Page 118 of The Presidents Shadow

I STAND TREMBLING in this splendid new atmosphere of clear skies and brilliant brightness. What does that matter? I have just witnessed a human being become a pile of ash in seconds.

I look down at the ground where Ambrose was just standing. All that is left of him is a small pile of gray ashes and a few charred bones, some of which are still on fire.

“What the hell is going on, Lamont?” Jericho asks. It is more of a sad plea than an actual question. But I have no answer, and even if I did have an answer, I feel so weak from shock that I can barely speak.

“Lamont, answer me, please,” Jericho pleads.

I manage, with great effort, to get out the words “I think he managed to transfer some of the power of Terrageddon into his own body. But he did not account for the frailty of human flesh.”

The steel box that I carried from inside the cave drops from my hands. It lands very close to Ambrose’s remains. I wonder if the box itself—the original Terrageddon—still holds any power, or if it’s all evaporated along with Ambrose.

Jericho suddenly bends at the waist, grabbing his midsection.

“Lamont, I can’t… I can’t…” He falls to the ground next to the fiery remains of Ambrose, which is when I notice a sliver of rock protruding from his belly. It must have been blown into his body from the force of the lightning strike, but shock kept him free of pain until this moment.

I give my full attention now to Jericho, touching the side of his neck with two of my fingers. Yes, there is a pulse.

I need to concentrate. I need to shape-shift myself into a vehicle or an animal or anything that can help get Jericho back to the camp for help.

Please help me, memory. Please help me, instincts.

Please help me find inside myself the teachings and training that Dache once gave me.

Just a bit of power from some hidden spot inside me.

If not to change physical shape, then to be able to make psychic contact with Margo or Burbank or Dr. DaSilva, since my handheld device seems to have been fried by the nearby lightning strike.

But before I can, I hear a voice, a comforting, familiar voice, a woman’s voice.

“On your knees, Lamont? Are you praying?”

My God. It is Dr. DaSilva. If I had been praying, the wise and kind Dr. DaSilva would indeed be the perfect answer to my prayer.

She stands looking down on me, on Jericho, on the smoldering fire that was once Glenn Ambrose. Her hands are on her hips. She makes no effort to assist me and Jericho.

“Please,” I say. “Jericho needs help. He’s—”

Dr. DaSilva finishes my sentence. She shouts, “Dead! Yes, he’s dead and gone and over. Unlike the last time, he will not be coming back. But who cares about a wretch like Jericho? Let us consider the new leader of the universe. Let us consider the great Khan!”

What the hell?

I am, all at once, frightened and confused. Am I hearing correctly?

“This is what I’ve always wanted, Lamont. This is the dream come true. You have stopped me so many times before. But now, with impeccable planning, with exquisite precision, now I am ready.”

What in hell is she talking about? Who the hell is this new and terrifying woman?

I try to stand, but, weakened by shock and grief, I cannot hold myself up. I lie on the ground between the sad pile of Ambrose’s ashes and the metal box.

My eyes, tired and burning and aching, remain the best they can on the good doctor.

Then Dr. DaSilva’s body begins to vibrate.

The wind picks up, causing the flames to spread onto Jericho’s unmoving form.

The vibration grows faster, and then faster, and then faster. She becomes a vibrating blur, a jumble of pulsating color. She is unrecognizable, but this cyclonic storm of color does not disappear, does not speak, does nothing but…

Unbelievably, Dr. DaSilva turns into a whole other person.

Unbelievably, Dr. DaSilva turns into Shiwan Khan.