Blood Cursed (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  Grabbing one of the complimentary sweet rolls from the dinette area as she followed Luke out of the hotel, Annja choked down the dried-out pastry.

  “I’ve got coffee brewed and packed in the Range Rover,” Luke said as he pushed open the swinging doors and they strode into the parking lot that was vacant except for a few vehicles. Not a lot of tourists in this area, and it wasn’t peak season. “What the hell?”

  A black van had parked beside the Range Rover, the side doors open to reveal a man sitting cross-legged, his arms wrenched around behind his back, and a burlap sack over his head. Annja recognized the Vans sneakers immediately.

  Two men carrying pistols, scarves concealing most of their faces, approached Annja and Luke. Khaki pants and jackets made them indistinguishable from each other, except for the different colored scarves. Could these be the same men who’d held guns on them yesterday afternoon?

  Quelling the urge to call the sword to hand, Annja erred on the side of caution and waited to see what would happen. They heard a sudden shout from inside the van.

  “Doug?”

  The man in the burlap hood struggled with another khaki-clad gunman.

  “This is your friend, Annja Creed?” one of the men asked. She didn’t recognize the speaker. And she didn’t see Katana Man, either.

  “Depends. I can’t see his face.”

  “He says he’s arrived to see you and talk about vampires.” The guy with the gun tilted his head. “A strange man, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, he has his moments.”

  From behind the hood, she heard Doug whine. “Annja, please!”

  “What’s with the hood and the guns?”

  “We’ve come to invite you and Mr. Spencer to meet our boss.”

  “An invitation?” She exchanged looks with Luke, who betrayed none of the nervous energy in his face that she could feel wavering off him. It was never good when the bad guys knew your name. “What’s your boss’s name? He is the guy with the katana sword?”

  The men exchanged looks. “You’ll know his name when you are introduced.”

  “What if we’ve already got plans?”

  “Then the strange man in the van will be shot.” The blue scarved man grinned widely and swung the barrel of his gun toward Doug’s head.

  Annja’s instincts charged to the fore and she struggled not to move. Sometimes it was best to follow the trail and hope it led to answers.

  “When you put it that way, perhaps we’ve got a few hours to spare, eh, Luke?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Where exactly is your boss?” she asked.

  “Step inside the back of the van, Mr. Spencer. We’ll have to put a hood on you, as well, for precaution. And you, Miss Creed, you’ll run back inside the hotel and fetch the skull you removed from the site. My boss is particularly interested in getting a look at it.”

  “It’s too delicate to transfer,” she tried. The machine gun nudged her bicep. “It would be better if your boss came here to view it.”

  “We’ll drive carefully. As you can see, we’ve already got precious cargo. Now move!”

  * * *

  GARIN BRADEN TOOK an MI-17 helicopter to Liberec, a private chopper he’d had retrofitted from a gunship to a personal carrier. A car rental waited at the small airstrip near the train station, and Garin now sat outside the Chrastava hotel where Annja was staying.

  Hadn’t been his first guess. He’d checked another hotel first, asking after Annja at the reception desk, explaining he’d wanted to surprise an old friend. The fact that the receptionist had been young and blushed when he’d given her a charming smile had helped his cause. Good thing the town was small and only boasted a few hotels. He would have never pegged Annja as someone who’d choose the only family-oriented hotel in the city. It offered miniature golf and free in-room family movies.

  He did like that woman’s surprises.

  Now, he sat in the parking lot, observing the commotion. He’d been considering going in to knock on Annja’s door until the black van had driven up. Strange sights like men carrying pistols and tugging along hooded hostages usually indicted Annja Creed was in the vicinity. And sure enough, she walked out of the hotel, toting something wrapped in blue tarp. One of the men gestured with a gun for her to move quickly.

  “Creed, how do you always manage to get muddled in all the wrong situations?” he muttered. “I thought you were here for a job? Who would have thought archaeology could be so dangerous.”

