Rogue Angel 51: The Pretender's Gambit
Page 31
Yanking the sword free of the dead man, Annja turned to face the next wave of attackers. The three mercenaries hadn’t expected to be so suddenly in the midst of a battle after following the others inside, and the close quarters threw them off.
Stepping into the first man, Annja swung the sword, cutting through both of his arms as he held his assault rifle. Before the man had time to register surprise or pain, Annja slashed with the sword again, killing him. She kicked him back into the mercenary behind him and turned her attention to the man on her right.
Annja spun the dead man around and stepped behind him to take cover. His body armor stopped the bullets his companion fired, striking him in the chest while Annja held him still. She drew her pistol and fired from under her makeshift shield’s arm, putting three rounds into the other mercenary’s head.
As the man fell, Annja released the dying man, summoned the sword back to her hand and advanced on the remaining mercenary. He fired at her, but she ducked to the side, planted her feet and swung the sword, taking off the man’s head.
Without wasting a minute, Annja returned the sword to the otherwhere and pulled the flare pistol out once more as she closed on the doorway. Nine dead men lay behind her and several others, brought down by Klykov’s marksmanship as well as Annja’s and Rao’s bullets, lay in the courtyard.
The monks had settled themselves in the courtyard now and used their familiarity with temple grounds to counter the superior firepower and numbers of the mercenaries. Klykov’s sniper rifle boomed, punctuating the din of noise again and again. Annja didn’t see what the old gangster was shooting, but she didn’t doubt that he was finding his targets.
Rao took up a position on the other side of the doorway as Annja pointed the flare gun up at the cavern roof and pulled the trigger. The flare rocketed up as she reloaded the pistol and put it away, and then the flare ignited, throwing a fresh wave of red light over the courtyard.
The Dragunov blasted again, and on the opposite side of the square a mercenary toppled from the wall, spilling onto the hard stones. In the fresh light, making everything look like it was lit by hell itself, Annja scanned the impromptu battlefield. So many were dead, but most of them were the mercenaries.
Sequeira, if he was the one who had brought them here, couldn’t have been expecting that.
But where was he?
A startled cry of pain pierced the deafening sounds that filled Annja’s hearing.
Whirling, bringing her assault rifle up to her shoulder, Annja gazed back up the stairs and spotted Klykov standing there. The Russian gangster’s head was bleeding profusely and his arms had been wrenched painfully behind him. A knife at his throat kept him still.
“Annja Creed,” a woman’s voice called out. In the dimming glow of the dying flares, the woman’s face stood out briefly as a pallid oval behind Klykov’s shoulder. “You will put down your weapons and surrender, or I will kill the old man.”
“Do not do it,” Klykov protested. “She will kill me anyway.”
The knife flicked across Klykov’s throat and drew a line of blood.
Annja feared that the woman had sliced Klykov’s throat and that he was dying as she watched helplessly. But Klykov remained on his feet and grimaced in pain.
“Put down your weapons,” the woman ordered in a calm voice. “Otherwise I will not cut shallowly again.”
Annja dropped the AK-47, then added the pistol and the flare gun. She nodded at Rao, who reluctantly put down his weapons, as well.
“Step away from the weapons.” A little more confident now, the woman let herself be better seen.
In the uncertain shadows, Annja recognized the woman as the tourist she had met in Odessa. Right then she knew how the tracking device had been put on her backpack.
“Step away from the weapons,” the woman repeated.
Annja did, moving away from the weapons, stepping over the bodies she’d left from her earlier attack.
Out in the courtyard, the remaining mercenaries regrouped and drove the monks back with massive firepower, full-auto and grenades. The unforgiving detonations signaled the damage being done to the inner courtyard and Annja hated her inability to do something.
Less than a minute later, Sequeira stood in the chamber room with them. Three mercenaries had survived the sprint with him. He grinned up at the woman. “Ah, Brisa. I see that you found your way inside.”
