He signaled the barboy for another round. When it came, and the boy withdrew, he lifted his glass. “India has made us wealthy, given us more than we ever otherwise would have had. It seems only right to pay the country back by taking down”-glancing at Rafe, he grinned-“by beheading the Black Cobra, and if, as it seems, that will lead us back to England, then that, too, seems fitting.” He met the others’ eyes. “We’re all in this together.” He raised his glass, held it out for them to meet it with theirs. “Here’s to our eventual return to England.”

“Home,” Rafe echoed, as the glasses clinked.

They all drank, then Gareth, ever practical, asked, “So how are we faring getting our proof?”

They’d spent the last three months-ever since they’d convinced themselves that Roderick Ferrar, second adjutant to the Governor of Bombay, had to be the Black Cobra-trying to turn up evidence of Ferrar’s secret identity, all to no avail. Each now reported their latest forays into what was fast becoming known as “Black Cobra territory,” each thrust aimed at uncovering some trail, some clue, some solid connection back to Ferrar. All they’d uncovered were terrorized villages, some burnt to the ground, others with empty huts and no survivors, with evidence of rape and torture all around.

Wanton destruction and a liking for violence for violence’s sake were fast becoming the Black Cobra cult’s trademark, yet despite all the carnage they’d waded through, not a single piece of evidence had emerged.

“He’s clever, I’ll give the bastard that,” Rafe said. “Every time we find one of his cultists, they’ve got their instructions from someone else, who they either don’t know, or, if they can point a finger, the trail only leads to some other local-”