  Was Annja’s situation related to his difficulties in the area? Such a coincidence tested the odds. Bracks couldn’t have learned that he and Annja were friends. It didn’t feel as if this was another ploy to show him up. Hadn’t the stolen ship been enough, anyway?

  By rights, it was Garin’s turn to retaliate against Bracks.

  Until Garin knew exactly why she was being forced inside the back of the black van, carefully cradling a plastic bag the size of her head against her gut, he’d sit back and see what he could learn. He would follow the van, and move when it felt right.

  * * *

  WHILE ANNJA COULDN’T see where they were going, it only took ten minutes to arrive. She assumed they had driven southeast to the larger town of Liberec, six miles from Chrastava. The hotel room was small as far as hotel rooms went, and Annja, Luke, three armed guards and the still-hooded Doug had to cram themselves in. In the chair by the window a man wearing a fedora sat, cigar smoke curling up around his chin.

  Cherry tobacco, she assessed. Loved the smell. Hated that she loved it right now, she thought.

  One of the guards pulled the hood off Doug’s head, and her producer blinked and looked around. His eyes landed on her and pleaded for an explanation.

  “I told you,” she muttered, “the situation is dangerous.”

  “Nice,” he managed to say. “They broke the video camera. That’s a huge red mark on my expense account.”

  The guard who’d removed his hood slapped the burlap sack across Doug’s face. “Drz hubu.”

  “That means—” Annja started.

  “I know. ‘Be quiet,’” Doug finished.

  Correctly translated it meant “shut up,” but she’d allow Doug the gentler admonishment.

  Annja’s eyes went straight to the small arsenal on the bed. One assault rifle, a few Glocks, half a dozen blades and two military-issue grenades. The grenades worried her―she didn’t want the hotel going up in an explosion should someone feel the urge to exert control over them.

  Luke, his left shoulder against her right, remained silent. He wouldn’t get in the way if she took action. It was Doug she couldn’t rely on to not get his head blown off.

  “Three?” the cigar-smoking man said, not lifting his head to acknowledge them. “I expected two. Who is responsible for making this a ménage à trois?”

  “We found this man on the way to the site in Chrastava. Your contact alerted us to him. He looked suspicious, and when we questioned him, he gave us the woman’s name.”

  Contact? This just got a lot more interesting.

  The man in the fedora, his face still shadowed by his hat, turned to them. After a long moment, he stood, tugging at the lapels of his pinstripe suit and shaking out his arms so the sleeves fell properly. In wingtip leather shoes, he seemed to have stepped out of a gangster movie. His complexion was pale, not the olive tones of the Romas. His accent sounded distinctly British.

  “Annja Creed. Archaeologist and television personality.” He strolled his gaze from her head to her dirt-dusted boots, and back up her legs and torso in a manner that should have made her squirm, but only fired her anger. “And you are Luke Spencer, the supervisor on the dig site. A part-time professor of Sociology at the London University.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” Annja said.

  “Information is power, Miss Creed. But I don’t like it when someone tosses a wrench into my events calendar.” He stabbed his cigar in Doug’s direction. “Who is this sorry-looking man?”

&
nbsp; The guard kicked Doug’s tennis shoe, and he blurted out, “Doug Morrell. Producer of Chasing History’s Monsters and media celebrity. If I go missing, there will be people looking for me.”

  Annja contained the urge to roll her eyes. On the other hand, Go, Doug.

  “And why would you go missing?” the man asked in an accent Annja thought had a touch of Cockney to it. “Do you expect to tumble into a dig pit and break your neck?”

  Doug delivered the man a moaning wince. “We don’t know anything!”

  “What is there to know?”

  “Who you are and why you kidnapped us?”

  “Doug,” Annja cautioned. “My producer has only just arrived in the city this morning to film a segment for our show,” she explained to the Brit. “He has no idea what’s going on. I could claim the same. What is your interest in us, Mr....?”

  “Weston Bracks. International business opportunist.”

  Which, in Annja speak, meant a criminal with an inflated assessment of his freedom.

