Rogue Angel: Gabriel's Horn

by Alex Archer

  “Unless he comes clean with me, I’m done with this thing.”

  Jennifer held the pistol steady. “He told me, on more than one occasion, that I wasn’t to trust you. He also told me that you had a rather nasty habit of killing people who got in your way. And that you were vengeful to the nth degree.”

  “Really?” Garin grinned. It was all true, and a savage part of him took pride in the fact that Roux had recognized those capacities in him. Of course, the old man was no pushover, either. Maybe not as vengeful in the long run, Roux still didn’t suffer enemies who were determined to return again and again.

  “Yes. So you can appreciate that we’re at something of an impasse here.”

  “Well,” Garin said affably, “you’re going to have to trust me a little, unless you plan on shooting me. If you’re prepared to do that, then go ahead.” Even though he said it in an offhanded manner, he still tensed in expectation of a bullet striking home.

  Her eyes narrowed, but Garin paid attention to the nail on her forefinger as it rested on the trigger. So far the nail hadn’t whitened with pressure.

  “After what happened back there, I didn’t expect you to come here,” she said.

  “Actually, I hadn’t planned to come. I left. Twice, in fact. Both times I ended up retracing my tracks. Finally, I gave up and came here.” He shrugged. “I didn’t expect a party on my arrival, but I hadn’t foreseen this.”

  “You lie. You know Roux doesn’t have a lot of faith in you.”

  “No,” Garin said. “That’s where you’re wrong. That old man has every bit of faith in my ability, and in my nature. I sometimes think he knows what I’ll do before I do. I think that’s why I haven’t been able to kill him when I tried.”

  “He said you hadn’t tried as hard as you could have.”

  Garin shrugged. Maybe that was the truth, too. The world would certainly have been a different place without Roux in it.

  “But he sent for you to help him in this,” Jennifer said.

  “He did.”

  “And you came.”

  “I did.”

  “Both of you are bloody buggy—you know that, don’t you?” Jennifer lowered her weapon and put it back on the counter within reach.

  “He tends to make people that way.” Garin took his hand off his pistol and took a seat at the breakfast bar behind her.

  “I know he’s had that effect on me.”

  “It’s not just you,” Garin said. “Did you burn the sausages?”

  “No.” Jennifer seemed frustrated. Her hands shook with restrained emotion.

  Garin abandoned his seat and went to the stove. “May I?”

  When Jennifer looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes. “Sure.” She took a cup of coffee from the stove and slid away to rest a hip against the counter. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “I’m a fabulous cook,” Garin assured her. He set the sausages aside to steep in their juices.

  “I’m afraid the eggs are ruined,” Jennifer said.

  Garin scraped at the blackened husks. “So they are.”

  “We’ve more in the fridge.”

  Concentrating on making a meal, giving his hands something to do, Garin relaxed.

  “He seems to prepare for everything, doesn’t he?” Jennifer asked.

  “Except for failure,” Garin agreed. “When it comes to that, when it’s something he actually cares about, he doesn’t do so well. Is he here?”

  “Out back. In the garden.”

  “He’s brooding,” Garin said.

  “He claims to be thinking.”

  “He can call it whatever he likes. He’s brooding.”

  “I know. I’ve seen it before. Not often.”

  “Do you like crepes?” Garin asked.

  “Yes, but you needn’t go to all the bother.”

  “I’m having crepes. It won’t be any trouble to make you some.”

  Jennifer wiped her tears away. “Thank you.”

  Garin looked at her. “For what?”

  “Breakfast.” Jennifer shrugged. “For not making me kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t have killed me. And you haven’t had breakfast yet. You may want that pistol back.”

  Despite her sadness, Jennifer laughed.

  * * * *

  Salome, dressed tourist casual, walked through Schiphol Airport. Her short skirt and one-size-too-small blouse drew attention away from her face. She wasn’t wanted anywhere, but it still helped blunt identification by onlookers if something should happen. The papers Drake had secured came through his private security corporation, but sometimes complications arose.

  Last night happened, didn’t it? she asked herself again. She hadn’t slept yet. After barely escaping, she and Drake had fled. She stopped at the gate and checked her watch. It was twenty minutes until boarding time.

  Less than three minutes later, Drake joined her. He was dressed in jeans, good shoes and a pullover shirt. He looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine.

  “Hello, pet,” he greeted her.

  Salome tilted her head up and presented her cheek for a chaste kiss. Drake’s stubble grazed her flesh. He smelled of cologne and male musk.

  “Did you get the luggage dealt with, dear?” she asked.

  Drake took her by the elbow and guided her from the gate and toward the nearest wall where they could have a little privacy.

  “I did,” he said. “There was some argument about weight allowances. I told you not to pack so much. I had to pay a little extra for your bags.”

  Salome smiled at him. “But you know I’m worth it.”

  “I do.” Drake grinned back at her, and the ease and expression—even the answer—weren’t all due to playacting.

  When they reached the wall, they were all business.

  “Did you find Annja Creed?” Salome asked.

