Swordsman's Legacy

by Alex Archer

  “They finance their endeavors with the treasure,” Annja finished his thought. “They are pirates, swooping in to steal treasure and literally stealing historical identities from the grave. Lambert staffs biopirates as a means to finance his twisted studies.”

  “Twisted?”

  “I uncovered horrible evidence that they are attempting to clone humans.”

  “Babies in jars?”

  She smirked. “Not quite, but close.”

  Roux appeared appropriately horrified, and swept a palm over his mouth.

  “I followed a pregnant woman from the place.”

  “You were there?” he asked.

  “Yes, just now. But I have no tangible evidence. Why else would a pregnant woman be seen by a doctor at such a place? I think she’s carrying a clone.”

  “Human cloning isn’t possible,” Roux said.

  “It’s not legitimately possible. Trust me, I’m a major skeptic, but I have a feeling the attempt to create human clones occurs more frequently than we’d like to believe. Yet who will admit they are involved in such research? That is, until the experiments actually work. In the meantime, humans are suffering for the research.”

  “But I thought the cloning process merely involved extracting the DNA from embryos. Less than a week old?”

  “Two weeks actually. And that is only for therapeutic cloning. The embryo never grows to be born. I found evidence that BHDC has actually been seeing their experiments to the birth stage. They’re killing babies, Roux.”

  “But to kill them makes so little sense. If they are experimenting…?”

  “Not killing them purposely, the cloned child is born, then does not survive beyond—well, I saw one file that put the survival to sixty-eight minutes before the infant stopped breathing from complications.”

  “What sort of complications?” Roux asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have time to read it all. Complications from the cloning process, I assume. It’s not perfected, which is why it’s illegal, and beyond the legalities of it, it’s morally wrong.”

  Suddenly overcome by a strange wave of emotion, Annja pressed her palm over the sword hilt and closed her eyes. A thick hollow nagged inside her throat. “It’s so wrong. Isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Roux said. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a tender attempt at consoling her. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “No time. I’m to meet Ascher in the city. I think I was followed, as it is. See here?”

  Roux nodded as she drew her fingertip around the pommel, tracing the worn impression of the directions of the map.

  “A compass. My dear, I think you’ve found your way to reading the map.”

  “And all it took was a cup of coffee and an old tourist flyer.”

  She screwed off the pommel from the hilt and set down the rapier on the desk behind her. “Lock that up. I’m taking this with me.”

  “Will I require reinforcements to stand in your wake?” he called to Annja’s retreating back.

  She smiled at his playful, yet knowing, assessment of the situation. “You may.”

  Pulling open the front door, she dodged as the whoosh of an arrow skimmed her head.

  18

  “Increased security, eh?” Annja said to no one in particular. She kicked the door closed, pressed her shoulders to it—then decided that wasn’t a good idea.

  As she dodged to the right, the force of an explosion hitting the door sent wood splinters as big as her arm flying in all directions. Flames ignited the remnants of the wood door. Embers sifted into the foyer in a rain of orange bits.

  Annja landed on the marble floor in a face-forward sprawl. She heard Roux order Henshaw to go for the automatic weapons.

  “Are you all right, Annja?”

  “Peachy!”

  “What was that? A grenade?”

  “Felt like it. Must have been an RPG.”

  Rolling to her back, she decided whoever had shot the grenade would come next. Springing up, she took a crouching, ready position aside the flaming doorway. Joan’s sword arrived from out of the otherwhere, fitting to her grip.

  No, my sword, she thought determinedly. It’s no longer hers.

  Roux moved around the opposite side of the door. He brandished a machine gun, and had found himself a Kevlar flak jacket. The room was still fuzzy with the dust of the shattered door.

  “I’ve got the front,” she said. “You go around back and check the perimeter.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  The barrel of a sniper rifle appeared in the doorway. Annja held back defense until she saw the elbow of the gun wielder. He turned toward her. Clad in black from head to combat boots, his eyes were revealed in a thin slash across his face mask.