“I did,” the woman replied. She shook Klykov. “I had to resist killing this old fool, but I thought he might serve us better as collateral to use against this woman.” She guided Klykov down the steps.
Klykov’s eyes burned brightly and Annja knew the old man was thinking of trying to break free or sacrifice himself so they he couldn’t be used.
“Don’t, Leonid,” Annja said. “Please. I want all of us to get out of this alive if there’s a way. And there’s a way.”
“You’re not getting out of this,” Sequeira said. “You’ve cost me too much money to allow such a thing.” He paused and smiled. “Brisa, cut the old man’s throat.”
With a harsh cry, Annja ran toward Klykov, keeping her hands in sight above her head.
“Do not kill Creed yet,” Sequeira ordered. “We can use her to—”
Whatever Sequeira had been about to say was lost. Brisa smiled at Annja over Klykov’s shoulder, certain of herself. Thankfully, she waited and did not kill Klykov immediately.
Annja thrust forward, reaching into the otherwhere, and surprising Brisa because the woman expected to easily dodge a punch that was coming too soon. The woman was even more surprised when steel glinted in Annja’s hands and a razor-sharp blade slashed her head, killing her instantly.
The knife dropped from Brisa’s nerveless fingers and bounced off Klykov’s chest. The old gangster was already in motion, diving for the nearest assault rifle left lying on the floor.
Whirling, hoping she was ahead of the bullets that she knew had to be coming at her, Annja flung the sword. The blade sped across the distance to the nearest mercenary. The tip pierced the man’s chest, killing him in less than a heartbeat and sinking into the man behind him, as well.
Klykov blasted the other remaining mercenary, but Sequeira shot him, then chased Rao into hiding. As Klykov fell, Annja charged toward Sequeira and pulled the sword from the otherwhere once more. She stared at Sequeira across the muzzle of his weapon, seeing the troubled look on his face, then she swung the sword and took the gun and Sequeira’s face away.
The dead man toppled backward as the mercenary who had been pierced by the sword but not killed brought up his weapon. Annja heard the gunshots and waited to feel the pain. Then she noticed the bullet hole in the man’s head as he fell back.
Only a few feet away, Rao lay on the floor with a captured pistol in one hand. He kept the weapon pointed at the mercenary.
Remembering Klykov, Annja returned to the old man’s side, fearing that he was dead. Instead, he had been shot in the same shoulder that had already been wounded.
“It is bad luck to be shot in the same arm twice,” Klykov said.
“It’s better not to get shot,” Annja pointed out.
Klykov shrugged, then regretted it with a grimace. “I will keep that in mind.” He looked at her, then glanced at the sword in her hand. “You always seem to find these things.”
Annja smiled at him. “I think it’s better that I do.”
“Da. So do I.”
Epilogue
Three weeks after her return from Cambodia, Annja sat across from Bart McGilley at a table in Maria’s, one of their favorite restaurants. The first few days she had been back, Annja had caught up on her life—as much as she was able, and made apologies to Doug Morrell for the upior vampire story that she hadn’t been able to deliver.
She was currently in a time crunch for the next segment on Chasing History’s Monsters, but she knew from experience that something would work out. Things always did.
There had been some tension between her and Bart at fi
rst, and getting an agreement to have dinner had taken some careful planning. Both of them were busy.
“So the elephant Benyovszky found in the storage rental led to an actual treasure?” Bart shook his head in disbelief.
“It did.” Annja dipped a chip in queso and ate it.
“How much treasure are you talking about?”
Annja reached into her backpack and took out her tablet. She booted it up and opened the folder that had pictures of the temple treasure with her standing in front of it. It looked, she had to admit, like quite the haul.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” Bart asked.
“Millions.”
He grinned, nonplussed. “You say that like it’s nothing.”
“You’re talking about material worth. That’s not what I’m interested in. The texts we found document a whole period of history that we don’t know much about.”
“You are aware how many people will care about that?” Bart lifted an eyebrow.
Annja didn’t reply because she didn’t like the answer.
