by Alex Archer
The men climbed into the vehicles and Mason gave the signal to move out.
Lights from the outdoor floodlights that had been triggered by the alarm flooded into the garage as the gates were opened by remote from inside the vehicles, and then they were climbing the sloping driveway up to ground level, engines roaring.
They came under fire almost immediately. The bullets made odd thunking sounds as they impacted against the armored plate, but Mason ignored them, secure in that fact that the armor would hold up to the task. Still, the driver did what he could to avoid taking too many hits, throwing their vehicle into the evasive action pattern that he'd be taught to utilize, and Mason nodded his approval.
Given the fact that they were being fired upon, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why Davis and Katter had dropped off the grid. The fact that he had two men down, condition unknown, bothered him, but Mason was too good a commander to give in to the urge to move right to their side. His first order of business was to protect Davenport and secure the property. His men would have to hold on until he could get to them.
Mason was glad that he had ordered Davenport into the panic room. Despite its comfortable furnishings, complete with a kitchenette and a minibar, Mason knew that the room was designed to withstand just about anything an enemy could throw at it. Blast-reinforced concrete, four feet thick, surrounded it on all sides; even with explosives at their disposal it would take an intruder quite some time to blow their way inside, and hopefully by then those hiding out would have used the secured lines inside to call for help.
With Davenport safe, Mason could concentrate fully on repelling the attack and securing the estate.
Katter and Davis had been assigned to patrol the east side of the property and when Davis's panic button went off, its GPS signal put him out in front of the house near the wall. An access road ran around the inside of the fence line, but time was of the essence now and the driver knew it. He cut directly across the front lawn, his tires tearing long furrows out of the grass. They'd worry about the landscaping later; right now they had to know just what they were dealing with.
Muzzle flashes could be seen along the wall and in the tree line just beyond, and Mason made note of their position, then relayed that information to those in the backseat. They would be in range in just another minute or two and he could feel his troops getting themselves ready, their desire to give back a little of what they were getting coming through in the set of their shoulders and the grim determination on their faces.
You picked the wrong team to screw with, Mason thought with a smile.
As they drew closer, their headlights picked up a dark shape on the grass and soon it resolved itself into a man's body. Mason pointed it out to the driver and snapped off a quick set of instructions. While he wouldn't go out of his way to check on his missing men, there was no sense in driving right by one of them if they could provide help without endangering their primary mission. The driver did as he was told, skewing the vehicle to a stop angled between the downed man in the grass and the line of fire coming from beyond the wall.
No sooner had the vehicle slammed to a stop than Mason was slipping out the door and rushing over to the unmoving man's side. Simultaneously, the men on the other side of the SUV opened the doors and crouched behind them, using them as cover as they returned fire at the enemy beyond the wall, giving Mason the time he needed to check on their companion.
Mason's men were all armed with HK MP-5 submachine guns, capable of spitting out 800 rounds of 10 mm ammunition per minute, and they hosed down the top of the wall and the trees behind it with deadly accuracy as Mason himself slid to a stop beside his wounded teammate.
The red hair told him right away that it was Katter. He reached for the man's neck and checked for a pulse. Thankfully he found one; strong and steady, too.
But when he went to remove his hand, it brushed up against something sticking out of Katter's neck.
Mason rolled the man over and let his head loll back, revealing the object sticking out of the side of Katter's throat, just below the ear.
Tranquilizer dart.
The sight of it froze him in place for a moment, his mind whirling with this new piece of data.
What on earth were they doing using a dart gun? he asked himself. And why switch from that to real firepower? It just didn't make sense.
Unless…
The gunfire was just a distraction. Something to keep he and his men occupied while the enemy went after something else.
Mason spun around, looking back at the house, and was just in time to see a group of figures running along the peak of the roof.
A moment later, the lithe figure of Annja Creed climbed out onto the roof after them and gave chase.
12
The roof was relatively flat, which made movement easier, but the tiles were worn smooth from years of summer rainstorms, and more than a few popped free beneath Annja's feet as she took off after the intruders. The crack of the tiles as they split and slid down the roof alerted the others to her pursuit. Annja saw the last man in the group glance back in her direction, but he didn't stop moving forward and neither did she.
Gunfire split the night air. Annja could see Mason and his men working their way across the lawn toward the south wall, using two large SUVs from the motor pool as cover. Return fire was coming at them from the tree line but so far it looked pretty ineffectual. Annja didn't know if that was a product of the enemy's weapon skills or just a ruse to suck the team in closer where more damage could be doled out. She was momentarily glad she wasn't on the ground with them.
