Crown of Serpents Read Online Free Page A

up until now, was working out for him. He could see the path to the top. His goal was near. He wasn’t upset with the media leak. He could deal with that with extortion and bribery. His problem was if he didn’t reach his pinnacle within six months or less, he’d be six feet under.
    As of last week and several professional second opinions later, the diagnosis of full-blown, stage four throat cancer had been confirmed. The doctors had given him less than six months to live if he did not seek treatment immediately.
    He shook his head in utter disbelief, taking yet another puff on his cigar, still defiant of the possibility that he might travel beyond the sunset before he could culminate his final ambitious acts. He ground his teeth together with a screech.
    Six months.
    Nero looked down and angrily tapped the ashes from his long cigar. It would be his greatest challenge — to beat the white man’s disease. He watched the ashes float away, disintegrating above the throngs of his white scum customers filing in and out of the main entrance to his casino. Near the valet-service he also noticed his black Hummer waiting for him.
    Two of his hand picked bodyguards stood by the vehicle pacing rather impatiently. After all, a carved-up body stuffed in a barrel in the back of the SUV surely weighed heavily on their minds. It was Nero’s top pit boss, caught in an elaborate plan to bilk him out of millions of dollars. The missing Indian was waiting to be sunk in the reservoir under Nero’s personal watch. After that, he would catch his flight to Buffalo later in the day.
    On tap in Buffalo was his first meeting with doctors at the Roswell Park Cancer Institute to discuss surgical options and his regimen of treatments. It was a trip Nero had not wanted to make. He had never believed in western methods of healing, but now his choices were limited. If only his mother were still alive she could have conjured up one of her ancient remedies and fixed everything, or so he had hoped.
    There was one glimmer of good news though. Late yesterday, his new collections director had surprised him with a short-notice acquisitions opportunity at Old Fort Niagara. She told him there were several recently discovered items from an American Revolutionary War officer and he would be given a full viewing with a chance to purchase them. One of the items that piqued his interest was the officer’s scalp. It was taken by Seneca Indians during the American campaign of 1779 to destroy the Iroquois homelands. It would make a fine trophy for the Confederacy — a priceless highlight for his private Scalp Room deep within his mountain museum.
    Nero took another pull on his cigar thinking it would be a good diversion after his Roswell meeting. And probably would be the last scalp he’d ever add to his collection.

3
    Cranberry Marsh. Thirty minutes later.
    U NDER LEAFLESS TREES backlit by a slate gray sky, Jake stood shivering in his filth-covered Army dress shirt and slacks. He had just crawled out from the clammy hole after securing the victim’s body for the local fire department. He hadn’t wanted to put any of the volunteer firefighters at risk since there was only room for one person in the tight shaft anyway. It was the least he could do to spare them the same disgust he had waded into. The adrenaline rush of a possible rescue had long since worn off. All he wanted now was a hot shower and dry clothes. He heaved a sigh of relief as the final phase of the body recovery came to a close.
    The rescuers had lowered a wire Stokes body basket, a portable radio, a digital camera, and an evidence collection bag to him shortly after they arrived on the scene and determined who he was and how he had climbed down there. Under cramped quarters, Jake had lifted the body up and strapped it into the basket, the blood and mud soiling his uniform. He was then directed to take pictures and recover as much evidence as possible by the woman who had first shouted down to