Free The Green Lama: Crimson Circle by Adam Lance Garcia

was lost, replaced by the vision of the man she loved reading the newspaper in the chair by the window. He was shirtless, the early morning light shining on his beautifully sculpted and terribly scarred frame. Jethro Dumont, the only man who had ever truly held her heart—though many had tried.
    Jean smiled a tired, sweet smile. “Hey, you,” she whispered.
    Jethro looked up from his paper and smiled, his blue-grey eyes—so often distant except when they were looking at her—sparkling. “Morning, Ne-tso-hbum,” he replied.
    She propped herself up on her elbow and pulled a few strays hairs from her face. “Didn’t hear you come in, Smug.”
    Jethro chuckled as he folded up the newspaper and set it aside on the windowsill. “I would be a very bad costumed vigilante if you did.”
    “Or a very good boyfriend,” she said, beckoning him over.
    Jethro walked over and climbed into bed, wrapping his arms around her body. “Missed you,” he whispered as he laid his head against her chest. He sighed, enjoying the rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming in his ear.
    “I know,” she said, her smile broadening as she stroked his hair. “When did you get back?”
    “Couple of hours ago,” he replied. “Read through the early editions… A German airplane crashed near Montauk. No one onboard and riddled with bullet holes, miracle it made it across the ocean.”
    “Caraway? Betcha ten bucks it was Caraway,” she said, poking him in the shoulder. Jethro allowed a smile but didn’t respond. He hoped it was Caraway, but he had slowly come to realize that hope and reality rarely ever intersected, though he would never say so aloud.
    “How’d everything go down in D.C?” Jean asked, sleep once again trickling into her voice. “You kick some fascist ass?”
    “They tried to assassinate me.”
    Jean scrunched her brow. This was getting surprisingly confusing. “Which me? ‘Jethro Me’ or ‘Green Lama Me?’”
    “Jethro Me.”
    “What?!” Jean almost shouted, her eyes wide. She pushed him off her so as to look him in the eye. She knew she didn’t need to panic, he was the Green Lama after all, but there’s no logic in love. “Tell me you’re kidding. I thought they were after Roosevelt . Why the hell would they try to kill Jethro Dumont?”
    “I don’t know…” he replied with a shrug. “Gary and Evangl found some evidence at the Fifthers’ hideout, but nothing that gave a definitive motive.”
    “You don’t think von Kultz…?” Jean began. Nazi Field Marshal Heinrich von Kultz was a master of disguise who had nearly revealed the Green Lama’s identity to the world atop the Brooklyn Bridge almost a year ago.
    “The thought had crossed my mind,” Jethro said, sitting up, choosing not to tell her about the letter signed “R. F.” “Though with the way things are moving in Europe it’s hard to tell… The Fifthers might simply be desperate.” He paused and his eyes went distant again as he idly rubbed his scarred right middle finger. “I told Gary and Evangl,” he eventually managed.
    Jean raised a curious eyebrow and a knowing smile. “How’d they take it?”
    “Well, they didn’t punch me in the face,” Jethro said with a bashful grin.
    “Isn’t that nice?” she said, lightly punching him in the chest. “Though you definitely deserved it.”
    “Ow!” Jethro sounded in mock pain, holding his chest as if wounded. “You take care of New York while I was away?”
    “For the most part,” she shrugged. Her eyes darkened, recalling the events from last night. She hesitated, struggling to form her thoughts into words. “There was this guy last night… Tried to rape—or eat—this woman just off Broadway. He had this horrible scar on his forehead…” She gave him the blow-by-blow of the encounter, careful not to skip on any minute detail, save for the fact she had shot him in the head. “I went to grab the police, but when I came back, the body was gone. Which isn’t that odd,