Elizabeth Stride, the notorious Black Angel, had hoped to live quietly at last; no more killing, no more being hunted. She now had a family to think of. She had four young girls whom she'd sworn to protect. Especially Aisha, beautiful Aisha, whom she'd come to think of as a daughter. Add to this a mixed blessing; Martin Kessler was back with her. For two years, he'd allowed her to think he was dead. He had his reasons, but, still, she found it hard to forgive him. She would try very hard not to let herself love him. A good man, true, but almost gleefully reckless and every bit as lethal as she was. All seemed well until the prophecy appeared; it was everywhere; in every language; all over the Internet. It foretold the coming, now, today, of what some called a Muslim Joan of Arc. Aisha, the youngest wife of Mohammed, had been reborn, "to show men how they had fallen into error." A fiery angel had come with her, to guide and protect her. Aisha and Qaila. Aisha and the Black Angel. She couldn't know that some had already decided that the two might be one and the same. It was heresy, they said. They must be found. They must be killed. All this talk of the prophecy would die with them. "Maxim, who's been writing top-grade thrillers for more than two decades, continues to be one of the form's best kept secrets." -Publishers Weekly "Top drawer entertainment." -Kirkus Reviews "Maxim constructs a complex plot, juggles numerous characters, and pulls it all off with a cinematic breathless pace." -Library Journal "Maxim's super-smart novels simply can't be put down." -Booklist John R. Maxim is the author of thirteen previous books. Nine have made various best seller lists - including the New York Times list - and four have received either starred or special boxed reviews from Publishers Weekly. He lives on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina with his wife, Christine. The Aisha Prophecy By John R. Maxim iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2009 John R. Maxim All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4401-5534-5 Chapter One She had asked him to join her for her late evening swim. She held a bottle of wine and two glasses. Her eyes said, "We need to talk." The invitation was unusual in any case. They'd often shared the pool or soaked in the Jacuzzi, but they'd never done so at night. She would swim alone, all the pool lights turned off. It was her time, she said, to lose herself in her thoughts. They both knew that that wasn't the reason. It was only in the darkness that she'd fully disrobe. Only when her scars could not be seen. It did no good for him to chide her about a self-consciousness that from his point of view was misplaced. For one thing, he had a few scars of his own including one through his eyebrow that some women thought sexy. She thought he was foolish not to have it removed. She also once suggested that he shave his head. Or at least get those thick brown curls cut short. "Anyway," she'd said. "you're not that damned sexy. And it's dumb to be so easily recognized." One can see why any discussion of scars was a subject best avoided at all costs. Sensitivities aside, she had a wondrous body. It was splendidly muscled like that of a dancer, like that of the natural athlete she was, and yet so softly curved and so utterly feminine. He treasured every inch of it. Especially the scars. Far from being ugly, he saw them as a testament. To her courage. Her indomitability. He would never intrude on her evening swims. But he found not watching her hard to resist. From a distance. Standing quietly in darkness. He would watch as she swam doing languid laps during which her strokes made barely a sound and her motion hardly even stirred the surface. He would watch her as she rose from the pool, seeming almost to levitate out of the water. She would bend to pick up her towel and her robe, her body glistening with droplets in the moonlight. Next she'd climb the stone steps that led to the Jacuzzi. Sometimes she would turn her face toward the house and pause before easing herself into it. She would smile. Or she would nod. Not toward him. To herself. She always knew that he'd be watching her, unclothed or not. And they both knew that neither would speak of it. Tonight was different. Her eyes had said so. Those marvelous amber-colored eyes. As they walked the winding stone path toward the pool house, she turned to look back at the main house. All the windows of the two upper floors were dark except for a single flickering glow that came from the screen of a computer. "Niki's room," she said. "Niki should be in bed. She spends too much time on that computer." But the screen blinked off at almost that instant. "She must have heard you," he said, although he knew she could not have. None of the girls could see the pool from their rooms. Except for the one point of vantage he'd found, the whole estate had been landscaped for privacy. The pool house had been built in the style of the main house