The slave tried to speak again. But his chest was rigid, fixed. His eyes filmed. He ceased the struggle.
Rod laid him down, still gently and straightened him, crossing his hands over his chest. Smoke came in a fine haze from the flaring nostrils. Bloody froth flew from between the drawn lips. The Satanic grin came with the onslaught of the greenish glow.
And then—there were ashes!
“We’re ready, boss.” Bunny’s voice was quiet.
“Yes,” Williamson’s voice was equally low, “we’ve got time until we’re twenty-five—to exterminate every tetrarch on the planet. The best we can hope for is a dead draw. Shall we get started, Rod? There’s little time left to us.”
“We’ll have the advantage of surprise,” Rod agreed, “unless we walk into a trap. But I think we can outmaneuver them.”
He turned quickly. “Anyone here within a week of their twenty-fifth birthday?”
“I don’t think so, Rod.”
“Anyone within a month of their twenty-fifth birthday who is also from the Mediterranean section of Earth?”
He paused. Their silence gave him his answer.