The Other Crowd

by Alex Archer

  They followed the overhead footsteps. Voices spoke, but Annja only picked up parts of the conversation for the slap of water against the seaweed-slimed moorings cracked like fire blazing in a pit.

  “…the warehouse…”

  “…destroy it, and those inside. Let’s clear out.”

  “…out of this country by…”

  “Pick up the EUCs, and get out of here.”

  Annja’s face went underwater. Slater lifted her by the arm. She hadn’t realized how tired she’d become. Her legs felt like jelly. Her gut ached. The shore was still thirty feet away.

  “You’re not okay,” he whispered. “Put your arms around my neck.”

  A car engine purred into gear and took off.

  “I can make it to shore.” Annja renewed her kicks but slung her free right arm about his shoulders. “But I’m not keen on drowning.”

  “You were calm and focused,” he said, hooking an arm around her waist and leading the way toward shore. “I’m impressed. I thought I might have to drag a body up to the surface.”

  The shore was steep and slick with algae, but they managed to climb to the mossy bank. Before they summited, Slater scanned the periphery. The dock was situated in a recreational park that had been closed for flora restoration.

  “Clear,” he said. “Unfortunately.”

  Annja rolled to her back and stretched out her arms. The handcuff dug into her wrist but she could not complain. A glimmer of the setting sun flashed orange on the horizon. The scent of motor oil and seaweed hung in the air. Overhead a seagull tilted dangerously close, then swooped off over the water.

  “They said something about going to the warehouse,” she said. “I’m sure that was Neville’s voice.”

  “They’re going to destroy the evidence.”

  “Can you get your MI-6 guys on it?”

  Slater coughed up water and spat to the side. “I can’t call the operation off, Annja. And bringing in more men would shut it down fast.”

  “So you’re going to maintain your cover? Isn’t the gig up? He tried to kill you.”

  “Just breathe, Annja. Christ, we’ve both risen from Davy Jones’s locker. Give me a few minutes to think, will you?”

  A few minutes could mean the difference between them picking up Neville’s trail—and ultimately finding Eric—or never seeing them again.

  “But they have weapons somewhere in the area?”

  “In the warehouse where you drove the truck. They’ll move them to the harbor. Fast. Neville is disgusted with all the meddling, namely by you.”

  It had never been her intention to meddle. It was completely bizarre that a quest for faeries had turned up arms dealers digging in the dirt for diamonds. On the other hand, it was par for the course for her.

  “But what about the dig?” Annja insisted. “Were more diamonds found?”

  “Two more roughs. Enough to satisfy Neville’s need for finances.”

  “Wait a minute.” She crawled up onto her elbows. “You knew Eric was in the warehouse?”

  “I…”

  “Is he there now?”

  He dropped his head onto the ground and exhaled. “It’s very likely.”

  “Then why did you take me to the hospital this morning?”

  “I thought I could get you to chase all over Cork looking in every hospital while we cleared out the dig site and the river drop. I didn’t anticipate you’d go for a ride with my boss, or that bandits would decide to go shopping in our stash.”

  “You bastard. Eric could have been harmed or killed in that time. Just who are your alliances to?”

  “Eric is not a detriment to Neville’s mission. Though, now that you’ve made it clear to Neville the kid is on your team, I’m not so sure.” Slater coughed and rolled to his side. Fine sand and moss coated his cheek. “We should go. Right now.”

  He helped Annja to stand. She shook off the shivers but the chill air worked relentlessly at her bare arms and wet skin. She shoved a hand in her buttoned pocket and pulled out her cell phone and gave it a flick.

  “Let me get that handcuff off for you.” Slater lifted her wrist, holding it gently. “Don’t tell me that thing still works?”

  “Waterproof to thirty feet,” she said, and hoped it was really true. She’d not tested it until now. “I like your underwater lock-picking skills. What did you use?”

  “The bow from my sunglasses. I was sweating when Neville took them from me.”