  He smoothed a finger along the brim of the fedora, and Annja wondered if he’d watched too many gangster movies.

  “It seems you’ve riled my townspeople, Miss Creed. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing for my line of work. Just...annoying. The balance between too much and just the right amount of media coverage is a difficult tightrope, eh?”

  “Your townspeople?”

  “Yes, well, I claim a certain concern for their well-being.”

  And she believed that one as much as the holy water in the hawker’s cart was actually blessed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I moved operations to the area after I’d learned about that fascinating skull. Where is it, by the by?” He eyed the wrapped package Annja held. “I might take a look at it. Always on the lookout for valuable artifacts.”

  “As I would expect from a business opportunist.”

  He winked at her. “I like you, Miss Creed. Feisty. Now hand it over.”

  “It’s delicate.”

  Annja held out the wrapped skull. All instincts screamed for her to draw the sword and lay them flat, taking names later. “Let me unwrap it, please.”

  “Of course.” He gestured to the bed arrayed with weapons. “Be careful of my pretties.”

  Annja laid the plastic bag next to the grenades and went through the motions of carefully extracting the skull.

  Doug gave a low whistle, his eyes wide.

  It had held together nicely, though a sifting of fine soil had been scoured off and scattered onto the bed as the tarp was carefully folded down.

  “There was only the head?” Bracks said from over her shoulder.

  “No, the full skeleton remains in situ,” Annja said. “But we decided to remove the skull for fear someone might desecrate the site. They’re superstitious in this neck of the woods.”

  “Superstitions are often rooted in truths.”

  She shot a glance at the misplaced gangster. She could feel the heat of his body along her arm, and she didn’t care for the proximity. “Do you believe in vampires, Mr. Bracks?”

  “Of course not. But belief can be a powerful thing especially for a—”

  “Business opportunist,” she finished for him.

  He preened a hand over his suit sleeve. “The Romas call it mullo.”

  “You know your supernatural myths.”

  He shrugged. “I am a man of knowledge. Graduated first honors from Cambridge.”

  “What major?”

  “Business and accounting. Step aside, will you? Back beside your companions.”

  She did so and watched with fists tightened near her thighs as Bracks looked over the skull. Surprisingly, he took care and only touched it lightly with two fingers to move it side to side. The brick was still firmly wedged between the mandibles thanks to the dirt they’d left packed in the skull. A thorough cleaning would loosen it, and confirm whether or not it had a hole in it, which would place it in the nineteenth century. Or perhaps even the twentieth.

  The skull could be even more recent than either she or Luke suspected. Which would give more credence for the Romas believing it was one of their own.

  “The mullo,” Bracks said grandly. He glanced to his guards, and one of them made the sign of the cross. “You see?” Bracks looked to Annja and winked. “Superstition is deeply rooted in these parts.”

  “You said something about it not being bad for your line of work,” Annja mused. “You moved operations to Chrastava after hearing about the discovery? That means you’re either a vampire or a purveyor of fear.”

  “Both would be considered in the same line of work, yes?”

  “In a manner, yes. Care to enlighten me on this particular business opportunity?”

  Bracks chuckled, and with a gesture over the array of weapons spread across the bed, Annja decided she’d framed that question incorrectly.

  “Gunrunning and vampires don’t logically mix,” she said.

  The man scoffed. “I’m a businessman, Annja, and I take offense at that suggestion.”

  “Right. An international entrepreneur who thrives on the illogical beliefs of others?” She couldn’t piece together the weapons and the lure of a possibly centuries-old skull, and she suspected he wasn’t going to do it for her.

  Bracks stubbed out his cigar on the edge of the nightstand, then tossed the butt in the tin waste can across the room by the door, making a basket.

  Annja exchanged looks with Luke, who offered her a calm nod. In vast opposition to Luke’s cool, Doug was sweating despite the rickety air-conditioning unit in the window that kept the room reasonably cool.

  “So you’ve seen the skull,” she said. “We’ll wrap it up and take it along with us, and be on our merry way.”

