by Alex Archer
In this instance, she had no qualms with escape.
French cries for her to stop barreled out from the three punks. Far more preferable than a policeman wielding a club. She wasn’t keen on spending time in jail.
But how would her time be spent if the punks caught up to her?
Annja raced across the grass. Her hiking boots were not made for high-speed chases, but they were worn enough to allow her ankles flexibility.
The courtyard of the Louvre appeared to her right. The glass pyramid where visitors entered the museum was lit, and the surrounding pond glimmered gold in the twilight.
Ascher avoided the line that queued from the pyramid and darted across the street to enter the Tuileries. Catherine de Medici, mother of Ascher’s favorite king, had commissioned the royal garden in the sixteenth century.
Not at all winded, but wondering how far her boots would take her, Annja gained Ascher’s side.
He signaled they should run the tree-lined avenue down the center of the garden. In two great strides he jumped to a concrete bench, sprang high and cleared a low yew hedge.
“Land on your toes!” he hollered back to Annja.
Taking the jump, she did land on her toes, but briefly, as she rolled her body forward, curling across her right shoulder into a ball and pushing upward into a run. The impact had been remarkably light. But then the distance of the leap had been less than ten feet.
Crushed gravel spit at her ankles as her pursuers began to land. They were too close.
Annja sped across the manicured lawn that none in the gardens walked on. She didn’t see any Keep Off The Grass signs. Just ahead, Ascher sprinted down the center of the wide gravel-paved main alley.
The garden was alive with children riding the merry-go-round while mothers chatted. It was probably an evening pre-dinner stop for families coming home with schoolkids in tow. A slow-moving donkey cart ferried squealing toddlers beneath the trimmed lime trees that dropped yellow leaves in slow dollops.
Breathing from her chest, Annja focused on keeping the pace. She’d gained some distance from her pursuers. Drawing up her diaphragm and pumping her arms at her sides opened her airway and allowed increased speed.
Ahead, Ascher ran right for the donkey cart. He leaped, toeing a concrete column, and cleared the entire cart with one flying soar through the air. Annja thought it was remarkable that the man virtually flew.
Annja marked her paces, suspecting she couldn’t make the same ground-to-air leap. Instead, she was able to step onto the sidebar of the cart, push off and perform a high leap, topped by a snap into a midair roll. She landed on the ground in another roll, and was off with the elation of the chase.
Make that escape.
Was it wrong to be feeling rather proud of her first go at parkour? She really should only be concerned with the situation.
“But I so rock.” And she sped onward.
Carnival music jittered out from the huge neon-lit ferris wheel to her right. Ahead, the octagonal pond loomed. Ascher dodged to the left, slowing a bit, as Annja caught up to him.
“Take the Concorde,” he said in short huffs. “Detour to the Seine. We might lose them there.”
He made a jump and landed on the corner of one of the horseshoe ramps that slanted upward to form the end of the gardens. Looking over the highest peak, Annja spied the Eiffel Tower about a mile off in the distance. She followed the leader’s example.
The concrete border edging the slanted ground was about eight inches wide with grass topping the ramp. It was easier to balance the faster she ran. Two of the punks followed, while one ran parallel along the ground, though he had to detour around a statue and a flock of ducks waddling toward the pool.
The end of the gardens landed them at the place de la Concorde, where once revolutionaries decapitated cartloads of royals for the macabre pleasure of the citizens. Sunlight glinted on the gold-capped pink granite obelisk. It stood in the courtyard to their right where a crew of cars honked in echo of the gruesome cheers from centuries past.
To her left, Ascher dashed to the edge of the bridge and leaped to the top of the guard rail. Balance exact, he leaped forward in the direction his body wanted to sway. Airborne two seconds, he then landed on the top of a moored houseboat. A bounce set him into the air like an acrobat, and he landed on the sidewalk with an easy spring.
Annja followed in kind, dropping to the cobblestone sidewalk that hugged the Seine. Houseboats were moored up to the edge, lined all the way to the next bridge.