The intruders had reached the edge of the roof and were starting to make their descent by the time Annja reached the edge of the south wing. One of them looked back in her direction, saw that she had closed the distance between them and decided she'd come far enough.
He snatched up his gun and fired.
Annja's danger sense had gone off the moment she saw his hips begin to move and so she dove to the left, rolling across the tiles, as bullets stitched through air where she had been seconds before. By the time she scrambled back to her feet, two of the three intruders had already disappeared over the edge, headed for the ground below. As she watched, the last of the trio took hold of the rope and got into position for his own descent.
Annja knew she wouldn't reach them in time to prevent them from getting away.
The assault team leader must have realized it, too, for he gave her a jaunty smile and a wink before starting down the rope.
She put on a final burst of speed and then flung herself forward, her arms outstretched. As she struck the rooftop, her momentum carried her forward, her hand dipping over the edge as she sought to keep herself from hurtling over the side by dragging her feet behind her.
It worked. Just as her feet caught on the edge of one of the tiles behind her, stopping her slide, her hand bumped into something down beneath the lip of the roof and she snatched at it.
Gotcha!
She ended up with her head extended over the edge of the roof and, looking down, she saw that she'd caught the leader's wrist just as he'd been reaching for a new hold on the rope. His gun was slung over his shoulder and his other hand grasped the rope to keep from falling to the ground.
He was stuck.
Or so Annja thought.
As she struggled to pull him up toward her, however, he did something totally unexpected.
He let go of the rope.
Annja's arm nearly popped out of the socket from the sudden weight and she was forced to release her grip on the tiles beside her and grab his arm with both hands.
Now the only thing keeping them both from falling off the roof was the narrow lip of a tile under which she'd jammed the edge of one foot.
Grinning, her opponent dipped his free shoulder, causing his rifle to slide down into his hand.
Annja couldn't believe it. What was he going to do? Shoot her? If he did, he'd fall, which, when you thought about it, wasn't th
e smartest move. While the distance might not kill him, it would more than likely break both his legs and would certainly put a damper on his getaway attempt.
Apparently, he didn't see it like that. As she watched, he got a better grip on the butt of the weapon, stuck his finger on the trigger and swung the muzzle up in her direction.
Whatever his intent might have been, he never got the chance to carry it through. The sudden motion shifted their weight a fraction to one side, not more than an inch, maybe two, but that was enough to cause Annja's foot to pop free from the tile under which it had been braced.
Over the edge they went.
Thankfully, the long drop she'd been expecting never came. She tumbled only ten feet or so before crashing onto the balcony jutting out below them. Her opponent lost his weapon in the fall, but managed to land on his feet. He didn't give her time to recover but rather moved in immediately and delivered a violent kick to her midsection.
It hurt, but the sudden pain also had the effect of helping to clear her head, so that when he wound up to deliver another blow, she was able to respond.
She blocked the second kick with both hands, catching his foot in the process, twisting it savagely to one side in an attempt to throw him off balance.
Rather than toppling to the ground as she'd expected, the assault leader turned in the direction of her throw, twisting his body in midair and coming back at her head with the side of his other foot.
Annja had no choice but to let go as she leaned back to avoid the strike. As they separated, she scrambled to her feet and was ready when he waded in a second time, fists and feet flying.
They exchanged a flurry of blows, neither of them managing to land anything damaging, until he overextended himself on a spinning side kick and she was able to drop beneath it and sweep his feet out from under him.
As he fell to the ground, she sprung back to her feet and closed in, intending to force him to tell her where the journal was headed, but then he did the unexpected—again. Rather than getting to his feet, he placed both his hands flat on the ground and shoved his body upward and out, slamming his feet into her chest and sending her stumbling backward.
As her arms pinwheeled with an attempt to regain her balance, the backs of her knees struck the low railing running around the edge of the balcony and her momentum kept the rest of her body in motion.
Over the balcony's edge she went.
This time there was nothing between her and the ground.
13
When Annja came to, she found herself lying on the couch in the library where they'd been celebrating shortly before, an ice pack resting across the side of her face and head. The last thing she remembered was her opponent's feet striking her in the chest, knocking her backward and over the balcony railing. After that, there was nothing but darkness.
"You fell off the roof," a voice said, and she turned slightly to see Mason sitting in a chair a short distance away, watching her.
