by Alex Archer
Murphy approached her, pushing aside his suit coat to reveal a gun in the shoulder holster. He had no intention of being nice about this, so she wouldn’t be, either.
Interestingly enough, the gun was just for show. It appeared he was in the mood for a tussle before the final game. He bent to elbow her aside the hip. Elbowing an opponent was a slick move, but it put the elbower in a vulnerable position, opening him to a counterattack.
Annja dodged a swing from him as he anticipated her move. Jumping high, she cleared his left arm and landed steadily. She summoned the sword to her right hand. The solid weight of it landed her grip. She owned it as much as it owned her.
Swinging wide and putting her weight into it, she slashed the battle sword’s blade across the thug’s shoulder. He wasn’t close enough for the blade to do more than slice the fabric.
Gunfire dispersed the dirt near her feet. Pebbles spattered, pinging Annja’s ankles. The thug who had returned to Neville’s side prepared to shoot again, but Annja saw Neville gesture for his man to hold off.
“A bloody sword?” the thug facing her down grunted. “Where in the hell?”
“I keep it in my pocket,” she said. “I never know when the big boys will want to play.”
Annja spun and swung out her right leg, aiming to hit the thug low behind the knee. Bone cracked and he landed on the other knee screaming. Standing over him she swept her sword hand down across the back of Murphy’s skull with the hilt. The connection of sword and fist to skull reverberated up her arm and clattered her teeth. She felt like she’d whacked a bowling ball with a stick.
The thug dropped onto hands and knees, but wasn’t out. He grabbed her ankle and pulled, upsetting her balance. Swinging, she cut through the back of his coat. Blood misted the air.
She stood over him, an executioner wielding swift death.
You claim power with your sword…It is not your power to own.
The dream haunted her suddenly, but she would not allow it to alter her focus.
She wasn’t about to behead anyone. Annja valued human life. If she could put the thug out of order, that was her first choice. But if he attempted to take her life, she’d do what she had to do. She didn’t feel threatened right now. And knowing that Neville held his other dog at bay increased that certainty.
The man wanted her alive. He’d had plenty of opportunities to kill her if he’d wanted to.
A swipe of her blade cut through Murphy’s forearm. Flesh and muscle parted and blood oozed from the deep cut. That stopped him from pulling out his gun. The man yowled and cursed her in Gaelic.
Stepping wide and wielding the sword with both hands high at her shoulder, Annja defied him to approach her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Neville on his cell phone. The thug next to him stood with his arms crossed high over his chest.
Murphy kicked the ground, but the dust and dirt didn’t spume high enough for her to breathe it in. She swung low, slicing across his shin. That brought him down, begging for her to stop.
“Gun out,” she demanded, holding the sword on him.
He gingerly reached in for the gun, and tugged it out by the grip. He set it on the ground before him. She told him to give it a shove. He did, sending it under the SUV.
“Score one for Annja Creed!” Neville shouted. He clapped dramatically and even whistled.
The thug standing next to Neville put his hands to hips to expose his hardware. Annja approached, but he didn’t go for the draw. Well-trained thugs were always appreciated.
That didn’t mean she was going to drop the sword. She was nowhere near safe standing before the man who had shot Wesley Pierce in cold blood. And after his ridiculous cheering stopped, his grin dropped and his dark brows drew together.
“You’re quite an interesting woman,” Neville said. “While you’re not smiling for the camera and posing for celebrity skin shots on the internet—”
She would never live that photo down. It was not her photograph. It had been her head Photoshopped onto someone else’s body. But now she knew where the man had researched her.
“Annja.” Neville rubbed his tattooed wrist. She couldn’t get a good look at the tattoo. “You’re sticking your nose into the business of people you don’t even know.”
“And here I thought our conversation on the way here indicated friendship,” she said sarcastically. “Where’s the other guy?” she asked. “Slater?” No sense in letting Slater take the fall for her actions. Was he still waiting outside the hospital for her? He’d given her ten minutes. He should be swearing a blue streak.
