The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Read Free Page A

down the alley, backing away,
keeping a pleading eye on his father, tears rolling down his cheeks as Cunda
took another step back, swinging his sword, slicing through a fleeing man’s
back, removing the outstretched arm of the man next to him.
    He
looked over his shoulder. “Pray for me!” he shouted, knowing the sins he was
committing would condemn him to eternal damnation, the killing of so many
unforgivable no matter the reason. He wasn’t a soldier with the luxury of war
as an excuse, he was merely the leader of a simple village, leadership thrust
upon him purely because of family lineage rather than popular choice.
    A
reluctant leader, a desperate leader.
    He swung
again but now saw swords held high nearing him as those who were unarmed tried
to squeeze back through the alley, those with swords shoving forward to engage
the murderer of the Buddha.
    “You
will be avenged, Father!”
    He spun
toward his son. “No! Do not avenge me! They know not what they do! They are
blinded by lies and fear and hatred! Just go! Save yourself! Save our village!”
    Metal
scraped the ground behind him as a roar erupted from what sounded like an
impossibly loud man.
    Cunda
swung around, his sword rising from near his ankles to waist height as he faced
the enemy, the blade continuing upward, knocking the man’s blade aside and
removing his hand.
    But
there were more blades now, rushing toward him, their owners desperate to get
into the battle, blocked only by those in front of them. He swung furiously
now, left and right, battling two blades at once, neither able to get a full
swing at him, each blocking the other.
    Yet he
was tiring.
    If
energy weren’t his enemy, he could potentially hold them for hours, but it
wasn’t, and with each one he took out of the battle, a fresh body faced him
moments later.
    He
retreated another step and looked behind him.
    Asita
was gone.
    Be
safe, my son.
    His
heavy heart threatened to overwhelm him as he thrust forward, burying his blade
into a man’s stomach. As he withdrew the man collapsed on Cunda’s sword, causing
the blade to drop to the ground. He fell back several steps quickly, dragging
his sword free but it was too late. A blade descended upon his left shoulder,
burying itself deep. He screamed out in pain, grabbing the sharp metal with his
left hand, pushing it up and out of his flesh, slicing through his palm as he
did so.
    He had
no time to even look at the bloody stump that now lay dead on his shoulder,
instead swinging weakly at the next thrust, his parry almost useless now.
    His
sword clattered to the ground.
    His leg
was sliced open and he dropped to his still good knee, his now free hand
pushing against the dirt as he looked up at the attacker who had finally bested
him.
    Rage
filled eyes, so much hate it was inconceivable in the heart of this simple villager,
glared down at him, freezing his soul with fear, the descending death blow
going almost unnoticed as time seemed to slow down. The crowd roared their
anger, screams of pain echoed through the alleyway, swords clanged as they
tried to get into the fight. His nostrils flared with the smell of his own
blood and those of his victims, the smell enough to make his mouth fill with
bile. The air, thick with a mist of carnage, had a metallic taste that mixed
with the sickness in his mouth, threatening to make him gag.
    And the
agony in his neck, as the unnoticed sword sliced clean through, was mercifully
short lived, his thoughts of the Buddha’s last words.
    Trust
in what you see.
    And as
his head tumbled to the ground, rolling several times, he died knowing he’d
never decipher the riddle meant to save his people.
     
     

 
     

    Outside the Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
     
    Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson nearly shoved the
Secretary of State into the back of the armored limousine, jumping in after her
as the driver floored it, the door closing of its own accord. Four