The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Read Online Free Page B

their soiled hopes of a world ruled by the Führer; and now thanks to Gary and Evangl, it smelled like a month’s worth of Washington D.C.’s feces.
    “To tell you the truth,” Evangl said eying a haunting image of Adolf Hitler, fighting the urge to spit on it, “I always thought that the Lama was just using Dumont to foot the bill for those radioactive salts he uses. They cannot be cheap.”
    Gary shook his head as he shifted through hundreds of files on nearly every major America politician and celebrity. “The salts must be expensive or else they wouldn’t come in those pipsqueak vials, but the Lama wouldn’t do that. Don’t forget, I’ve known him a lot longer than you and let me tell you, he’s got money coming out of his hooded ears.”
    “Personally, if I had access to something that powerful, I’d want to carry it around in buckets,” Evangl commented as she moved over to a roll-top desk.
    “Even if you did, I don’t think it would work on us. We’d need that weird Tibetan ring the Lama wears to handle that kind of power,” Gary said, wiggling the fingers on his right hand. “At least that’s my theory. It’s not like the Green Lama and I ever sat down and chatted about that kinda stuff.”
    “You think he talks to anyone?” she asked sliding open the roll-top desk.
    “Probably Magga. I always figured those two were an item, you know. Two Buddhists, knocking boots.”
    “Gary! Get your head out of the gutter.”
    “Well, I was in the sewers up until a few minutes ago, so the gutters would be a step up.” He paused looking over a detailed map of the eastern United States, small flagged pins and red circles Swiss-cheesing the coast, each dot indicating the location of a Fifth Columnist cell. “Jeez, correct me if I’m wrong, I thought we already beat the Fifthers a few years back.”
    “You know how these fascists are, stop one and another one pops up and tries to kill your President. So typical. What I wouldn’t give for some originality with our villains.” Evangl opened up a large folder on top of the desk and began leafing through the various pages and photos. At the top was a short typed written letter addressed to an unnamed Lieutenant and signed with the initials “R. F.” Evangl skimmed past it to the hundreds of newspaper clippings beneath it. The articles were placed in chronological order, each notarized with the letters “GL” in the margins. Some were about the mob, some the Murder Corporation, several were about the Fifth Columnists, and more than a couple told of madmen dressed up like it was Halloween. She reached a familiar photo paper-clipped to a stack of papers. Lifting up the photo she read over the instructions beneath and her face went white. “Oh no…”
    Gary spun around. “What is it?”
    “We’ve been set up… The Fifth Columnists aren’t going to try and kill Roosevelt…” she breathed. “They’re going to kill Jethro Dumont!”
    • • •
    THE CABIN echoed with the pop of gunfire. Blood spurted onto the deck and Caraway watched the Nazi keel back, spinning end over end as he fell to the earth, blood trailing out from the bullet wound in his head. Caraway couldn’t help but grimace; heroism was a terrible profession. The ice cold wind of the sky tugging him out into the abyss, Caraway reached out and grabbed hold of the door to pull it shut. Peering out into the star-speckled night, he saw two winged shadows approaching.
    “Aw, Hell.”
    Slamming the door shut, the plane eerily silent without the rush of air, he ran toward the cockpit. “Helen! Helen, let me fly,” he shouted as he charged in. “Helen! Lass mich mal steuern . . . Helen , lass mich doch!
    Startled, Helen jumped out of the pilot’s seat, spun around and fired her pistol, the bullet breezing past Caraway’s ear and into the wall.
    “Jesus Christ! It’s only me dammit!”
    “ Mein Gott, John! I am so sorry!”
    “Don’t worry, don’t worry, just… sit over there,”