of rich people tooling along the countryside could represent a payday for a suitably prepared criminal. He pressed the intercom and said, “There’s a situation. Something’s happening.”
The glass whisked down and Dedrick swiveled in his seat. “Yes?”
“I believe we’re under attack. Please get Ms. Diamond. Drag her if necessary. Ms. Valens, the minute they’re in the vehicle get us the hell out of here.”
“Excuse me” Mr. Rawat said, his reserve cracked, a raw nerve of terror exposed in his rapid blinking. Doubtless he’d seen his share of violence back in the homeland and was acutely aware of his vulnerability. “Mr. Lancaster, what do you mean we’re under attack? Dedrick?”
Dedrick’s stony countenance didn’t alter. “Sir, please wait.” He made no further comment while exiting the limo and striding toward Ms. Diamond and friends. His right hand was thrust inside his jacket. Mr. Rawat appeared shocked and Kara retrieved a baggie from her purse. She dryswallowed a handful of parti-colored pills. Surprisingly, in the face of fear she kept quiet.
Lancaster squirmed around until he managed to get a view from the rear window of what was happening outside. He simultaneously opened his cell phone and dialed the Roache security department and requested a detail be dispatched to the location at once. He considered alerting his handler Clack of the situation, except in his experience communication with the NSA office was routed through multiple filters and ultimately reached an answering machine instead of a human being ninety percent of the time. It seemed a bad sign that the Cooks were unconcerned that he’d summoned the cavalry. Something great and terrible was descending upon this merry company of travelers. He said, “Who are you working for?”
“The Russians,” Mr. Cook said.
“The Bulgarians,” Mrs. Cook said. “The Scythians, the Picts, the Ostrogoths, the wicker-crowned God Kings of Ultima Thule. The Martians.”
“Mrs. Cook and I serve the whims of marvelous entities, foolish man,” Mr. Cook said. “The ones inhabiting the cracks in the earth, as the doctor is so fond of opining.”
That sounded like some kind of terrorist group to Lancaster. “Why here? Why not at the office where there’d be privacy?”
The Cooks exchanged blandly malevolent glances.
Dr. Christou mumbled, “Because we are near a place of power. A blood sacrifice requires a sacred foundation.”
“Or a profane foundation,” Mrs. Cook said.
“Like sex magic, the journey is half the fun.” Mr. Cook’s grin shone in the gloom.
“Really, you don’t want to know the who, how, and why,” Mrs. Cook said. “Alas, you will, and soon. We procure and thus persist.”
“Yes, we persist. Until the heat death of the universe.”
“Procure,” Dr. Christou said in a monotone. His flesh seemed to be in the process of deliquescing. Blood beaded on his forehead, squeezed in fattening droplets from the pores and rolled down his cheeks. Blood leaked from the corners of his eyes. Blood trickled from his sleeve cuffs and dripped in his lap. “Procure, what do you procure?”
Lancaster recoiled from the doctor. He had visions of anthrax, a vial of the Ebola virus, or one of a million other plagues synthesized in military labs the world over, and one of those plagues secreted in a handbag, a golf bag, wherever, now dosed into the food, the water, the wine, this virulent nastiness eating Dr. Christou alive. On a more fundamental level, he understood Christou’s affliction wasn’t any plague, manmade or otherwise, but the manifestation of something far worse.
“My goodness, doctor, they are eager for your humor to draw it at this distance,” Mr. Cook said, gleeful as a child who’d won a prize. He pretended to pout. “I was promised a taste. Gluttons!”
“Go on, sweetie,” Mrs. Cook said. “There is more than enough to spare.”
Mr. Rawat said, “My friend, my friend, you’re hurt!” He extended his hand, hesitated upon thinking better of the gesture.
The Cooks laughed, synchronized. A quantity of Dr. Christou’s blood was drawn in gravity-defying rivulets from where it pooled on the seat, first to the floorboard, then vertically against the window where it formed globules and rotated as if suspended in zero gravity. Mr. Cook craned his neck and sucked the globules into the corner of his mouth. “If ambrosia tastes so sweet upon a mortal tongue, how our patrons must crave it as that which sustains them!”
There was a thunderclap outside and a flash of fire. Ms. Diamond ran toward them. Her left high heel sheared and she did a swan dive onto the road. Dedrick also sprinted for the limo, moving with the grace and agility