  With a lift of his chin, Bracks silently commanded one of the men. A gun barrel poked into Annja’s spine.

  “I need to ensure this precious artifact does not fall into the hands of the ones who wish to burn it,” Bracks said. “Can’t snuff out the superstition before my work here is done.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s a valuable archaeological find. If anyone steals it they’ll be looking at jail time.”

  “It’s easy enough to destroy something without taking it away from the owner.” Bracks reached for a Glock, checked the magazine and aimed it at the skull.

  Luke tensed beside her. “Annja,” he said on a breath.

  Bracks was going to destroy the only evidence of the fascinating legend.

  Annja curled her fingers about the intangible hilt of her sword. Was one damaged skull worth revealing Joan of Arc’s sword in front of Doug and Luke? Or further endangering the two?

  On the other hand...

  At a knock on the door, they all froze. Annoyed, Bracks waved the gun toward the door. “Who is it?”

  A kick against the wood slammed it inward. And standing in the doorway, Garin Braden flashed a devilish smile. Until he met eyes with Bracks, and then his charm dropped like rain. He growled and raised his fists.

  “You!”

  Chapter 7

  Only pausing at the surprise of seeing Garin in the doorway for a moment, Annja used the distraction to kick the backs of one man’s knees with the hard rubber sole of her boot. He went down, his gun hand flailing out, and she grabbed the pistol by the barrel and easily twisted it out of his fingers.

  His cohort was more on the ball, and swung a punch that connected with Annja’s bicep. She almost dropped the weapon, but instead used the force of the punch to swerve and roll across the end of the bed, gun still firmly in hand. At the last moment, she remembered the skull on the bed. It was near the pillows, safe for now.

  At the door, Garin pushed Doug and Luke aside. One of his meaty fists crunched as it met the jaw of one of the gunmen. A pistol round echoed in the small room.

  Annja scanned the scene as she righted herself from the bed. Abruptly an arm went around her throat from behind. Her attacker’s other hand crushed her wrist and squeezed relentlessly, compress
ing the ulnar nerve so she dropped the pistol onto the bed. Still, there was a nice assortment of weapons to choose from, if she could get her wrist free.

  Luke had backed his shoulders up to the wall, watching helplessly. That was fine by her; he was out of immediate danger. Doug had crouched on the floor, arms before him in defense.

  She couldn’t place Bracks, but at the moment had to hope Garin’s bulk blocking the doorway would keep everyone inside from leaving before they had permission.

  The arm about her neck squeezed and lifted her jaw, compressing her throat. The attempt to kick off the bed and crush her attacker against the wall was only halfhearted, and Annja managed to stumble backward, being dragged as her aggressor lost his balance and they both went to the floor. Choke hold released, Annja rolled off him, gasped for breath and searched the floor for the gun she’d dropped.

  One of the gunmen knelt in the doorway, spitting blood. He looked up in time to catch Garin’s fist against his skull. Processing the impact, the man wavered, but didn’t go down. Garin lifted him by the shirtfront and swung him around to land on the bed. While his attention was focused on the bed, Annja saw Bracks in his sleek pin-striped suit slip out the door, followed by the one who had been choking her.

  She spied the pistol under the bed, but determined it was a long reach, so instead lunged up for a bowie knife on the bed. She threw it out the opened doorway, but the fleeing men had already turned a corner.

  “Shoot.” She grabbed another knife and asked Luke if he was okay.

  The Welshman nodded and winced. “Who is that?” he asked with a nod toward Garin, who now loomed over Annja’s shoulder. “Wasn’t he out at the site the other day?”

  “A friend—” Annja started.

  “You said he wasn’t a friend.”

  “Nice,” Garin commented as he turned to check over the fallen man’s body for weapons. He pocketed a switchblade and tucked the pistol inside the back of his jeans. “Not a friend?”

  “Not always,” Annja insisted as she grabbed Doug’s hand and helped him to stand. Her producer was shaking, but he’d rally in a few minutes. “Who were they, Garin?”