“Slater should be watching you right now instead of leaving the task for me,” Neville said. “I believe you’ve been warned once or twice to leave us alone. I have been beyond tolerant, Annja.”
“I noticed your lacking manners when you shot Wesley.”
“You see what a hazard you are to me?” He thrust out a hand and the thug put a pistol into his palm. Neville checked the cartridge, slapped it sharply into place, but didn’t aim it at Annja. “I can’t have you running about telling that information to anyone.”
“If you wanted me dead you would have shot me by now.”
“Perceptive.”
Yes, and she’d done this stand-down against the villain with the gun enough times to know when she had time and when she had best run for her life.
“Tell me, where does a fashionable young television host come by such a big bad sword? You’re skilled with it, but is it so practical to get through customs?”
“It’s something I picked up at a souvenir shop.”
Neville actually grinned. The lift of his dark brows added a devilish effect to his facade.
“Where’s Eric Kritz?” she demanded. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just out for some silly forest shots. He probably didn’t even set foot on your dig.”
“The redhead? You don’t know? The other crowd got him. I understand they’re thick in that forest. People wander in. Some are never seen again. Some are found days later, wandering, babbling about seeing faeries.”
“Eric was taken by a man. I have the video proof.”
Neville sucked in his cheek, producing a nasty slurping noise. “I’ll need that camera, you understand.”
“We can trade. Eric for the camera.”
“I don’t make bargains.”
“Then you’ll have to shoot me and hope I haven’t already passed the video along to the authorities. Or for that matter, reported Wesley Pierce’s death.”
“Go ahead. I have the gardai on my payroll.”
“I thought we were being honest with each other?”
“I am. You haven’t seen the police wandering the site, looking as if they’re interested in solving any cases, have you?”
Annja didn’t allow her jaw to drop, though mentally, it was hanging on the ground. Judging from the rude treatment she received during her phone call to the police the other evening, it was very possible. Corrupt government and city officials were a dime a dozen.
But he didn’t have MI-6 on his payroll. She hoped. There was the slightest chance Neville was aware he had a government spook shadowing him. That would keep his actions guarded. He wouldn’t risk innocent lives under Slater’s watch, would he?
Where was Slater? He must have realized by now that she wasn’t coming out of the hospital, and had to have gone inside looking for her. He would have seen Beth in cardiac arrest—and then what?
Neville’s cell phone rang and he flipped it open to answer.
Annja gripped the sword and eyed the thug flanking Neville. Though he wore dark sunglasses she could feel his gaze slither over her shoulders.
“Yes, we’ve located the truck just out of Kinsale. You take care of the woman?” Neville eyed her.
He was talking to Slater.
“You lost her?” Neville eyed her and smirked.
If Slater had lied and told Neville he’d put her on a flight, Neville would have immediately known Slater was up to something.
“You’re a popular gal, Annja. Everyone wants you.” He eyed the truck. “But here’s the thing. I need you to do a little job for me. You ever drive an armored truck?”
“Nope.”
“It’s easy. Just a few more gears than you’re used to. You’ll pick it up.”
“Boss.” The bleeding thug leaning against the SUV trunk pointed toward the truck.
Annja spied a man step around the front of the armored vehicle. He exercised the long, rangy stride of confidence. Dressed from head to toe in black, he cradled an AK-47 across his shoulder, the long barrel tilted toward the sky.
In her peripheral vision, more men appeared, spreading ranks out from their leader. She spun and counted ten men total before she turned a complete circle and caught Neville’s tense expression.
“Friends of yours?” Annja asked, hoping he’d nod evilly.
“Bandits,” Neville hissed under his breath. “Shit.”