  He stuck the end of the wire bow into the handcuff and worked his magic. The heavy chain dropped and Annja clasped her wrist. “Quite the MacGyver.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A guy on—forget it. What was that about EUCs?”

  He stared at her as if he could see into the gears turning in her brain, determining if she was trustworthy.

  “I already know too much,” she offered. “May as well tell me the rest.”

  “That’s the worst argument I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Have you got a rebuttal?”

  “Why does that sound more sexy than you obviously think it does?” He smirked and said, “End user certificates. Neville’s not my ultimate goal, Annja. Someone has been forging EUCs.”

  “I’ve heard of them. For shipping purposes?”

  “When weapons and ammunition are shipped, flown or transferred to another country they must be accompanied by a signed and notarized end user certificate. The certificate guarantees that the guns will be used in the receiving country and not be rerouted somewhere else to be used as a means of terror. It’s meant to restrict the flow of materials to embargoed states. Neville’s forger does a bang-up job. But he’s not on our payroll.”

  “So MI-6 wants this forger?”

  “If he’s not on our team, then we can’t control him.”

  Made sense. In one of those underhanded, shouldn’t-this-be-legit ways. The arms deals Neville was making were obviously gray, overseen by the British government, whether or not Neville was aware of it.

  “Wait.” Annja flipped long wet strands of hair from her face. She wished for a blanket and dry shoes. But if Slater wasn’t shivering, she wasn’t about to pull the wuss card. “You said they were going to destroy evidence at the warehouse? Would that include something like people who have gone missing from the dig site? Including Eric?”

  Slater sighed. “Probably.”

  “We have to get back to that warehouse.”

  “We’re out at city’s edge, with no vehicle or weapons. We’ll never make it in time to stop the destruction.”

  “I just want to get there before they kill anyone.”

  “Even after the man tried to drown you?”

  “And shoot me, don’t forget that.”

  “And sell you to a bandit as his new girlfriend.”

  She’d forgotten about that one. “Eric is my responsibility. I won’t let him down.”

  “Guess that means we’re going for a walk. I don’t have my wallet or ID. It won’t be easy to rent a car.”

  “Are you telling me MI-6 didn’t teach you how to hot-wire a vehicle?”

  “Annja, grand theft auto is against the law.” He said it with a grin. “But I like the way you think.”

  They scanned the area. On the way to the dock, they’d driven about ten minutes from the warehouse; they were still within city limits.

  “West. It’s a quiet part of town. Mostly warehouses and old machinery shops,” Slater said.

  They climbed the moss-padded embankment and slopped their way across the gravel. Wringing out her T-shirt, Annja would have liked to stop and empty her boots of water, but she didn’t want to risk losing time. She’d walk off the water.

  Five minutes later they’d entered a neighborhood that reminded her of a medieval village with its cobbled, narrow streets and terraced houses fit tight against one another. It was the kind of neighborhood she could live in.

  A pimped-out white van pulled up alongside Annja and Slater with an abrupt squeal of the tir
es. Slater gripped her arm. She allowed him to pull her back so he stood in front of her.

  “Who is it?” Annja asked.

  “Oh, this day just gets better and better.” Slater slapped at his shoulder holster but Neville’s man had removed his gun. “It’s the bandits who hijacked our truck.”

  The van doors opened. Out jumped two men, followed by the familiar leader in the knit beret. This time he held his AK-47 ready to fire. “Hello, luv. We meet again. Got yer boyfriend with you this time, I see. What are the two of you selling today, if you will?”

  “Sorry, fresh out of contraband weapons,” Slater said. He raised his hands slowly to his shoulders.

  The leader’s brows narrowed and he chewed a cigar stuffed at the corner of his mouth. He gestured with his rifle as he spoke. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Get in line.”

  Annja winced at Slater’s casual dismissal of real danger. The two men flanking the leader cradled their AK-47s like cherished children.

  “That diamond you traded for the weapons was flawed.”

  “You’re fashin’ me,” Slater said, assuming the dialect. “That’s a risk you take when you—”

  “You said it was grade A! I know me rocks, and that stone was bloody grade nothing! The thing shattered when I tapped the crown with me pistol.”