  Before he had time to react to Annja’s position, she drew the sword in a sweep across his gut. The rifle clattered across the marble floor, skidding over the rubble of charred wood and ash. Blood pooled quickly beneath his clutching fingers. The man dropped to his knees, yelped and sprawled to his side. He wasn’t dead, but that wound was going to leave a mark.

  “You should really knock before entering,” Annja said as she stepped over the body. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  She slid up against the opposite wall and swung a look outside. All clear. Only her rental parked in the driveway. She returned to position, shoulders and hips against the wall.

  Drawing the sword up and pressing the flat of the blade against her forehead, she closed her eyes and exhaled. Never in a million years would she have imagined such a life. Defending herself against men who wanted to kill her? But now that she was living it, she did it with relish.

  She’d been gifted a sword that secreted a great treasure. And it wasn’t a gift she intended to ever ignore.

  Focusing, she concentrated on picking up activity outside. Movement. Footsteps.

  With an intensity of calm that bordered on meditation, she connected with sounds outside. Beyond the crackle of flame that quickly reduced to simmering embers in the door, wind brushed through the yew hedges that lined Roux’s front yard, listing the stiff branches against the brick exterior of the house. The hazy darkness would not reveal snipers hidden in the shrubs that lined the drive. She wasn’t for putting herself out in the open as an easy target.

  A glance to the man lying to her right showed he wore a headset. A minuscule red light flashed near his temple. There were others.

  The scuff of footsteps moved up the limestone steps that fronted the mansion.

  Moving her elbow up to bring the sword horizontal, blade tip tilted down, Annja prepared. Slowly, she exhaled. A deep breath carefully drawn, loosened her muscles to the point of readiness.

  The footsteps moved cautiously. And now the rub of clothing focused Annja’s hearing. Nylon, windbreaker type of fabric that moved in sharp swishes.

  Overhead, the dull patter of automatic rifle fire did not break her concentration. Roux must be up on the roof. The man could take care of himself.

  Where was Henshaw? The butler had previously proved he could fend for himself. Annja instantly abandoned worry over him.

  The footsteps doubled pace. The toe of a combat boot broached the threshold. Annja swung around. The gunman had but a second to register her position. A red laser beam bobbled across her chest. She spun and drew her sword arm in a wide arc, while twisting her body out of the rifle’s line of fire.

  She slashed the gunman across the clavicle, avoiding the carotid artery—she didn’t want him dead. Warm droplets of blood hailed her hand and wrist.

  Gripping the hilt tighter than usual, she fisted the stock of the rifle with the coiled base of her hand, the sword pommel clacking against black steel. The gun fell. Annja kicked the weapon across the floor, away from the fallen shooter.

  The gunman lunged for her neck. The sword slice had served little more than to aggravate him.

  Thanks to her martial-arts training, close combat didn’t give her cause to blink. Releasing the sword from her
grip sent it away. Annja brought up a knee and connected with a kidney. The man grunted and doubled over, but the impact couldn’t be too deadly for the heavy flak jacket protecting his organs. But his position allowed her to kick up with her other knee, smashing it into his nose. Cartilage crunched. He let out a French oath.

  Meanwhile Annja kept a keen eye out the front door. No other gunmen in sight. That didn’t mean there weren’t snipers in the foliage along the driveway. Had they taken out the guard at the gate? There was no other way in, unless they’d scaled the iron gates.

  Swiping a bloodied hand across her cheek cleared the hair from her face.

  Swinging around behind her opponent, Annja gripped the back of his nylon jacket. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a large object drop from above, outside.

  A man landed sprawled across the manicured lawn. One point for Roux, or maybe Henshaw.

  Swinging her attacker up and using his weight to increase impact, Annja crushed his face into the door frame. He pushed back, forcing her up against the opposite side of the frame. Wood splinters from the shattered door dug into Annja’s shoulder. She wore no protective gear, just the T-shirt and khaki shorts.