A water bus motored slowly by, transporting tourists on a lazy river tour of the city. A loudspeaker announced the forthcoming Tuileries to the left.
“Now, that was awesome,” Annja huffed out. Bending forward, she pressed her palms to her knees.
“No, stand and stretch back your arms to draw in air,” Ascher coached. “And quickly.”
The twosome spied the punks as they mounted the bridge. Hasty looks were exchanged. How to fend off the pursuers?
“You take the boat,” she said to Ascher. It was key he got to safety. Besides, she could handle a couple of street punks. “We’ll split up.”
“I cannot leave you, Annja.”
“You’re not leaving me—you’re protecting the map. Now go!”
He understood what she suggested. With a nod, he dashed off, and so did Annja. “Call me when you are safe!” she shouted.
The punks dropped onto the sidewalk like monkeys clambering over a zoo wall.
Ascher made a furious run down the sidewalk beside Annja, and then leaped onto one of the moored boats. He scrambled over a red Smart car tethered to the boat’s stern. Timing the moment, Ascher eyed the approaching water bus. With a great leap, he soared and hung in the air for a moment over the curdling white waves that curled out from the boat’s bow, then his legs pedaled and he began to descend.
A thunderous roar from the tourists rose as he landed on the boat, clinging to the railing, his legs dangling over the river.
Still racing down the sidewalk, the wall to her left and the river to her right, Annja lured the punks after her. The tour boat veered to the right to go down the left-bank side of the island.
Now she just had to shake the tail.
Or not.
Annja stopped before a stairway that marched up to street level. Walking up the bottom steps, she then turned and faced her pursuers.
The three men, to their credit, didn’t so much as pause when Annja produced a sword out of thin air. The first, clad in baggy trousers and a zipped-up sweatshirt, leaped toward her. Annja sliced low, drawing her sword across his knees. He dropped, yelping and collapsing on the bottom step. Blood seeped through the camouflage fabric.
Right behind him, the two remaining men had clasped hands and barreled forward. No weapons in sight. Such dumb determination.
Annja leaped, clearing their heads. She snapped into a roll in midair and landed on the cobbled sidewalk behind them. Since taking possession of Joan’s sword, her physical prowess had increased slightly. She could make that run a little faster, hold her breath underwater a little longer and add a few feet to a leap with ease. It wasn’t magic. It was something ancient and innate.
Landing solidly, she twisted her shoulder and bent backward to avoid the glimmer of steel that flashed in the air. A stiletto missed her head and pinged the stone wall behind her.
It was never wise to approach a man with a sword—or a woman, for that matter. Yet both thugs again charged her. Her sword sliced the air. Annja felt resistance, blade to bone. She’d cut through the bicep of one of them.
Before she could return the stroke of the blade, the other plowed into her, putting her up against the limestone wall. He actually growled. Annja jammed up her knee, connecting with his side. It wasn’t a groin shot, but she’d gotten close to his bladder. Bellowing out a curse, he released her.
Both her ankles were grabbed and she lost balance. The one on the ground had crawled up behind her. Releasing the sword momentarily, she land
ed the cobblestones on an elbow, but couldn’t roll. Pins and needles shot up her arm. He had a tight wrap about her ankles.
The one standing over her muttered something like “Where is the sword?” in French, and wound up for a punch. Annja stretched out her right arm, opening her fingers to receive Joan’s sword—
And all went dark.
13
A weird sort of semiconsciousness toyed with her brain. Annja sat upright, but her neck ached for the awkward tilt of her head. Her eyes were not open. She could hear voices. Whispery, but with some real volume to them. Eerie. They were…inside her head?
Had she begun to hear voices such as Joan of Arc had in the fifteenth century? It wasn’t entirely ridiculous. Having inherited the martyr’s sword, the voices should be a given. Add that to her penchant to talk to herself and she was certifiable.
Get a grip, Annja.
