by Alex Archer
Annja Creed was good. From the way she disappeared into the parked cars and darted through them, picking a broken path toward the privacy fence instead of heading straight for it, Sabre could tell she’d been under fire before. Having gotten a briefing about her from Saadiya, he’d known she’d been involved in volatile situations, but she moved like a pro.
Sabre thought if they hadn’t been on opposite sides of this situation, he’d have liked to get to know her better.
He glanced up at the GPS and saw that Dyson’s vehicle was arriving. “They’re at the back of the internet café. Creed is trying for the privacy fence to the east.”
“Copy that.” Dyson’s reply was professional, short and ready.
The SUV rolled into view of the camera and instantly drew the attention of de Cerceau’s mercenaries. One of the mercenaries opened fire on Dyson’s vehicle, maybe recognizing the arrival as a threat or wanting to frighten away an interloper or possible means of escape for their quarry.
Dyson leaned from the passenger seat as the driver pulled the SUV hard to the left.
“You’ve got citizens in the field,” Sabre reminded him.
“Affirmative.” Dyson held his position. “I have the shot.” He fired a quick double tap that hit the mercenary.
The man’s head snapped back and his lifeless body sank to the ground.
The SUV pulled to a stop at an angle and the four men inside deployed in two-by-two formation.
“You still have three on the ground.” Sabre scanned the tablet PC and spotted two of the mercenaries forming up to the south. “I have two of them to your south. Eighty feet out behind a large gray pickup.”
“Copy that.” Dyson stayed low and trotted down the line of cars with his assault rifle pulled against his shoulder.
“Third man’s in the wind.” Sabre searched for the missing mercenary but couldn’t find him. He’d lost Annja Creed, as well.
Then she popped up near a van parked next to the fence. South of her position, less than forty feet away, the third mercenary slid up over the top of a vehicle and took deliberate aim.
Sabre opened the radio channel again and spoke over his headset. “Dyson—”
* * *
AWARE THAT ANOTHER VEHICLE had joined the first and those men also wore tactical gear, Annja knew she was out of running room in the parking area. Feeling more desperate, she sprinted alongside a large van that was covered in colorful advertising wrap for an upcoming movie.
The fence was only a few tantalizing feet away, and beyond it were the tall trees that promised refuge.
Gunfire broke out behind her, full auto that set off shrilling car alarms followed by a distinctive double tap.
Then, for a moment, there was no gunfire. The car alarms continued, and in the distance police sirens keened.
Annja considered her options, thinking that maybe no one knew where she was. If that was true, she could possibly hold her position until the police arrived and saved her.
The idea of being saved was not something she looked forward to. Saving herself was more how she handled things. Furthermore, if the police, especially Bishop and Connolly, took her into custody, there was no telling when she would be free again.
Whatever secrets the crystal and Vincent Orta’s borrowed papers had almost revealed would be discovered by someone else.
That was intolerable. She’d spent nearly all of her adult life ferreting out historical secrets.
She moved forward, past the van, and halted at the front of the vehicle. She hitched her backpack into a better position, then took a quick breath of air to ready herself. Moving fluidly, she stood and raised a foot to the van’s bumper, kicking out to thrust herself up. Her hands reached for the top of the privacy fence, which was now only a little more than waist high on her.
Her fingers clutched the rough, weathered wood and she pulled her weight over in a vault, using the van’s suspension for added thrust. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the gunman hovering behind a parked car down the row.
Committed, she shoved herself over the fence as bullets ripped into the wooden planks and chewed splinters from the irregular surface. The roar of the gunfire filled her ears, pierced by the police siren and howls of neighborhood dogs.
On the other side of the fence, the land fell away into a bowl-shaped depression four feet deep. Caught by surprise, Annja managed to land on her feet, but the soft ground and the leaves gave way under her, causing her to fall backward. She slid down the hill as bullets continued to hammer the fence and knock holes through the planks.
Another rifle, this one more piercing, blasted a quick tattoo and the first rifle ceased firing.
At the bottom of the depression, Annja got her feet under her and ran. The grade smoothed out and rose again into a small forest of trees that quickly hid the fence and the strip mall from view. She followed the terrain for a bit, stretching her legs to get up to speed.
To either side of her, more privacy fences cut off one-and two-story houses from the trees. Dogs barked constantly and the police sirens grew nearer.
But she was free and running.
Less than a hundred yards farther on, she reached a street and flagged down a cab. While the driver made his way to her, she took off her backpack and brushed the debris away as best as she could. Then she dusted herself off and climbed in.
“Are you okay, miss?”
Annja flashed him a reassuring smile. “I am. I was sightseeing. Taking pictures. I stopped watching where I was going and tripped in the woods.”
The driver smiled and nodded. “These things happen. Where would you like me to take you?”
“The pier.”
“Of course. A delightful place for taking pictures.” He signaled and pulled into traffic.
