence Agency. He lives in Arizona, within shouting distance of the international border.

Copyright Notice

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.