The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) (8 page)

“Tulku, you are distressed,” Tsarong observed.

Jethro met his friend’s eyes, searching for the words. He wasn’t sure what concerned him more. A part of him feared the newest rip in reality he had sensed. He was now even more certain that whatever it was that had attacked the German embassy was also behind the elemental change in existence and the fluctuation in his abilities. Yet, he found himself solely focused on Jean’s whereabouts, his stomach twisting into knots at the thought that she might be in danger; a sensation he had never before felt for another person. Unable to find the right words, Jethro frowned and shook his head.

Tsarong gave him a look of understanding. “I shall not keep you, then.”

The two nodded in farewell as Jethro climbed out the window into the night.

• • •

A reviewer once described Ken Clayton as the kind of a man that carried an aura around him. The women would gasp when he walked onstage, while the men crossed their arms and silently wished they were half as handsome as Ken. He had more charisma than he knew what to do with, and there was little wonder why so many people considered him the next Errol Flynn. He had recently won the role of Phil Dolan in the musical
On
Your Toes
and was rehearsing the show at the Majestic Theatre. However, unbeknownst to the public at large, Ken was also a frequent ally of the Green Lama.

Sneaking in through the rooftop entrance of the theatre, Jethro moved through the shadows, avoiding actors and technicians as they milled about the building, eventually finding Ken in his dressing room arguing with another young actor. When both men were distracted, Jethro ducked into the darkness, his footsteps little more than whispers. He tugged his hood forward over his eyes; in his haste, Jethro had failed to disguise his face. After several minutes of arguing, the other actor stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Clayton, seemingly unperturbed by the argument, sat down in front of his mirror and began working at styling his hair. Jethro waited a moment before he whispered: “
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
”

If Ken was surprised, he didn’t show it, only allowing a small grin to curl the corner of his lips. He crossed his arms and looked through the mirror into the shadows. “And just when I thought I’d never hear from you again.”

“It has been awhile, Mr. Clayton.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Tulku? The name’s Ken—no need for formalities.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Clayton, but as a sign of respect for you, I shall keep up the formalities.”

Ken mulled this over for a moment. “Well, I suppose that’s very thoughtful. But I highly doubt you’re here for a relaxed chitchat—when are you ever? So, what can I do for you, Tulku?”

“It’s Jean—I mean, Miss Farrell. Have you seen her recently?”

Ken shrugged. “Not since last week, and even then it’s been like two ships passing in the night. Been pretty busy with the show, y’know. She okay?”

Jethro hesitated, trying to fight back the sense of dread that was starting to grip his stomach. “I don’t know, Mr. Clayton. She had been helping me on a recent case—”

“That whole fiasco at the German consulate the other night?”

“Yes.”

Ken nodded, the curl of a self-satisfied grin teasing at his lips. “Figured as much. I read about it in the paper. Gruesome stuff. I knew it was something you’d get mixed up with—” He paused, his smirk quickly inverting. “Jean wasn’t part of that, was she?” he asked quietly.

“No, thankfully. She went missing earlier this evening.”

“You think she’s been kidnapped?”

“I have considered this, yes.”

“You know she never let me live down when I got kidnapped.”

“This isn’t like the Murder Corporation,” Jethro said angrily, making Ken flinch ever so slightly. “Whoever is behind this might be working with—” Jethro cut himself off, unsure how to phrase his suspicions without sounding like a madman.

Ken caught on to Jethro’s hesitation. “Working with what?” He stared into the shadows waiting for Jethro’s reply.

“Something
darker
than anything we have ever faced before,” Jethro finally admitted. “Perhaps even … supernatural.”

“The supernatural?” Ken scoffed. “Come on, Lama, you’re not really selling me on that. The forces of darkness? Next thing you’ll be telling me the end of the world is upon us. And just when my career was beginning to take off… You
are
certain she’s in trouble, right? Not just on some two-day bender or anything? That girl can drink more scotch than what should be humanly possible.”

“Yes. I—” Jethro stuttered, something even Ken knew to be uncharacteristic. “I am very concerned.”

Ken rubbed his chin in thought for a moment, before turning back toward the shadows. “What do you need from me?”

• • •

Caraway heard the arrow fly toward him. Without thought, he immediately slid off the saddle, hanging off the side as the horse charged through the bank.

Of all the most ridiculous things I’ve had to deal with today, he thought, why did it have to be the Natives?

The Natives’ Mafia was anything but, a hodge-podge of criminals
of every race and creed that banded together to rob banks and dress up like
Indians. It had originally started as a joke,
when, according to the news rags at least, someone joked that
cops and robbers was kind of like cowboys and Indians, going so far as to wear a feather
headdress during a robbery to underline his point. From there things ballooned out and here they were in all their ludicrous glory.
It only made sense—in some terribly illogical way—that one of Caraway’s suspects would be a member of the gang. Mathew “Matador” Adair, a gangly tower of a man who was as bullheaded as he was tall—with a noticeable scar on his forehead. At the moment Adair stood atop a teller’s desk, shooting arrows at anything that moved. He let out a war cry, a whooping sound that echoed in the massive marbled hall.

“Hell and damnation,” Caraway grumbled through gritted teeth as he pulled himself back on the horse. “Who rides a horse to rob a bank in this day and age? Honestly?” he wondered aloud.

Caraway weaved through bullets and arrows, feeling the hot whispers of weaponry that flew around him. On either side of him, falling in neat lines, were the police and Natives, firing at each other like they were in a bad western. The Natives were whooping, the cops were shouting, and the hostages were just screaming. He spotted Gan huddled beneath a small counter, firing twin pistols at the themed gangsters. Much as Caraway truly hated Gan, he begrudgingly admitted that he was a good man to have in a fight. How one man could take down an entire circus singlehandedly was astounding. Though Caraway was still flabbergasted as to how Gan had been able to take down that elephant. That was simply
impossible
. It had garnered the German officer a begrudging amount of respect from both Caraway and his men, but it secretly made Caraway extremely nervous. If all this talk of another war with Germany held any bearing, and if all of Hitler’s men were as deadly as Gan, then everyone was going to be in serious trouble…

For now, though, all that mattered was the case.