Glancing behind her, Annja looked to see if anyone had followed her, sweeping the sidewalk in front of the small forest with her gaze. No one was there. Remembering her promise to Daquain, she dug her sat phone from her backpack and called him.
He answered in the middle of the first ring. “Hey. You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Annja took a deeper, more relaxed breath and shrugged out of her backpack.
“I’m tracking the story at the internet café.”
“Reporters are already there?” That amazed Annja.
“Nah. Social media, girl. That’s where the real news is these days. By the time the professionals get there to wrap the story, the peeps with smartphones have already uploaded the 411. The action there is trending pretty heavy.”
“Anybody mentioning my name?”
“Not yet.”
“Did anyone get a picture of me?” she asked quietly.
“Haven’t seen any good ones yet. They got some, but you were doing the Whac-a-Mole thing through the cars, then jumping the fence. No way they could get zoomed in.”
“That’s good.”
“Traffic cams are gonna be a problem. I’m looking at those feeds, too, and the police are going to be able to clean them up and know who you are.”
Annja sighed, thanked Daquain, ended the connection and wondered if anything was going to go right. Then her sat phone buzzed for attention. Checking the phone screen, she recognized the number immediately as the one she’d dialed earlier for Dr. Istvan Racz, the history professor Vincent Orta had recommended her to follow up with.
“Hello?”
“To whom am I speaking?” The voice sounded vaguely European in inflection.
“My name is Annja Creed, Dr. Racz. I was referred to you by Dr. Orta regarding a matter he assured me you would be interested in.”
“What matter might that be?”
“The Merovingian kings. I was told you were an authority in the field.”
“I consider myself to be that.”
Racz hesitated.
Annja knew the man was probably wary of wasting his time. Being an archaeologist or a historian was a lot like being a medical doctor. Instead of asking about ailments, people queried about historical stories they’d heard, treasure ships lost by pirates and what parts of the Indiana Jones movies were based on real events.
“I have information regarding the possible location of the Merovingian treasure.” Annja spoke as quickly and as professionally as she could. She summarized her involvement with the crystal and with the papers Orta had contacted her about. “I’m sure if you could give me just a few minutes of your time, I could convince you of the veracity of the story, Dr. Racz.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Santa Monica. I was hoping to meet with you.”
“Do you feel like meeting me at my house? Or would you prefer some other venue?”
Annja glanced up at the street cameras at the intersection the cab was crossing. She didn’t know if Bishop and Connolly had, or would, put a BOLO out on her, but she didn’t want to meet in a public place.
“I can meet you at your home.”
“Splendid.” Racz gave her the address. “I will see you when you arrive, Ms. Creed.”
Annja thanked him, told him she would be there soon and hung up, then relaxed into the seat. Ahead, she spotted the tall Ferris wheel at Santa Monica Pier. Beyond it, the Pacific Ocean lapped at the beach where sunbathers lounged in chairs and on blankets. A few colorful sails dotted the rising horizon.
Now, maybe, something was going right.
19
Sabre Race stared at the police fest taking place in the parking area behind the internet café. Nearly a dozen black-and-whites had converged on the area, and there were three undercover detective cars that he’d identified.
“Drive by.” He waved a hand to Meszoly, who rolled past the scene.
“Is there any sign of the Creed woman, Dyson?” He watched as Dyson and his men laid down their weapons, knelt and put their hands on top of their heads.
“Negative. There’s a bunch of trees on the other side of that fence. I didn’t see any blood that showed she might have been hit. I think she got away clean.”
The woman’s luck was incredible. Alone and unarmed, she’d escaped de Cerceau’s mercenaries.
“What about the opposition?”
“All down for the count.”
A half-dozen armored policemen trotted forward, barking orders that transmitted over the phone link.
“Good job. Just sit tight until the attorneys get the charges dropped.” There would be some resistance to that and maybe some fines, but that was all part of the business they were in. He kept attorneys on retainer in most of the surrounding states who could represent him and his people in instances like this.
“Copy that.”
One of the police officers grabbed one of Dyson’s hands and pulled it behind his back. That was the last Sabre saw of the man before they rolled out of the parking area.
“Guy’s got a phone headset here,” someone said.
“Give me that.” The connection rattled and cracked for a moment. Then the second voice came over the phone louder and gruffer. “This is Sergeant Burchard of the Los Angeles Police Department. Who is this?”
Sabre committed the name to memory and hung up. “Saadiya?”
“Here.”
“Sergeant Burchard of the LAPD—find out who he’s working with and what he does with our guys.”
“On it.”
“And light up our lawyers. I want them waiting when our people walk into whatever precinct they end up at.”
“Already done.”
“Any luck tracking Annja Creed?”
“No. She’s vanished. I checked the surrounding streets, but by the time I accessed those cameras, she must have already been gone. I’m checking with the cab companies. One of them reports picking up a fare near there only a couple minutes ago.”