  Groping for his face, Annja dug her fingers into anything soft. She landed both eye sockets. To touch another person’s eyeballs gave her the creeps, but it was either that or lose this fight.

  He bent forward, and Annja, now clinging to his body, legs wrapped about his waist, dug in deeper. Her aggressor fell to his knees and collapsed, moaning and grabbing at his face.

  Annja stood. Gripping a hank of his hair, she crushed his face into the limestone step, and used her hiking boot crammed against his jaw to keep him down. She demanded, “Who sent you?” she shouted.

  He replied in French that she could do something nasty with herself.

  So, in French, Annja repeated, “Are you with BHDC? Did Lambert send you?”

  Yet more French oaths. This one obviously didn’t care that she had a mystery to solve, and usually when one gets his face smashed bloody that doesn’t mean it’s going to go all that well. She didn’t even want to see what his eyeballs were doing. In or out?

  “Ms. Creed?” Henshaw appeared in the doorway, wielding a semiautomatic in one hand and what might have been a confiscated crossbow in the other.

  “Got things covered, Henshaw.” She lifted the sniper’s face and gave it one last shove against the step, which succeeded in knocking him out. “Where’s Roux?”

  “Gathering the intruders.”

  “There’s one on the lawn he missed,” she commented as she stepped over the fallen gunman and inspected the crossbow Henshaw handed to her.

  “The one on the lawn is mine.”

  “Nice one, Henshaw. Let’s get them tied up and see if Roux can get them to talk.”

  SHE LEFT ROUX to handle the five thugs who had invaded his home. One was dead. A fall from a four-story rooftop generally did result in death. Three others were injured badly, and Roux intended to deliver them to an undisclosed aqueduct in the center of Paris, in the vicinity of a hospital—should they choose to seek medical attention—but the final man he kept for interrogation.

  Annja did not question his neglect to call the authorities. Report a break-in? That would prompt too many questions Roux, and Annja, would rather not consider. Any man who had walked this earth for five hundred years must maintain a certain anonymity with local authorities.

  Annja had to explain that she suspected she’d been followed after her kidnapping.

  “They held you against your will? Just this afternoon?”

  “I’m free. They left me alone and I was able to escape.”

  “Alone? Hmm, yes, I suppose. Good for you.”

  Good old Roux, always concerned, but never quite sure how to express that feeling, she thought. He seemed nervous. As if he wanted to say more, but he did not. The last time Annja had seen him so roused by events he had just returned from a forty-eight-hour Texas Hold ’Em tournament.

  “I’ll see what I can prod out of him,” Roux offered with a glint to his eye.

  As Annja left, the carpentry crew Henshaw had called to fix the demolished front door pulled up the drive. He’d found a work crew immediately. It was a wonder what money could buy.

  She had been careful driving to Roux’s estate. She’d kept watch the entire trip. Yet there was no doubt she’d been followed from BHDC by Lambert’s thugs. And further, there could be little doubt Lambert felt threatened by her now that she’d infiltrated his files and knew he was involved in human cloning.

  THE RIDE INTO PARIS WAS uneventful, and again Annja kept a keen eye for a tail. She parked again near Notre-Dame, since the tight streets in the Fifth Arrondissement rarely offered parking spaces, and some were even marked only for pedestrians. Ascher’s hotel was tucked in a cozy little corner above a touristy restaurant that featured, as scrawled in chalk on a board sitting on the sidewalk, Les Cuisses De Grenouilles.

  Smirking, Annja recalled her first adventure with frog legs. No, they did not taste like chicken. And even the French were averse to eating them. It was strictly a tourist spectacle.

  Ascher greeted her at the door with a kiss to both cheeks. “You’re late.”

  “Had a matter to take care of at a friend’s house,” Annja said.

  “You look a mess, Annja. That is your normal look, eh?”

  “And here I thought you were all about the flirtation,” Annja bantered back. “Is that how you pick up women? Comment on their disarray?”

  “A disheveled woman is a gorgeous thing.”

