The Matador's Crown

by Alex Archer

  Glancing back to the flaming warehouse, Annja didn’t regret not attempting to save any of the artifacts left behind. There hadn’t been too many items of value. Was that enough to burn an entire warehouse to keep hidden? Yes. An illegal operation would destroy what it had to cover its tracks.

  “They had to be trafficking in artifacts from all over. There were too many random items.”

  “Could have been.”

  “Wish you’d taken a picture before, when the place was intact.”

  “I’m not your cameraman.” Garin twisted the wheel and avoided an oncoming truck. “I was doing you a favor by bringing you here.”

  “Which I will repay, apparently, next time I’m in Berlin.”

  “Glad you haven’t already forgotten our deal.”

  She clutched the overhead handgrip as they swerved onto another street, this one cluttered with market stalls. They slowed to a crawl.

  “Garin, if you were inside earlier, you know that implicates you.”

  “In what? I didn’t go inside. I drove around the place. Ah, hell.”

  He stopped abruptly, shifted in his seat to look over his shoulder and began to back up.

  “What?”

  “You know where we’re headed?”

  “No, I—” She eyed the building ahead. It was familiar. She’d been inside it twice already. The white van drove around behind. “They were with the police?”

  If the police had been out to the dig site and had murdered Simon Klosky, then this was an obvious connection to the same dirty dealings.

  And yet…why would they return to the police station, knowing they were being followed? Not very smart if they wanted to keep it hidden from the station.

  Behind them, the white van passed on the street fronting the station.

  “They were taking us on a goose chase,” Annja said.

  “Maybe.” Garin shifted and turned the Jeep around.

  Annja pulled the cell phone she’d found out of her pocket. James Harlow had commented how the police were always helpful whenever he’d needed them. She had no proof whoever was in the white van was the police. And if it had been, the snatch at the warehouse could have been an official seizure.

  No. If that were the case, they would have gone in with badges and guns.

  “You’ve got yourself in a fine mess.” He backed the Jeep into an alley. Garin shifted and drove out the opposite way from the police station. Behind them, the hum of sirens, gaining on them, prompted him to flash her the evil eye. He tightened his jaw and stepped on the accelerator.

  19

  Garin swerved down a side street and gunned it, neatly avoiding a woman carrying armloads of shopping bags. The sirens followed.

  “Maybe they alerted fellow officers we were on their tail and that’s why they led us right to the station,” Garin said.

  “Doesn’t feel right. That would imply the entire department was dirty.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.” Garin pulled the Jeep over to the curb.

  A red fire engine blazed past them, followed by two patrol cars. Not in pursuit of them.

  Garin blew out a breath and chuckled with relief. “Never a dull moment with you, Annja.”

  “It’s why you like me.”

  “It is one of many reasons to like you. And yet…”

  She caught his look in the rearview mirror. Twisting, she spied the white van gunning down the street.

  “I don’t think they’re police,” she said.

  “You could be right. Hold on!”

  He swerved the Jeep sharply, turning down yet another dark alleyway.

  “Here.” Garin handed her his Heckler & Koch, the standard weapon issued by the Spanish army. “Aim for a tire.”

  “Got it.” Annja didn’t bother to check the chamber. The gun was loaded. She rolled down the window and leaned out. A bullet pinged the Jeep’s trunk. She adjusted her position to use the roll bar as protection across her chest, and fired.

  The van swerved but corrected its front wheels and came right back in line with them. Return fire took out Garin’s side mirror.

  “Change in tactics,” he announced and gunned the accelerator.

  “Why don’t you pull over and face them down?” Annja suggested.

  Garin flashed her a smile. “I like your thinking. But I’m protecting a passenger, so no go.”

  “I can protect myself.”

  “Not to judge the weaponry in the car behind us. They’re not cops. Probably were from the warehouse, taking down the place and covering their tracks.”

  “Maybe they think we were the ones looting the place?”