“Definitely not millions,” Bart said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Annja replied. “I care. Rao and the monks care. Other historians and anthropologists will care. They’ll care a lot.” She narrowed her eyes and frowned. “Are you still upset with me?”
Bart looked shocked. “Why? Because you ran off into danger with a known Russian criminal?”
“If you were upset, maybe we shouldn’t have agreed to do dinner.”
Bart chuckled. “No, I’m not upset. Maybe still a little worried about you because I know you’ll do this sort of thing again.”
“It’s kind of what I do.”
“I know. I think I liked it better when I didn’t know so much.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Yeah, I get that. I also get how important this is to you.”
Annja looked at him.
“Benyovszky didn’t have a lot of connections outside of his neighborhood, and most of those people didn’t know him. You saw what his nephews were like. They didn’t care about his death.”
Annja saw where he was going now. “But you did.”
Bart nodded. “I did. I still do. You’ve asked me a couple times why I would be a homicide detective. Always getting there too late to save whoever turned up dead. Always dealing with grieving families. I do it because it makes a difference to those families. And I do it because I’m good at what I do. You, at least, have a television show that turns you into a celebrity. Granted, those fans would rather see you chasing after imaginary monsters—”
“So not what I do,” Annja interrupted.
“—like the other woman on that show does.”
Annja raised her eyebrow. “You’ve seen Kristie’s work?”
Bart shrugged. “A few of the guys around the office are fans of hers.”
Annja thought about saying something regarding the other detectives’ taste in television, but she settled for another chip instead.
“We both work in fields that we love and respect,” Bart said. “That’s all I’m getting at. And I wanted to apologize for not realizing exactly what it is that you do.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Annja smiled his apology away.
“It matters.”
“It does, but the friendship we have doesn’t rely on what we do. We’re friends because we share a lot of other interests—and we make each other laugh.” Annja smiled at him again. “You can go a lot of places, meet a lot of people, but there are only a few places and a few people that feel like home.” She put her hand on his. “That’s what we have, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
“Me neither.”
Annja took her hand back and picked up another chip.
“Tell me something else,” Bart said.
“What?”
“Do you get any part of those millions you found? Because I don’t remember us discussing that. Maybe some kind of finder’s fee?”
“Do you get a bonus for catching a killer?”
“No, but it feels really good.”
“Then why would you want anything else?”
Bart picked up a tortilla, rolled it, dipped it in salsa and ate it. “You seriously don’t get anything for helping find all that bling?”
Annja grinned. “Well, maybe I get a little of it. A percentage when—and if—the temple sells any of it. And I got a keepsake, as well.”
“What?”
Annja reached into her backpack and took out the protective case that contained the elephant. She removed the small statue and set it on the table.
“You wanted that?” Bart sounded like he couldn’t believe it.
“I did.”
A shrewd look spread across his face. “You realize that elephant is a piece of evidence in a murder investigation, right?”
“Benyovszky’s murder isn’t being investigated anymore. I helped solve the murder, and I even made sure you got the guy who did it. I delivered him to you.”
“Sure, but—” Bart leveled a forefinger at the elephant, “—that’s still evidence.”
“I’m paying for dinner tonight,” Annja said. “That should buy me some lenience.”
“I don’t know.” Bart pursed his lips.
“I’ll throw in dessert.”
“Better be a big dessert.”
“All the gelato you can eat at Lecce Lecce’s in Hawthorne.” Hawthorne, New Jersey, was almost an hour away, but the dessert shop was a favorite of theirs, as well.
Bart considered the offer, then finally nodded. “Fine. But not tonight. I’m not going to eat Mexican and then fill up on Italian ice cream. I’ll end up hurting myself.”
Annja laughed at him, knowing this was what her relationship with him was all about. As someone who grew up in a state home with time out for foster care, friends were important to Annja. Bart was part of her earliest days in New York after she’d made the move from New Orleans. She didn’t ever want to lose that.
* * * * *
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
ISBN-13: 9781460342121
First edition November 2014
The Pretender's Gambit
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
his book with friends