  He tried to be light, but he shook his head and apologized, offering the end of the bed to sit.

  The room was not much larger than the bed. A narrow aisle between the bed and the window led to an even narrower door, which she presumed was the bathroom. Probably no larger than a shower, toilet and sink. What was it about the Europeans that they didn’t attach their showerheads to the wall? It was so difficult to wash one’s hair when having to struggle with that.

  “Did you get food?” she asked. Important things first. Annja sat on the bed, then stretched out an arm and lay on her side. “I’m starving.”

  Ascher set a bag on the bed. Grease stained the brown paper. It smelled wonderful.

  “It’s an hour old, so probably not hot.”

  “Doesn’t matter, as long as it’s not frog legs.”

  “No, not those awful things. From the Greek restaurant down the alley,” he said. “There are more Greek restaurants in the fifth than French, you know that?”

  “I don’t care, so long as it’s edible.” Annja pulled out a heavy-paper-wrapped gyro and bit into the tepid concoction. Marinated pork and a mild, creamy garlic sauce. Delicious. A stack of thick pommes frites marinated in grease sat at the bottom of the bag. “You’re not going to eat?” she asked.

  “I did already. Thirsty?”

  He offered a chilled bottle, but there were no glasses.

  “D’Artagnan’s favorite,” Annja said, studying the label. “I’m game.”

  Armagnac was a single distilled malt brandy that, besides being the famous musketeer’s drink of choice, had also been used by apothecaries as a disinfectant in the seventeenth century.

  She took a swig. Annja wasn’t a big drinker, and had nothing to compare this to. It burned the roof of her mouth, as any good disinfectant should, but not for long.

  “You like?”

  She nodded. The burn rose in her throat and she managed a hoarse “Sure.”

  “If I had the proper goblets, then you could truly appreciate the fullness of this exquisite brandy. Smell the pepper and the apricots.” He wavered his fingers over the narrow bottle neck, then slugged back a swallow. “But this is how d’Artagnan would have indulged—straight from the bottle!”

  His enthusiasm warmed her. Certainly he was a man of gusto and extreme fascinations. She could picture Ascher Vallois striding the cobbled roads of the seventeenth century, gentleman’s rapier at his hi
p and a musketeer’s tabard swinging, the silver lace catching the eyes of passing ladies.

  He would most definitely seduce them with his charm and impressive dueling skills. And once within the privacy of her boudoir? The man would have been a lady-killer.

  A gray sweater fit tight across Ascher’s abs, and dark trousers showed off the incredible quads that he’d obviously earned jumping over obstacles as a traceur. Of course, mountain biking and rock climbing didn’t hurt to enhance the overall package, she felt sure.

  Yeah, he offered a complete package. Handsome, talented and athletic. What woman wouldn’t swoon to his charms?

  Even after he’d committed a small betrayal in the interest of keeping his life?

  She noted he took her in from head to toe, and the smirk that curved his lips. “What’s up, Vallois?”

  “You should eat more before you drink too much,” he said.

  “I can handle my drink. Just like I can handle my men,” she said.

  Okay, so that last part wasn’t entirely true. She could handle a man wielding a pistol, coming at her with death in his eyes, but a sexy Frenchman set on seduction? She was out of her league.

  But when had such a position of lacking skill ever scared her off?

  She took another swallow. The Armagnac had ceased to burn. Now it warmed her belly and relaxed her. No wonder d’Artagnan had liked this stuff. “Not bad.”

  “Ah, the American way of summarizing a truly exquisite find. If I could say the same about you, Annja, it would be a pitiful reflection upon the French male. Not bad? Non, you are exquisite this evening.”

  “Thank you, but I know I look as though I’ve been through the wringer, because I have.”

  “Tell me everything that happened after we parted on the Seine.”

  She twisted to face him. “Are you here on official business for BHDC, or are you here acting for yourself?”

  “Annja, I work for no one but myself,” he said.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “But you must. Why else would I have called you, Annja? I was worried about you, that you may not have fared well with those men chasing us.”