  “Could be. Sit tight, Annja. I’ll get us out of here.”

  “Then don’t turn—”

  Garin turned onto a dock. He was too busy concentrating on getting away and swerving from bullet fire to realize he was now driving right toward the sea. There were no turnoffs, and the van had taken the same turn.

  “Hell. I don’t know this area at all. You want to jump or ride it out?” he asked.

  Annja eyed the car on their tail. If they jumped, they risked getting shot. If they rode it out, there was only the sea to catch them. It wouldn’t be deep close to shore, but deep enough for ships to moor. The impact wouldn’t kill them, and then they’d have a chance to swim for safety under the dock.

  Anna pulled the seat belt across her lap and buckled it. “Ride it out, Thelma.”

  “Sure thing, Louise.”

  Garin jammed his foot on the accelerator and the Jeep sped toward the end of the dock, past the warning signs not to drive farther. The van tailing them skidded to a stop, and the man in the passenger seat popped his head out to watch as Annja felt the Jeep’s wheels leave the end of the wooden dock. She gripped the seat belt strapped across her chest and hit the window button to roll it down while they soared through the air. Garin did the same.

  The impact compressed her shoulders and spine against the seat. The front of the Jeep had hit the water grille-first, which Garin had intended. They plunged straight down, the tug of the water sucking the vehicle in like quicksand.

  “You okay?” he yelled.

  “Yes!”

  She unlocked her seat belt as the sea gushed through the open windows and swallowed them into the cold water. Her head went under, and the surprising chill punched her in the lungs.

  Grasping the top of the door, Annja twisted and pulled her shoulders and torso out through the window. Something stopped her and had a secure grip on her foot. She gasped in water and choked. Her boot was hung up on something. The seat belt.

  She wiggled and tugged, but as the Jeep sank it pulled her down with it. She didn’t have time to take another breath and her ears popped as she struggled for release. And calm. She wouldn’t get free without remaining calm.

  Garin would take care of himself and wouldn’t know she was in trouble until he’d surfaced, and even then, he might suspect she had swum toward shore. The Jeep was sinking quickly. She twisted in the open window, trying to get a new angle, but only succeeded in wrapping the seat belt around her ankle. She felt the squeezing pull of the strap.

  She could hold her breath underwater longer than the average swimmer, but not so long as a free diver, which was two or three minutes. Her mammalian diving reflex would allow her to achieve apnea, suspension of external breathing, which would allow her more time.

  Did Garin keep a knife in the glove compartment? She scrambled to reach the compartment, but inside felt only paper and one of those spring-loaded center punches for knocking out the window in case of submersion. The irony of it was not lost on her.

  Something snaked around her calf, and she felt her body being pulled down. Initially panicking and kicking—ridiculous thoughts of octopus tentacles and sea monsters sprang to mind—Annja relaxed when she realized it was a hand. The seat belt slackened and her ankle was twisted free. Her hind end was given a shove to push her completely out the window and up toward the silvery glow of the surface.

&
nbsp; Her breath was gone. As she neared the surface, instinct reminded her that she couldn’t simply pop her head up. Whoever had forced them into the brink was likely waiting above with their guns aimed. The darkness would provide some cover, but the moon was high and a glint on her water-soaked head could reveal their location.

  She angled a shoulder toward shore and kicked, propelling herself through the water at a depth of about ten feet. She breathed in water through her nose but remained calm, resisting the urge to gasp. Arms cutting through the murky waters, she finally made it to darkness and determined she was under the dock.

  Arrowing her head upward, she kicked, rising slowly, and broke the surface without a gasp, but instead a deep intake of breath through her nose.

  Garin followed, submerging with the eerie and foreboding presence of a Navy SEAL beside her. Water slapped a steel dock piling five feet away. Overhead, the dock boards blocked any oberservers’ view.

  “You must have iron lungs, Annja,” he commented.

  “I suppose being immortal, you could have wandered around underwater for hours?”