Galloping toward the German colonel, Caraway outstretched his hand and shouted: “GAN!!!”

Gan ceased firing long enough to see Caraway approaching. Quickly surmising his intent, Gan holstered his pistols, reached out, and without pause grabbed Caraway’s extended hand and swung onto the horse.

“You ready to go hunting?” Caraway shouted.

“Is that what you call this catastrophe?!”

Caraway shook his head as they galloped toward cover, a sardonic smile on his lips. “No, I just call it ‘another night in New York City.’”

“You lead a very strange life, Herr Leutnant.”

“Don’t I know it,” Caraway said as he brought the horse to a halt in a far corner of the bank out of range of the arrows and gunfire.

“Dare I ask if you have a plan?” Gan asked, using the momentary reprieve to reload his guns.

Caraway frowned at the question. “At the moment? No.”

“That is a shock,” Gan said as he finished reloading, making a show of it as he holstered the weapons. “So, we will just head straight into this madness and pray for the best.”

Caraway shrugged. “Basically.”

“Fantastic,” Gan grumbled. “You are going to be the death of me, Herr Leutnant.”

A crooked smile formed on Caraway’s face. “Heh. Here’s hoping.” He spurred the horse back toward the center of the embattled bank. As they rushed toward their quarry, Caraway angled his head back toward Gan, shouting over the noise of gunfire and the whooping calls of faux Indians. “Hey, Gan. Just in case this doesn’t go so well, I’ve been meaning to ask, how’d you take down that elephant?”

“And give away my trade secrets? I think not, Herr Leutnant.”

“Fine, then, be that way. Here, take the reins,” he said as began to stand up on the saddle.

“What are you doing?” Gan asked as he grabbed hold of the reins, a slight note of panic in his voice.

“Me?” Caraway said as he steadied himself. “I have no idea.”

He glanced up and found one. Biting back a smile, Caraway readied himself. He’d seen the Green Lama do stuff like this all the time, why wouldn’t it work for him? The Green Lama may be a superman, but he was still a man. Murmuring “
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
” for luck more than anything else, Caraway leapt off the horse into the air, aiming for the gilded chandelier overhead. Grabbing onto the ornate metal, he swung himself feet first, landing beside Adair on the teller’s counter.

“Hey there, Tonto,” Caraway said before he punched the costumed criminal square in the jaw.

Adair stumbled back, but didn’t fall down. Wiping the blood off his lips, he gave Caraway a toothy grin. “Bad move there, coppa. Now you done made the Injun mad,” he said with a thick Irish brogue.

“Whitest Red I’ve ever seen, boyo.”

“Yeah?” Adair reached behind his back and unsheathed a fairly impressive sword. “Well, I’m also the deadliest, see? So you best be backin’ off.”

Caraway raised an eyebrow as he scrutinized the mobster’s sword. “I’m no scholar or nothing, but I’m pretty sure Indians don’t have swords.”

“Be a lot more fun if they did!”

Adair lunged forward, aiming the business end of the sword at Caraway’s stomach. But Caraway had had his fair share of swords aimed at him since taking command of the Special Crime Squad and knew how to handle such a situation. Caraway quickly sidestepped as the blade powered toward him, letting Adair’s own momentum throw him off balance. As the mobster stumbled forward, Caraway reached for his sidearm—only to find an empty holster.
Dammit!
he thought. It must have slipped out mid-leap.

“Missin’ somethin’, coppa?” Adair had regained his balance, giving Caraway a look with deadly intent as he twirled the sword in one hand.

“This day just keeps on getting better,” he grumbled.

“Don’t worry, coppa, it’ll be over soon!” Adair shouted as he dove at Caraway again.

Caraway ineffectively held his right arm up in defense, the blade slicing through his coat, stinging as it cut into his skin.

“Gah!” he cried, stumbling back as he gripped his injured arm. It didn’t feel deep, but the blood still flowed and the pain still throbbed. Without a gun—hell, without a
sword
—he could only last so long.
And if it wasn’t Adair’s blade that took him down, it would be a stray
arrow or bullet. Time was running short and the cards were quickly getting
stacked against him.

For the first time since the start of this whole idiotic affair, Caraway hoped Gan would be there to save him in time.

“You’re looking scared there, coppa,” Adair said with a grin.

“Just looking too close at your ugly mug, scarface.”

Adair grimaced. “Don’t you joke about that. That ain’t funny.”

Caraway was able to avoid Adair’s stab, but the blood kept dripping down his arm and the lights were beginning to get a little dim.

“What? Your face?” Caraway said with as much vehemence as he could muster. “I’m gonna have to disagree with ya there, buddy. Those big honking scars are pretty hysterical. How’d ya get ’em?”

Adair’s eyes reddened with rage, his once easy and somewhat evil smile now faded into an angry glower. Launching forward, he swung his blade down at Caraway, who caught the saber with his left hand. Adair sliced down, lacerating deep into Caraway’s palm. Howling in pain, Caraway elbowed the loin-clothed mobster hard in the face. Blood burst out of the “Matador’s” nose, along with a tooth or two from his mouth, as he stumbled back toward the edge of the teller’s desk, stunned.

Rushing forward, Caraway dove at Adair, throwing them both off the teller’s desk, away from the gunfight. Landing hard, Caraway felt a sharp pain pierce through his midsection. He looked at Adair, who gave him a toothless, bloody smile.