33
One of the men, obviously the leader, stepped forward from the ranks that had surrounded Annja and Neville and his men. He approached with the rifle barrel held up against his shoulder, displayed as a means to show who had the most firepower. Black pants and a ragged black T-shirt fit a stout, muscular build. A knit, multicolored beret capped scruffy dark hair. Dirt darkened his round face. He looked as if he’d been camping in the bogs for weeks.
Before he got close enough, Annja swept her right hand out and threw the sword under the SUV. She then released it into the otherwhere. She couldn’t fight all of them.
“Uniquely entertaining show,” the man called. Ten feet from where Annja stood next to Neville, he stopped, hooking the gun over his forearm, barrel pointed at Annja and Neville. He glanced at her. “Hello, luv.” To Neville he said, “The bird is talented with the fancy sword. And I suspect none too pleased with her situation if she is having a go at one of your own?”
From his pause, Annja guessed he waited for her to reply that indeed she was looking for new companions. Much as she did not trust Neville, and knew his only intent was to get rid of her, the ragtag crew surrounding them appealed even less. She was better off sticking with three men who wanted her dead as opposed to joining a dozen who may also wish her dead, if not battered and abused before that imminent death.
“Just a little play,” she said carefully, keeping her spine straight and legs planted but her knees slightly bent. Ready. “All in good fun.”
The leader laughed and cast a glance over his shoulder. Some of the men standing in a defensive chain about their leader chuckled. Each held a rifle or AK-47 aimed on them.
“I see you’ve located my truck,” Neville said.
“Lots of weapons inside that vehicle,” the leader said. “Plenty valuable.”
“I’m willing to sell if you can pay the price,” Neville offered. He stepped forward, beside Annja. The brush of his shirtsleeve across her bare arm unnerved her, and she had to force herself to remain calm before the leader’s discerning gaze. “I’ll let you have it for ten thousand.”
More laughter echoed across the still grounds. Annja’s shoulder muscles were knotted tighter than a steel spring. Plotting offense was foremost in her mind. If any one of the men opened fire, she’d head for the SUV where she knew the keys hung in the ignition.
“Feck me, but you’ve got it wrong.” The leader gestured toward the truck. “That. Is my truck.” A proud smile beamed at them, cracking the dusty coating at the corners of his eyes. “You cannot sell a man what is already his.”
Neville bowed his head and swallowed, fighting aggression, Annja knew. One of his thugs stood by the SUV and was guarded by a gunman wielding an AK-47. The one on the ground was surrounded by three gunmen sporting the same. There wasn’t much leverage Neville could command.
Annja wondered what he’d done with the pistol he’d been holding earlier. Knowing the positions of all weapons on the playing field was important. And why hadn’t these bandits searched them for weapons?
Finally Neville asked, “And how much are you selling your truck for?”
“The truck?” The leader glanced over the dusty white vehicle. An old armored truck painted white and rusting along the wielded seams. “I can let you drive away with it for five thousand.” Neville grimaced. The leader stepped forward, closing his distance to Neville by three paces. “But the contents will cost you thirty thousand quid.”
“The weapons are barely worth ten thousand,” Neville argued. “I’ll give you twenty thousand euros for the arms and vehicle.”
Bargaining with a dozen armed men? Annja clenched her fingers in a grip but did not call out the sword. If she took out the leader, his men would riddle her body with bullet holes faster than she could shove Neville in front of her as futile cover.
“Are you fat in the head? You’re offering euros?” the leader asked. “Have you looked at the currency exchange lately?”
Annja couldn’t believe this.
“What kind of businessman do you take me for?” the bandit continued. “You’re duping me seventeen percent, mate. I don’t like those terms. Do we like those terms, boys?”
A clatter of weapons prepared to fire.
“Do you believe this?” The leader directed at Annja, “Is that how he treats you, luv? Does he take you to the cheap pubs and treat you like you’re second class?”
“Okay!” Neville snapped. “I’ll pay the thirty thousand. Pounds.”