  “Longer than most. Hell. I forgot the necklace.” Garin swam out and dived.

  “Don’t go back!” She grasped for his foot but missed it by a mile. “Stubborn medieval warrior. Whatever you left behind isn’t worth it.”

  Annja swam over to the piling and wrapped an arm about it. It was coated with slimy seaweed, but it anchored her to one spot. She was able to stop kicking and collect her breath.

  Listening for footsteps overhead, she heard the crack of tires rolling over the planks, away from the end of the dock. They must have decided the job had been successful. Except they couldn’t expect that she and Garin had died in their plunge. Interesting.

  But Garin still wasn’t out of trouble. What was he doing?

  The necklace’s sentimental value must have been greater than Annja had guessed.

  After nearly ten minutes, a head surfaced thirty yards out. Garin swam toward shore, using long, sure strokes, and then passed by her position. She followed, and the twosome climbed up onto the smooth head-size rocks lining the beachfront and sat. Wet clothing slapping her skin, Annja felt the evening breeze chill through to her bones.

  Garin slammed the jewelry box onto the sand beside the rock he’d sat on and swore.

  “It should be okay,” she said. “It wasn’t under for long.”

  Annja picked up the box and opened it up. Seawater poured out. The necklace wasn’t inside.

  “It’s not in there, is it?” He wiped both palms over his face, his gaze on the horizon that blended the sea seamlessly into the moonlit yet cloudy sky.

  “Sorry.”

  He let out a wet, dismissive chuckle. “Easy come, easy go.”

  “It meant a lot to you. I can go down with you for a few more dives before it gets too dark.”

  “The shore drops significantly thirty yards from here. I must have dived sixty feet. It’s lost. I’m sure the water has already damaged the paint on the porcelain.” He rose and shook his arms, which splattered water over her head. “I’m out of here. I should have driven you straight to the airport on the mainland instead of that warehouse,” he said, finding purchase on the tumble of rocks lining the shore. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Annja. El Bravo isn’t your man. And even if he were, you’re not the police.”

  “I don’t suspect he’s involved with the stolen artifacts in the warehouse. But the votive crowns were obtained illegally.”

  “So are seventy-five percent of the artifacts on display in peoples’ homes across the world.”

  “Listen.” She tracked after him, squeezing the water out of her T-shirt. “I respect that you have a friendship with Bravo, and perhaps your perspective of his morals is a bit blurred. I won’t ask you to do anything that would jeopardize that friendship.”

  “No, you won’t. Because I won’t be seeing you again until it’s in another country, on another adventure. And I suggest you leave town as fast as you can find a flight because the police might be chasing you.”

  “How do I know they weren’t after you?”

  He smirked. “You’ve got me there. You don’t know that.” He scanned the shoreline, narrowing his eyes to take in the buildings.

  “It wasn’t the police. They would never have risked taking us around behind the police station. And I’m not leaving Cádiz.”

  “As suspected. Annja, just…stay away from Manuel Bravo. Promise me that.”

  “Can’t make that promise.”

  Garin spun on her and gripped her by the upper arm. He squeezed hard enough to make her wonder if he could snap her humerus bone with a simple wrench of his wrist. She knew he could.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “So make me stop. Slash your pretty little sword toward me and—”

  She kneed him in the thigh. Her energy had been depleted from the swim, but she made contact with the femoral artery, and it was enough to make him grit his teeth and wince. It broke his grip from her arm. Bringing up her elbow, she smashed it under his jaw. She followed with a roundhouse that connected with the back of his arm but didn’t cause him to falter.

  He gripped her by the back of the head and shoved her. Her boots, slick and the laces untied, tripped her and she tumbled onto the stones, catching her palm against a sharp corner and tearing open the flesh.

  Annja huffed and spat to the side. The desire to draw the sword would only give him a satisfaction she didn’t want to deliver. Instead, she studied her cut palm. “You don’t get to win this one, Braden.”