Excitement flared inside Sabre, but he kept it in check. “Did you get a destination?”
“Santa Monica Pier.”
Sabre cursed. “What about a lock on her phone?”
Saadiya’s smile was evident in her voice. “Now, that is something I’m having some success with. I checked through the cell towers surrounding the internet café, thinking she’d probably be using her phone. I’m still checking through all the numbers, but I’m going to have an answer soon.”
“Good. Let me know when you have it. In the meantime, Lajos and I are headed to the pier. Send two other teams to search with us.”
“Roger that.”
“How much do we know about the Creed woman?”
“She’s a television host. Book author. Archaeologist. Pretty much what we’ve been told.”
Sabre shook his head, not agreeing with that. “She’s more than that. She moves too well out there. I was thinking last night was a fluke, that she just happened to get away. But she took out two of de Cerceau’s mercs by herself, and now she’s been able to get away from us and de Cerceau. Find out more about her. Dig deeper. We’re missing something.”
“Copy that.”
Sliding his cell phone back into his pocket, Sabre reset the navigation console for Santa Monica Pier. He felt certain Annja Creed had gone there to lose herself, and it was a good plan. He hoped Saadiya tracked the woman’s number first.
* * *
“ANYTHING SPECIAL YOU WANT, miss?” the clerk behind the counter at the communications shop asked.
Annja surveyed the sat phones that were in stock and picked a brand she’d used before. The unit wasn’t as good as the phone she carried, but it would do.
“Good choice.” The clerk grabbed a plastic bag.
“I’ll take it with me.” Annja took cash from her pocket. She usually traveled with currency because she didn’t like using her ATM card everywhere and she liked the idea of leaving a trail even less.
“Great.” Using a box-cutting knife, the clerk slit the plastic casing and extracted the phone. He turned it on and the screen filled with data. “See? Already has part of a charge, but I’d power it up as soon as you can.”
“Okay. Does it come with a charge cord?”
“It does indeed.” The clerk pulled the cord from the box like a magician. “Ta-da!”
“How much?”
“Do you know how to swap out SIM cards? If you don’t, I’ll be happy to do that for you. Free of charge.”
“I can do it.” Annja had no intention of swapping out the cards. The whole idea of buying the phone was to escape being tracked.
She left the communications shop and walked down the line of businesses. Volleyball players roared in raucous behavior farther down the beach and fishermen congregated around the pier. She chafed to get moving, but she knew she needed to lose the people she suspected were following her electronically. Sabre Race and de Cerceau were both too well connected to technology not to be able to pursue her.
Her phone had rung almost incessantly. Doug Morrell had called a few times, so she suspected she’d been mentioned in the news again. Then there were phone calls from Orta, Krauzer and the two homicide cops, Bishop and Connolly.
She chose to avoid Doug’s calls a little longer because she had nothing to tell him, the same with Krauzer, but she’d called Orta at the hospital and told him she was going to be off the grid for a while and she’d be back in touch as soon as she could be. He hadn’t liked it, but he’d understood.
Then she called Detective Connolly.
“Where are you, Ms. Creed?” The detective’s tone was no-nonsense, implacable.
“Look, I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to do the talking or I’m going to hang up. Are we clear?”
“Ms. Creed—”
; Annja hung up and kept walking down the line of stores.
Turning left at a surfboard rental shop, Annja walked between it and an ice-cream novelty shop with a small crowd at the counter. She hit Redial.
Connolly answered on the first ring. “I’m listening.”
“Good. I know you guys are tracking the phone. You’re probably not the only ones. I wanted to let you know I was going to be out of touch for a while and I’ll call you when I can.”
“That’s not acceptable. There are a lot of—”
Annja raised her voice. “There are a lot of people trying to kill me. If you don’t think so, take a look at that parking lot near the internet café, then tell me how safe I am.”
“Are you going to stay in Los Angeles?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t just—”
“Do you want to tell me how safe I’ll be with you guys? Want to explain Melanie Harp’s death to me?”
Connolly didn’t say anything.
“This guy de Cerceau has got some really deep connections.”
“What is this about?” For the first time, Connolly sounded human and frustrated.
“Like I told you, it’s about treasure.”
“No one knows that it’s even real.”
“That doesn’t keep people from killing each other over it.” Annja ended the call, took the SIM card from her sat phone and tossed the unit in the next trash can she passed.
She stopped at another communications kiosk, this one occupied by a harried woman dealing with a teen’s technology problems, and bought a prepaid card for phone minutes. She paid in cash again. Once she disappeared online, she suspected Sabre Race or de Cerceau might try to find out if she’d bought another.
The blond guy might remember her, but the woman who sold her the prepaid minutes card wouldn’t. She walked to a bus stop and boarded when the big vehicle arrived and opened its doors.
* * *
TWO CHANGES OF cabs later, one going each way, Annja debarked three blocks from Istvan Racz’s home and walked to his address in what was referred to as the North of Montana district.