“Ah!” The leader bent forward in exclamation. “The price just went up to fifty thousand. And the bird included.” The leader winked at Annja. “You can come along with us, luv. No second-class treatment from me and me boys. Nothing but the best for you. I have jewels. You like jewels?”
“I’m not much into the sparkly stuff. But thanks, anyway,” Annja said.
She would not begin to imagine what a man like him would do with her. Any female, for that matter. Just standing close enough to smell him gave her a bone-clattering shiver.
Annja caught Neville’s sneer. Was he considering handing her over? She conveyed her most serious “I got you out of trouble” look, but suspected it would do little good.
“I can’t let her go,” Neville said. “She’s my driver.”
“Then you’ll have to cover the difference in price,” the leader said cheerily. “What do you think she’s worth? Ten, twenty quid?”
Annja bristled, but remained silent.
“You get your whores rather cheap,” Neville said.
“I’m talking thousands, you bastard.”
Neville held up his hands near his shoulders. “Your price is too rich for my blood. The weapons are old. They’ve been sitting in storage for almost a decade. You can have them.”
“That is what I had intended from the beginning,” the leader replied. He gestured to a man at his side, but then stopped him. Annja followed his gaze across the horizon.
Neville turned to eye the oncoming vehicle. Slater advanced slowly in the Jeep. He couldn’t be aware of what was going down, and yet if the man were at all trained in conflict he wouldn’t be stupid.
The entire crew of bandits raised their weapons and aimed at the vehicle. Slater stopped and exited slowly, arms held high to show compliance. The sun flashed on his amber sunglasses lenses.
“He’s my man,” Neville said.
“The man who was supposed to keep an eye on your truck?” The leader snorted out another belly-bending fit of laughter.
A gunman met Slater and with a shove of his assault rifle into Slater’s side escorted him to stand beside Annja. Slater played along and did not retaliate for the abuse.
“What’s going on?” Slater said to Neville, loud enough so all could hear. “I got your call. These men don’t look like the receivers we hired.”
Good play, Annja thought.
“They’ve
taken control of the truck,” Neville said, “and want to sell it back to me for fifty thousand.”
“Don’t forget the bird,” the leader said with a wink at Annja.
She inched closer to Slater until her arm nudged his. It wasn’t a signal; it was merely a means of connecting with the one side she felt a little safer standing next to. Not that either side had her best interest in mind.
“Fifty thousand is steep,” Slater said. He glanced to his boss. “You buying?”
“Forgot my checkbook,” Neville said. “I don’t need this batch. They’re substandard and rusty. Half are riddled with sand and dirt.”
“Well, now.” Slater spoke loudly at the leader’s rallying signal to his men. “We shouldn’t be so hasty. A little sand never interfered with the operation of a Kalashnikov. Give it a shake and clean it once in a while, and you’ve got a fine weapon. And just so you know, I did bring the checkbook.”
Annja caught the narrow look Neville cast at Slater. He hadn’t a clue what his right-hand man was up to. Nor did he appear amused. So why was Slater taking the reins?
“You want me to sign the check?” Slater’s question was directed toward the leader. “Like the man said, the guns are probably dirty. It’ll be difficult to sell them.”
“Then how will you sell them?”
“We’ve got established partners who are willing to take less-than-desirable weapons on occasion because they know we’ll deliver the top goods when requested. So, is it a sale or not?”
The leader glowered at Annja.
“She’s not included,” Slater said quickly. “I’ll put in an extra five thousand pounds to cover the loss to you.”
Five? Annja clenched her fist.
The leader, noticing her umbrage, laughed. Then he sobered quickly. “No checks.” He spat on the ground at Slater’s feet. “I’m not much for financial institutions.”
“I imagine not. So let me show you what I’m willing to offer instead of paper.”
Taking command of the show, Slater slowly lowered his right hand. Annja counted the pairs of eyes leveled on his action—too many for her to take out single-handedly, and even if Neville were to grow a spine and Slater backed her up, they’d be roadkill in a matter of seconds.