Concentrating, trying to press through the weird fog of her brain, Annja listened keenly.
“I ask for a sword and you bring me a woman. I don’t need a woman,” said an angry yet controlled male voice. “I need the sword.”
“Boss, I know her. I’ve seen her on the TV.”
“Oh?”
Annja heard metal sliding across a smooth surface. A few clicks across a keyboard. Must be a laptop on a desk.
“Show me,” the first voice said.
The keys clattered. Annja distinctly sensed someone paced before her. Every other beat the creak of leather sounded from low, near the floor. Squeaky shoes. That brought her count to three in the room, besides herself. So far.
The last she remembered was shouting for Ascher to escape—with the map. He had, by leaping to the passing water bus in a remarkable feat. And yet, here she sat. Obviously chivalry had not survived the centuries.
She’d thought taking on three men would be easy, until it had stopped being easy.
After being knocked out she had been taken somewhere. She didn’t feel tied up. In fact, she was not, for a twitch of her left foot did not sense bound ankles. And her hands were free, resting on her lap.
Interesting. It could only mean the thugs who’d kidnapped her were present, and probably held enough firepower to make whoever was in charge believe she was secure.
Use the sword.
If she produced her sword and charged them now, she might never discover the mechanics behind this bizarre scheme. If it was a scheme. Whether to trust Ascher still bothered her. He could very well be in the room.
And if any in the room were armed, a thin blade wouldn’t do much good when it came to deflecting bullets. Wonder Woman, she was not.
“Ah,” the voice that seemed to be the leader said. “I see. Annja Creed.”
So much for anonymity.
Now was as good a time as any to let them know she wasn’t out. Annja lifted her head groggily. It didn’t feel as though she’d been drugged, just clocked a good one, but the pull in her neck muscles forced her to move slowly.
“We have a celebrity in our midst.” The leader strode toward her across a highly polished black marble floor.
The entire room, Annja noticed with a glance, was also walled in black marble. Outfitted with a chrome-and-glass desk and chairs and ultramodern artwork that boasted a few dashes of ink across white canvas.
And then there were the swords, displayed under tiny halogen spotlights. Half a dozen, at least, from her scan. It was difficult to determine their century of make or if they were merely historical reproductions. Probably the real deal.
A man approached, tall, thin and decked out in a gray suit. Diamond cuff links caught a glint of light and flashed violet and red at Annja. Medium-length brown hair waved about his head. It was thick, and though it looked tousled, she wondered did he have to work on it to get it just so? His face was gaunt, not an ounce of fat, every bone a deadly blade. Clear blue eyes were the only spots of color in the entire room, save the diamond flashes. His smile surprised her. It wasn’t evil or plotting. He looked normal, like a businessman.
With a million-dollar budget for suits and accessories.
He stalked right up to her, and Annja realized she sat on a sort of love seat with black leather cushions and chrome arms. He put up a shoe on the seat to the left of her thigh and leaned forward over her knees. The spicy scent of his cologne was too appealing for this precarious situation.
Crossing his arms, he looked her over. He smiled the richest smile Annja had ever seen, like whiskey and dark chocolate and cherry pie filling all rolled up together.
Don’t fix images of good things to this man. Stay wise. And alert.
“My name is Jacques Lambert,” he said.
He didn’t sound French. Actually, she wondered if his accent didn’t have a touch of Boston to it.
“Chasing History’s Monsters, eh?” Though soft, his voice hit a nerve in Annja’s neck, which twanged worse than the pulled muscle did. “I’ve never considered Charles de Castelmore a monster. Tell me why you’re pursuing the sword for such a show?”
“Not every moment of my life is concerned with the show, Monsieur Lambert.”
“Ah, she speaks. And rather eloquently for a popular television personality.” Jewel eyes danced across her face, perceptive and ready for the pounce. Blindingly white teeth amped up the deadly allure. “It isn’t every day I send my men on a quest for a rare sword and instead am brought a rare beauty.”