  “What the hell did you do that for? Diamonds are not forever,” Slater argued calmly. “The diamond industry only wants you to believe that Valentine’s crap so you’ll shell out the big bucks for your woman.”

  “Shut up!”

  Slater took a step back when both AK-47s aimed for his chest. “Let’s talk about this, mate.”

  “I am not your mate. You duped me out of fifty thousand pounds and this prime bit of bird.” The leader looked Annja’s wet body up and down. She held eye contact with him. She wasn’t about to show fear. “Now you and the bird are going to bleed.”

  “You wouldn’t kill an MI-6 agent,” she blurted out.

  Slater dropped his head down and he huffed out a breath. “She’s lying.”

  “MI-6?” The leader locked gazes with her and she nodded. She wasn’t willing to risk another death match, not when Eric’s life was on the line. “Show me your ID,” he said to Slater.

  “I don’t carry ID,” Slater said, “because I’m not MI-6. Don’t listen to the woman. She’s been chasing faeries all day.”

  The leader jerked back a shoulder as if offended by that remark. He gestured for his men to lower their weapons. Approaching Annja, he tilted the AK-47 against his shoulder. A strong whiff of marijuana surrounded him. “The other crowd, eh?”

  She shrugged. “Why the hell not? They’ve been stealing crew members from an archaeological dig.”

  “You see?” Slater said.

  Studied as intently as any man with glassy eyes and a gun could possibly do, Annja defied his insolence with a sure stance. Finally he nodded and stepped back. “I believe the woman before I believe the man who tried to sell me worthless glass.”

  “It was diamond.”

  “Is that the kind of diamonds your Mr. Neville deals in?” The leader chuckled. “And he’s got an MI-6 agent attached to him? Ha! I think I will leave the poor bastard to his own troubles. Leave them,” he directed his men.

  And that was it. The men piled into the van with intention of driving away.

  “Are you headed into town?” Annja yelled after the leader. She didn’t flinch as Slater slid her a razor-sharp condemnation in a glance. “We need a ride.”

  The leader’s brows raised as he considered the nerve of the woman he’d just threatened to kill. “Faeries, eh?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I’m sure they’re out there somewhere.” Feeling absent of good sense, and a trifle lost, Annja ran a palm up and down her arm. The shivers would not leave her alone. She hadn’t a better plan, and really, how dangerous could a bunch of stoned bandits prove? “I felt their presence,” she said.

  A decisive nod preceded the bandit’s gesture. “Hop in, luv. Where you headed?”

  “To White Street.” Slater gave the address.

  “Will I be delivering you to the man with the glass diamonds?”

  “No, he’s too far ahead of us,” Annja said. “It’s a matter of life or death, though. A friend of mine.” She winced and gave the leader a sincere face. Playing up to his compassion was working so far. “He’s in trouble.”

  Rolling his eyes, and swinging his weapon, the leader gestured he was in compliance.

  Annja was allowed to sit in the front seat and grabbed hold of the door for support as the van pealed into motion. Slater fit himself into the back among the other bandits, of which Annja hadn’t managed a proper head count. Slater was a big boy; he could handle himself, she thought.

  A small glass bong suspended by a black ribbon bobbed from the rearview mirror and various empty shells and AK-47 magazines littered the floor. The whole vehicle stunk like week-old athletic socks left out to dry in the sun.

  “You best be careful if you’re tracking the fair folk,” the leader said to her. “Me cousin went for a five-day walk last summer all in his own backyard. He didn’t escape the fair folk’s clutches until he turned his clothing inside out.”

  All righty, then. Annja refrained from asking if the cousin had been eating magic mushrooms. She glanced at the bong.

  Her eye fell upon a business card stuck in the open ashtray.

  She grabbed it and winced as she read the single word and a phone number. She flicked it at the leader. “Wine?”

  “Oh, aye. If you want some bloody good wine you go to that man. He likes to barter.”

