In a whimsical twist of fate, the world-famous opera singer and Russian roulette enthusiast Chandler Tuttle saves Rabbit's life in Antigua Guatemala, and convinces him to retire early and lead an honest, normal life. Returning to London to continue his tour, he falls in love with a Chinese femme fatale who gives him a reason to put down his gun, and Rabbit flies to Morocco to take an internet romance to the next level. Both are plunged into intrigue and treachery, one of them dragged into the underworld of sexual slavery, and the other into a cruel and alien culture that forces him back onto his road to ruin. Because of two damsels in distress, the hapless men walk a tightrope between Good and Evil, trying to do the right thing, but sorely tempted to take matters into their own hands, and what sets Rabbit's dark destiny in stone is finally revealed in this last volume of the Icarus series.

Evan, the high-school dropout in the South Floridian drug ring; Simone, the stripper who moonlighted as a narc; Rabbit, the serial killer/knight errant; Dark, the Satanist with conflicting values, and their victims and accomplices from the first four volumes of the Heresy series all collide this this stunning conclusion, against the backdrop of a carefully choreographed civil war in the United States-a nationwide revolt that many of them unknowingly helped to bring about. * * * * * Heresy is a series of five crime thrillers that, in the guise of fiction, cut through the numerous social taboos that prevent an honest discussion about the self-destruction of the United States A number of copies have been donated to Florida prisons, and convicts, having been attracted by the lurid subject matter, claimed to leave with a different point of view. In fact, one black supremacist, after reading about the origins of racism in the US, approached the author and asked if it was true. When he was assured that it was, and that he could be provided with an extensive bibliography to corroborate the research, he said that the book had really opened his eyes, and that he was going to show it to some of his brothers. It may be only a small victory, but it's a start.

Kelkor stopped, one booted foot on the next step. The stairs continued to wind upward into darkness. He looked backwards, and the shadows seemed to be slowly creeping upon him. His whiskers twitched. He cursed silently and turned back the way he had come, knowing that it would take forever to get back down to the bottom. Then, less than a dozen steps down, he met the floor. He found himself in a large hall, unfurnished except for large red velvet curtains that hung from the ceiling. They didn't cover any windows and most were not even against the wall. They hung everywhere about the hall, and behind each one a warrior could stand comfortably waiting in ambush. A door opened at the other end, and a black-clad warrior stepped through. In one hand he held a sword and in the other, a large crescent-bladed axe with a rabbit's foot hanging from the pommel. When the slayer saw Kelkor at the other end of the curtained hall, he snarled and charged, his footfalls echoing like thunder. "Sharnath " Kelkor shouted. "Are you nuts?" He took a step back and felt his heel come down on something sharp, and out of nowhere, something cracked him in the back of the head, staggering him. He reeled into one of the hanging curtains and stepped on what felt like a row of metal fangs, and something struck him full on in the snout, blinding him with white light. Sharnath continued to bear down on him, his eyes blazing with rage. Rallying himself, Kelkor swung at the curtain and wheeled about, striking at the one that first smote him. The heavy cloth batted aside, the Lemurian saw no soldier hidden behind it. Just a rake lying on the marble floor. A quick glance at the other one showed him a second rake before the curtain fell back into place. With no more time to consider it, he raised his broadsword hesitantly, waiting until the last moment to make up his mind, and by then, there was only one choice left. He struck, knocking his friend's blade away and ducking swiftly. Sharnath tumbled over him and crashed violently to the floor, his axe ringing as it spun across the tiles, disappearing among the curtains. The Lemurian stood back to let his friend stand. "What the hell's gotten into you, man?" Sharnath dove for his sword, and as his fingers closed around the handle he struggled to his feet. "Calm down now, buddy boy." Sharnath would not calm down. He lunged. Kelkor dodged and the force of the wasted blow made Sharnath stumble, the point of his blade driving into the floor. He regained his balance and wrenched it out, slashing at the Lemurian's chest. Kelkor parried, chopped back, and they went into a dazzling frenzy of swordplay, their blades clashing like cymbals as they whistled back and forth. Now and again, a careless step backward brought a sharp blow from the treacherous rakes, and the dingo-man was stirred into a rage by it, until he stopped seeing a deranged comrade in front of him. A mist of scarlet clouded his vision, and foam began to bubble at his maw. Another rake handle struck him in the side of his head, and another. Finally, Kelkor stooped and took out one of Sharnath's legs, feeling his friend's pain in his own heart. As the wounded man dropped to his knees in agony, Kelkor seized a handful of his long black hair and took a deep breath, steeling himself. Then his eyes hardened and he sheared his companion's head from his shoulders with one stroke. The headless body crumpled to the floor, blood gouting from its stump in a ghastly fountain. Kelkor raised the dripping trophy high above his head and roared: "Is this what you wanted to see, Assman? I swear to the gods of every hell that they will each have a piece of your soul to play with when I'm done " And a voice laughed at him from beyond the door.