“Are you still speaking of the sword?” she asked.
“Unfortunately not. Though I wish I were. My men tell me there was a man with you who got away with the treasure.”
“Define ‘treasure,’” she said.
“Hmm.” He stood and glanced to the wall where a silver-and-gold épée, polished to a glimmer, hung point down. “It is long and pointy and hurts when pressed into a person’s flesh.”
“Sorry, don’t have one of those to hand.” Yet.
Lambert smirked, and pushed away from the love seat. “I like you, Annja Creed. But not enough to suffer your ill humor.”
His eyes were placed close to his nose. Predatory, that position. Annja had always noticed the position of a person’s eyes: close to the center meant predator; farther to the edges of the face signified prey. Hers were somewhere between the two.
“You’ve not got the sword?” he asked.
“It was obvious we hadn’t a sword in hand before that ridiculous chase through the Tuileries began. Inept bunch of thugs.” Annja cast a glower at the two hoodlums. One stood over the desk beside the laptop. The other loomed to her immediate right, gun in hand. They were not the same men who had pursued her and Ascher. Suits and ties had replaced camo and running shoes.
“But you have it somewhere safe?” Lambert asked.
“Define ‘safe.’”
An open palm across her cheek stung much more than her pride. She hadn’t seen it coming. The man moved quickly. He returned to leaning over her, huffing once from the exertion of his violence, and gripping the chair arm.
“Safe or not, you have the sword. You were at the dig site, and you accompanied Ascher Vallois home.” A smile returned. “I’ll need a location to ensure your safe passage out of here.”
“And where exactly is here?” She moved her jaw wide open, tonguing her teeth. Nothing loose. “Is this BHDC?”
Lambert straightened. The easy smile tightened, revealing teeth. “You’ve done your research.”
“I am an archaeologist by trade. Research is my thing.”
“Ah, so that explains your partnering with Vallois. Though, how much of an archaeologist he is remains open for debate.”
“You know the man. That would lead me to guess that you are the one who decided he didn’t need both kidneys. Am I right?”
Lambert rubbed his palms together like a child delighted over a toy. “Oh, I really like you, Annja. Messieurs.” He gestured to his henchmen. “You may leave. Manny, keep post outside the door.”
He waited for the thugs to trundle out. Annja took a moment to study th
e swords on the wall to her right. Three of them, each displayed under a halogen light. One was a rapier, sixteenth century, if she was not mistaken. Two closest to her position were épées, single-edged damascened blades, and boasting gorgeous hilts encrusted with jewels and gold.
All appeared sharp and ready for use.
“You appreciate a fine sword?” Lambert walked to the wall and touched a blue double-edged blade. “This one is German made. Not the usual S-shaped quillon indicative of the maker, but instead a straight bar for protecting the knuckles. The blade bears a memento mori.”
“A death promise,” Annja said, and Lambert nodded approvingly. “I have trouble believing you took away a man’s kidney merely because you wished to display yet another sword on your wall.”
“But you discount the intrigue and value of the find, Annja. Most people aren’t aware that d’Artagnan was anything but a fictional character in an adventure novel. Find a person who even knows what a musketeer is and I’d be surprised. History is growing thin.”
“It’s not,” she retorted.
“Really? Mention a musketeer nowadays and people look for a candy bar.”
He had a point, but a stupid one at that. “History is constantly expanding as we uncover more and more through digs and discoveries. But I can agree that the depth of interest grows shallow,” Annja said.
Arms crossed high on his chest, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. “Did I mention I like you?”
“Was that before or after you slapped me?”
Lambert strolled before her. “Can you imagine raising a child now, in these modern times, who resembles the greatest musketeer who ever lived?”
Annja tilted her head forward. He’d been going down an easily followable path, until he got to the child part. What did a child have to do with a stolen sword and her getting the stuffing kicked out of her on the bank of the Seine?
Trying her legs, she realized she could stand and dash out of here. But thugs stood outside the door. She’d sit tight.