Brian Mayhew lay on his back, splattered over and over with the remain of Caesar Lazarus and covered with a coating of Arena sand, and marvelled that he wasn’t dead.
If he’d been the religious sort — which he wasn’t — he’d have thought that someone in some realm beyond this one liked him. As it was, Mayhew was still trying to figure out what had just happened.
A sniper had taken out Lazarus, that much was obvious. Not really surprising. The man had made many enemies over the course of his misbegotten life and one of them had finally managed to do what Mayhew couldn’t. Of course, Mayhew wouldn’t have taken out Lazarus quite so publicly, in front of one hundred thousand live witnesses and hell knew how many via screens across the universe. But then, this was Maciste, planet of the bloody p
