Free Fallen Masters by John Edward

his son Shakir had made of the new place’s main dining room. He said, “We must tell Shakir what part he will play in the plan. It has been two years since we agreed that he is the chosen one who will carry out this act of vengeance in our name.”
    “It is a great honor for him and for our family,” Omar said, nodding gravely. He looked at Muti, trying to detect any sign of doubt or wavering in his commitment to the act. He saw none. “Your wife will be here soon. Let us be seen taking care of our business when she comes.”
    *   *   *
    That night, as she lay in bed alone, Asima suddenly remembered an incident from her university days in Grenada. A brief encounter in the market with an older woman, a native of the island, who had told her something about herself that, over the years, she had nearly forgotten. Now it seemed prophetic and deeply disturbing.
    “Girl,” the woman had said, reaching out to touch Asima with both hands on her cheeks, “my name is Patricia Rose Greenidge, but most folks just call me Mama G. I am what they call a seer. Oh sure, it goes by other names like psychic, soothsayer, oracle … but me, I’m just a God-fearing woman with a gift of knowing. I only claim to be what I am.” The woman smiled, exposing large white teeth and a warm fire in her dark eyes. “You are beautiful, both in your body and your soul. One day you will make a great sacrifice—the greatest sacrifice that could ever be asked of a woman and—” She paused significantly. “—a mother. You will help many in a way that you cannot know. Yet you will know it at the time. You will be a hero and the mother of heroes.”
    Asima thought about that encounter from her past and wondered why of all times this would come to her now and knew that as much as she tried sleep would not come easily that night.

CHAPTER
    17
    Melbourne, Australia
    Dawson Rask was in a garden of beautifully sculptured shrubbery in Hampton Court Maze. He had started out with other visitors and a guide, but somehow he had become separated, and as he tried to find his way back to them, he just got deeper and deeper into the maze. Then he tried to find his way out, and he could swear that the path that was open but a moment before was now closed.
    “This is dumb,” he said. “How can I be lost in a three-hundred-year-old garden in the middle of the day with hundreds of people within the sound of my voice?”
    As he stood there, the shrubbery began closing in on him, actually moving toward him so that the place where he was standing became more and more confined.
    “Ah!” he shouted.
    His shout woke him up, and he lay there breathing heavily, thankful that he was not actually lost, though he was wondering, just for a moment or two, where he was.
    He was in Melbourne, Australia, and it was, according to the digital clock on the bedside table, 3 A.M . Okay, it was 3 A.M. here, but back home in New York, it was 5 P.M. That meant that it was also P.M . by Dawson’s body clock.
    Dawson sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Reaching over to the bedside lamp, he turned it on. The light illuminated the hardcover book that lay on the table. Both the title of the book and the author’s name were in gold embossed letters. It was a beautiful book, and it was selling very well both in the United States and in foreign sales. The book was just released in Australia, and Dawson had made the long—very, very long—flight from New York to promote the book.
    He reached down to touch it, feeling a bit of creative pride; then he walked into the bathroom. After turning on the light, he looked at himself in the mirror. Unshaven, he saw gray among the stubble, as well as a few gray hairs waving from the top of his head, like excited fans at a red-carpet premiere. All of this paled in comparison to the “baggage” directly under his eyes. He had passed the forty-year milestone last month.
    “Dawson, don’t get old,” he said aloud. Then he