"Not my most graceful moment, apparently," she replied, wincing at the pain as she lifted herself into a sitting position. "Besides, it wasn't the roof, it was just the balcony." All told, she was in pretty good shape. A few bruises, a serious headache, but otherwise she was intact. "I'm guessing they got away?"
"Unfortunately, yes. My fault. I should have anticipated he would try something like this," Mason muttered.
Before she could ask what he meant, John Davenport came through the door, flanked by two of Mason's security team. Despite the fact that Davenport hadn't been the primary target, they were obviously not taking any chances. Annja thought it was a bit like trying to put the horses away after the barn had burned down, but then again, it wasn't her job and so she didn't say anything.
Davenport, it seemed, was far more concerned with her welfare than his own. He hurried over to her side.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine. Just sorry that I couldn't keep them from taking the journal."
He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to face Mason. "Was it Ransom?"
His security chief nodded. "The bastard even left you a note." He handed the other man a small white card, like those used as thank-you notes. Davenport read it and then passed it on to Annja for a look.
There was only a single sentence written on its face.
May the best man win—and we both know who that is.
Sounds like a real fun guy, Annja thought.
Mason went on with his report. "Katter is going to be okay; they hit him with enough trank to put down a rhino, but the doc says the worst of it will be the massive hangover he'll wake up with. Davis, unfortunately, is dead. We think they messed up his trank dose and had no other option but to take him out when they realized that he was going to warn us about the assault."
"And the enemy forces?" Davenport asked.
"Not sure. We found blood trails in the trees and evidence that we might have tagged one or two of them, but we can't be sure. They apparently had vehicles waiting for them a bit farther down the street and hightailed it out of here once they'd gotten what they came for."
"Which was the journal?" Davenport asked angrily.
"Yes, sir. Nothing else seems to be missing."
"That son of a bitch!"
Mason nodded. "My sentiments exactly. Though right about now I'm feeling the same way about you."
Davenport turned to him, surprise flowing across his face. "What?"
Mason shook his finger at his employer. "What were you told to do when the alarm sounded?"
"I—"
"Go to the safe room, right?"
Davenport struggled to find his voice. "But…Annja didn't…"
"This isn't about Annja," Mason said sharply, then turned to her and said, "No offense."
"None taken," she replied, still watching in fascination as this man chewed out Davenport, never mind the fact that not only was Davenport his employer but also the third richest man in the world, according to most sources.
"I told you to go to the safe room. I ordered Watkins to accompany you there and to keep you safe. By ignoring that order, you put not only his but your own life at risk."
"Well, yes, but I didn't think—"
"Exactly," Mason said, overriding him again. "You didn't think. And now Watkins is dead because of it."
Silence fell.
The two men stared at each other, with Annja looking back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match.
At last Davenport mustered his dignity, looked Mason in the eye and said, "I'm sorry. You are entirely correct. It won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't," Mason muttered, but he turned away, his anger spent, and the tension slowly eased out of the room.
To help get things back on track, Annja stepped into the silence with a question she'd been wondering about since waking up.
"Okay," she said. "Time for somebody to bring me up to speed. Who is this guy, Ransom?"
Davenport sighed. "Trevor Ransom is a lowlife thug who happened to strike it rich during the dot-com boom of the 1990s. Unfortunately, he also happens to be my ex-business partner."
He went on to explain how the two of them had been involved in a series of commercial development projects early in their careers that had been extremely lucrative but that had also exposed Ransom's true nature. When Davenport had discovered that Ransom had been using substandard building materials and bilking the clients for the difference, he'd severed the relationship. Ransom, however, hadn't been happy with that result and the two had been bitter competitors ever since. They'd spent the past ten years fighting over everything from mineral rights in Siberia to a chain of grocery stores in Bird's Eye, Pennsylvania. More often than not, Davenport came out on top, which only served to fuel Ransom's rivalry.
Somehow, Ransom had learned about the journal and decided to take matters into his own hands.
Literally.
The information put a whole new light on what had happened to Annja that morning and provided one p
ossible way for Ransom to have known about the journal. She told them about the feeling she'd had that morning, that certain sense that someone had been in her room while she was out on her run. At the time, she'd written if off as just having been the hotel staff, but now she wasn't so sure. If Ransom's men had bugged her room, or even put a listening device on her clothing, all they would have had to do was eavesdrop on her conversations all day to discover what she and Davenport were up to.
Apparently Ransom hadn't wasted a moment in planning to secure the find for himself once he had known what it truly was.
"So what do we do now? Wait for the cops to get the journal back?" Annja asked.