  “I did.” Drake shrugged. “I have to admit that the feat was a lot easier than I was expecting. You would think that anyone involved in the television industry would be more protective of her address.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In New York City. One of the boroughs. Brooklyn.”

  Salome hadn’t been there, but she knew that Drake had. His American contracts—especially assassination—often took him to the largest metropolises.

  “Is she there?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a team posted at her address. Are you sure this is the avenue you wish to pursue, love?” Drake asked.

  “It’s all we have left to us. Roux—”

  “Only got a look at a forged painting the same way we did,” Drake said.

  Although she knew he was trying to allay her fears, his efforts weren’t successful. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that. He worked very hard to please her, and she almost loved him for that.

  But she loved the power of the objects Roux knew about even more. If she could get her hands on even one of those, she would have everything she had ever imagined.

  “You don’t know what Roux is like,” she said. “He knows so much.”

  “Not enough for him to keep from chasing the same painting we were after.”

  “I’ve never seen him pursue the painting this hard before. Even though the painting was counterfeit, I’m certain he’s holding something back that we haven’t yet thought of.”

  Drake’s face hardened. “I think you’ve turned that old man into your own personal boogeyman.”

  “I haven’t.” Salome captured Drake’s chin in her palm and gazed into his eyes. “I haven’t done that. I just know what he’s capable of. And this thing he’s after, it’s important.”

  “How do you know that? You’ve never said.”

  Salome knew she was going to have to come forward with something. “While I was with Roux—”

  “While you were his assistant, you mean.”

  Salome nodded. “Exactly. While I was helping him with his studies, I discovered his secret.” There was more, of course, and
Drake refused to hear that. An assistant would never have been able to find the things she’d found. It had taken the betrayal of a lover to do that. And she’d betrayed Roux’s trust in her with her youth and beauty that bewitched so many men.

  Drake took her hand and kissed her palm. “And what was the old man’s secret, love?”

  “He has a secret journal. It’s a catalog of artifacts, talismans of power, that have been lost through the ages. I copied the journal.” Salome shook her head in frustration. “I haven’t managed to translate the whole book. There are too many languages that are unknown to me. And to every expert I’ve been to.”

  She’d been careful about that. Any one of those linguists could do the same thing to her that she’d done to Roux. As a general rule, she didn’t even trust the knowledge they locked away in their heads, much less committed to paper. She’d left all of them dead in her wake.

  As she told this to Drake, she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to kill him, as well. If things didn’t work out, she knew she’d have to. She couldn’t afford anyone else knowing what she knew. Roux, she was certain, felt the same way about her.

  “The painting is a map,” Salome told Drake. Even as she told him that, she knew she was passing a death sentence on to him. She wondered if he knew. She suspected that he did, but from Roux’s hand, not hers. He’d never expect her to harm him. That was the power she had over him.

  “A map,” he repeated. “To what?”

  “Power,” Salome said. “Possibly the greatest power known to this world.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” He showed her a troubled smile.

  Salome shook her head, frustrated. “Nor do I. But I know that Roux cares about Annja Creed. You’ve had men watching them. They’ve seen them together.” She took a deep breath. “If we kidnap her, we can force Roux to tell us everything we want to know.”

  “What will you do,” Drake asked softly, “if that old man doesn’t care about Annja Creed as much as you think he does?”

  Salome looked into his eyes. “Why, I’ll kill her, of course. I want Roux to know that I’m not going to be trifled with.”

  Drake grinned. “Have I ever told you how very attractive I find your bloodthirsty side?”

  Salome touched his lips. “Many times.” She kissed him just as the preflight boarding for their plane was called. Excitement thrilled through her. It wouldn’t be long before they were in New York.

  Then she would find out exactly how much Roux cared about his newest darling.

  29

  As Annja got out of Bart’s unmarked police car in front of her building, Charlie stood and waved from the steps where he’d been seated. His smile was big and generous, as innocent as a child’s.

  “Hey, Annja,” he called. “I’m glad to see those men didn’t get you. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t, but you never know.”

  Annja wanted to ask Charlie how he’d gotten away, but there wasn’t time. Agitation rolled off Bart in waves as he threw the car in Park and opened the door.

  Wally pushed himself to his feet self-consciously and dusted his thighs off with his palms. He wasn’t one to drink outside and usually confined his beers to watching ball games in his own apartment. He bent down and gathered the empty bottles. There was a considerable number of them and he quickly realized he was going to have to make more than one trip.

  Annja also knew the meeting wasn’t going to go well. Bart was out of the car in a heartbeat. His left hand slid around under his trench coat to the back of his belt. When it reappeared, he was holding a set of handcuffs that he kept mostly hidden.

  If Charlie saw the cuffs or suspected what was coming, he gave no indication. He just stood on the steps and looked at Annja.

  “Bart,” Annja said softly.

  “No, Annja.” Bart’s voice was hard and resolute.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Arrest him.”

  “Isn’t he supposed to do something wrong first?”

  Bart ignored her, which was something Annja hadn’t experienced before. Normally Bart was attentive and willing to listen to her.

  Annja managed four quick steps and cut him off. She gazed into his eyes. “This is so wrong,” she said softly.