  She would bet he did. And she wouldn’t even ask what kind of barter he took. It wasn’t as though the cavalcade of bandits had much to offer beyond weapons and illicit drugs.

  “You keep it,” the leader said. “Tell him the Handy Man sent you.”

  She nodded. “Will do.”

  37

  Annja still wasn’t answering her phone. Yet it was ringing, so that meant she had to be aware someone was calling. Garin Braden knew the woman had a talent for getting herself into trouble. She also had an incredible knack for getting out of said trouble. Most of the time, skill was all she required. Sometimes she needed help. Sometimes she amazed him with her luck.

  But he did like to know if that luck was holding out now. He was in the area. Why not lend a hand?

  He left another voice message. He was in County Cork looking for Wesley Pierce, and was aware she’d been filming on the dig.

  Where was Pierce? Spending NewWorld’s profits from the sale of the rough diamond?

  That both digs had cleared out so swiftly did not sit well with him. And while the name Frank Neville meant nothing to Garin, he suspected if Neville was powerful enough to wrest a dig out from under NewWorld’s control, then he must have a particular reason for it.

  Could there have been more diamonds? He’d done some internet research. There were no diamond pipes in Ireland. But there had been a heist in the nineteenth century that Garin placed to the area where the dig was located. It had been a sensational case, kept under wraps by the burgeoning diamond industry. A find related to that case would yield a handful of roughs—worth a fortune nowadays.

  Yet how did that tie in with Collins?

  People who associated with Daniel Collins were more than mere treasure seekers. Ruthless cutthroats was a term that came to Garin’s mind. And because of that, he was even more determined to find Annja and make sure she was safe.

  THE ARMORED TRUCK RACED away from the warehouse as the bandits’ van chauffeuring Annja and Slater arrived. Slater swore, grabbed the driver’s shirt collar and demanded he follow the truck.

  “Wait!” Annja opened her door to keep him from driving off. “Don’t you see that smoke? Eric could be in there.”

  “I have to track them,” Slater argued. “They’ll lead me to the harbor where Neville may have a contact waiting. It’s imperative.”

  �
��You think the forger could be waiting there?” Annja asked.

  He nodded.

  “Then leave me behind.” He grabbed her arm as she attempted to slide from the passenger seat. “Let go, Slater! It’s just smoke right now. I can still get inside to look for him.”

  “You’re going to inhale smoke and never make it out. Give it up, Annja, he’s dead.”

  “No.” She tugged out of his unrelenting grip.

  “Let her go!” the leader of the bandits said. “And you, too, mate. Get out. We’re not a taxi service.”

  Slamming the door behind her, Annja stalked toward the warehouse. She eyed a wooden barrel below a water drainpipe slinking down the side of the building, and headed toward it.

  The van drove away slowly, braked—she heard a loud curse—and it veered backward to the door beside her.

  Slater stepped out of the van, running, and peeling off his shirt as he did so. He tore it in two as he approached her. Annja grabbed the shirt sections and dunked them in the water barrel.

  “Are you always this stubborn?” he asked as he squeezed the water from his half of the shirt. “What does hosting a television show have to do with running into a burning building? They don’t give medals to idiots, you know.”

  She smirked and tied the wet shirt over her mouth and nose. Tugging it down she said, “I thought you had a forger to catch.”

  “I’m giving you fifteen minutes. We can’t be inside this building any more than five or ten, as it is. It may be smoking now but it can become an inferno in a heartbeat. Stay close to me.”

  “You stay close to me,” she said.

  She turned and kicked in the front door. Smoke billowed out, and Annja squinted against the burning fog. He was right, more than ten minutes in this death trap and no one would be walking out alive. Fortunately, the warehouse was wide-open, which dispersed the smoke, yet it also provided more oxygen to fuel the fire.

  She scanned the warehouse floor. Not one wooden crate had been left behind on the bare concrete. The office was located on the upper floor that overlooked the loading dock. Flames licked around the door, but hadn’t yet crept to the walls.