  “I’d say it’s been a pleasure,” he said, “but that would be a lie.”

  Nodding, she tugged her wet hair back and squeezed out the water. “Thanks for the warehouse information, Garin. If you talk to Roux, tell him I said hello.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her and turned to stomp away across the sand.

  He was wrong about Bravo. But his friendship, and the way the man’s mind worked, could justify anything the matador had done as right to Garin. Even knowing it wasn’t right was still justified by the man’s twisted values.

  It didn’t bother Annja as much as she felt it would others, because what you saw was exactly what you got with Garin Braden. He never claimed to be upstanding. She could take him in small doses. And getting a glimpse into his nostalgic heart earlier settled her need to badger him further. He was a man. He had a heart, like her. Things didn’t always go right for him.

  She wouldn’t push.

  But the two of them would never come up even on the scorecard. And she preferred it that way.

  * * *

  GARIN STALKED UP the beach, crossing through a block of warehouses, and hoofed it back to the seaside strip’s hotels. Best place to hail a cab.

  With a few shakes of his cell phone, the thing actually powered up. Waterproof to one hundred feet. Nice. He dialed Hannibal Drake and got an answering machine. He tried a few more numbers, Drake’s cell and another cell, getting the same result. Before he could tuck his phone away in frustration, it rang.

  “I saw your message,” Drake said. “I only get one call.”

  “One call? Don’t tell me.”

  “I’m sitting in the bloody brink. The police have arrested me on charges of illicit antiquities trading.”

  “Damn. I was calling to warn you that the warehouse next to your office went up in flames, but I guess you already know that.”

  “The police swarmed the area like bees. You stay away from there.”

  “Too late. We were followed. Be careful, Hannibal.The police may not be clean.”

  “Good to know. But I’m clean, which is all that matters. Well, basically. I’ll be out of here as soon as I give them James Harlow’s name.”

  The name sounded familiar to Garin, then he recalled why. “Is he a professor?”

  “Works at the city museum. My nemesis.”

  Meaning, the other guy was Drake’s competition in tagging the prime goods that arrived o
n shore.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Hannibal? Lawyer? Bail?”

  “I’ve got it covered. Thanks, Braden. Enjoy the necklace.”

  The phone clicked off and Garin smacked a fist into his open palm. This time, Annja Creed had pushed him too far.

  20

  The walk to the hotel was uncomfortable as her cotton khaki pants dried and the seawater made her skin itch. In her room, Annja stripped bare and wrapped a towel around her torso, but didn’t immediately jump into the shower. Garin’s insistence that El Bravo was innocent rubbed her the wrong way.

  Had one of the matador’s votive crowns come from the seaside warehouse? There was no way to know, without tracking down the source. The bronze bull statue could have come from there. Again, she needed a source. Whoever had looted Crockett’s site may have been located in the dock warehouse. They could have handed off the booty to a dealer or arranged for the delivery of the statue directly. And if Diego had been carrying both artifacts, the conclusion seemed obvious they had held both the bull statue and the votive crown she knew had been inside the wooden crate.

  So the bull statue traveled from outside Jerez to a warehouse to Diego’s hands. Or from Jerez directly to a dealer’s hands, who then gave it to Diego to deliver—to whom? Obviously not the same person who stole the crown from the crate.

  Annja was aware of two people who had an interest in collecting bull-related artifacts: Manuel Bravo and James Harlow. And after finding Harlow’s number on the cell phone in the warehouse, she wasn’t certain anymore that El Bravo was the key player.

  They could both be involved. Bravo had wanted the crown, Harlow the bull. Really? After she’d shown him pictures of the bull statue, had that piqued Harlow’s interest enough to send looters out to the site to steal it? Was he capable of murder, whether or not he had been the triggerman?

  She didn’t see it, but then she didn’t know him well. About as well as she had known Jonathan Crockett. And Harlow seemed determined to place blame for some kind of criminal activity on Crockett. To deflect the blame from himself?