  “Annja, please don’t do this.” Bart stared back at her, but his eyes were also on Charlie. “You’re interfering with a police officer in the pursuit of his duty.”

  “He’s an old man.”

  “He’s a danger,” Bart replied. “To you. And to himself.” His eyes softened a little. “Please let me do my job. There are agencies out there who can help him. For all you know, he walked away from his family to track you down and tell you the world was coming to an end. He could have sons and daughters who are worried out of their minds right now. Grandkids.”

  He’s right, Annja admitted to herself. And that was the awful truth of the matter. She didn’t think for a moment that Charlie had set her up with Saladin’s men. But the scenario Bart described was entirely possible.

  “Annja,” Bart said quietly.

  Reluctantly, she stepped aside and folded her arms across her chest.

  Bart went forward. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back.” His voice was hard, totally cop tone.

  “What?” Charlie asked. He stood wavering slightly on the steps. He must have been feeling the beers.

  “Sir,” Bart barked, “put your hands behind your back, please.”

  “But why? I haven’t done anything.”

  Bart moved quickly to step in behind the old man and grab his left arm. He slipped the cuff around Charlie’s left wrist with practiced ease. The metal clicked as it closed.

  Annja watched, bereft.

  “Let me go,” Charlie cried. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Bart put a knee behind the old man’s leg and snapped it forward, buckling Charlie’s leg until he rested awkwardly against the short wrought-iron railing that lined the steps.

  “I’m taking you into custody for your own good,” Bart said. “You need to relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He captured Charlie’s other arm and pulled it behind his back, as well.

  “No!” Charlie bellowed. “This isn’t right! I haven’t done anything!”

  “Sir,” Bart said. “Please stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Charlie fought, but it didn’t do any good. Bart had size and strength and youth on his side. He kicked the old man’s feet out from under him as gently as he could and forced him to sit on the steps.

  “Annja,” Charlie pleaded, staring at her as if he’d been betrayed.

  “I’m sorry,” Annja said. She felt the tears burning in her eyes again, but she didn’t let them fall. How had everything gotten so screwed up?

  “Annja,” Charlie pleaded again. He struggled against Bart, but Bart sat behind him and kept one hand on the short chain linking the cuffs.

  “It’s for your own good,” Annja said, hoping she could make the old man understand.

  “No,” Charlie said. “No, it’s not. You can’t let him do this. You need me. Annja, you need me! Without me, the world is going to end!”

  “No, it’s not,” Annja said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Bart talked on his cell phone, and Annja heard enough of the conversation to know that he was calling in someone from psychiatric care.

  Wally left the bottles in a stack and came over to stand with Annja.

  “I didn’t know anything was wrong,” Wally apologized. “He just came by. Said he wanted to see you. I told him you weren’t here, but he said he’d wait. I figured I’d wait with him. Then I figured we’d wait better with a beer.” He shrugged. “I guess maybe the beers got outta hand a little.”

  “Yeah,” Annja said hoarsely. “I guess they did.” As she stood there listening to Wally and watching the heaviness in Bart’s face, she realized that none of them were happy.

  * * * *

  After fifteen minutes of protesting his innocenc
e and telling Annja that she needed him to stop the world from ending, Charlie fell quiet. He leaned against the railing and stared at her.

  It took almost an hour for the psychiatric team to get there. When the ambulance pulled to a stop out in the street, the whirling lights flashed across the neighborhood and drew a few more of the neighbors out of their homes.

  Bart used his badge to force most of them to stay back. He’d also suggested that Annja go inside and not hang around.

  “I can’t,” Annja said. She stayed outside and waited and watched, and finally got cold enough to shiver.

  Wally retreated to his apartment and returned with one of his baseball jackets. It was too big and the sleeves hung past Annja’s fingertips, but it blocked the wind.

  The psychiatric team wore heavy jackets over pale blue scrubs. They talked to Charlie calmly and tried to get him onto the gurney by himself. When that didn’t work, they manhandled him. Charlie fought them with all his strength, but in the end he couldn’t prevail. Still, he’d fought them fiercely enough they’d had to medicate him.

  When the drugs filled his system and sapped his senses, Charlie became a loose bag of bones. The attendants loaded him onto the gurney with ease, then belted him on across his forehead, chest, hips and knees.

  All through the humiliating event, Charlie stared at Annja.

  “Could I have a minute?” she asked as they were about to load him into the back of the ambulance.

  “We really gotta get going,” a guy with dirty-blond hair and a heavy five-o’clock shadow said.

  “Hey, man,” a big black attendant said. “Cut the lady some slack. Her grandpa ain’t doing so good here. This wasn’t any fun for anybody. Give her a minute.”

  Annja put her hand over one of Charlie’s. “I want you to get better,” she said.

  “I am better,” he croaked in the drug-induced slur. “I’m not supposed to be here. You and I are supposed to stop the sleeping king from destroying the world.”

  “The sleeping king,” Annja said confidently, “isn’t here in this world to destroy it. He’s here to save it.”

  “Not when he’s lost,” Charlie said. “And he’s lost.”

  With a supreme effort, Charlie focused on Annja. “You’ve got to save him.”