by Alex Archer
But he wasn’t fine and they both knew it.
Annja looked back down the trail again. Porter and his men had crossed the riverbed and were now headed toward the very slope that she and Henry had just climbed. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most, and they would catch up.
They had to move and they had to do it now.
“Listen to me, Henry,” Annja began. “There’s no way you’re going to outrun them. Not after what you’ve already been through.”
He didn’t give it a moment’s thought. “You’re right. I’ll stay here and delay them while you go on.”
There was such an earnest and determined look on his face that Annja felt a sudden surge of affection for the old man. He barely knew her and yet he’d not only saved her cameraman’s life but had willingly put himself in danger for her. And here he was, ready to put her welfare over his own once more. The fact that he was even in this position was Annja’s fault and she was determined to see to it that he got out of this alive and intact no matter what.
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
She explained that, yes, she wanted them to split up, but not for the reasons he suggested. “I’ve spent most of my adult life hiking in and out of canyons like this on various archaeological digs. I’m confident I can keep ahead of them long enough to lead them away from you and then throw them off my trail. While I’m doing that, I want you to hunker down somewhere safe. When they come after me, you can double back and do what you can to get to the vehicles below us. I don’t think they left anyone guarding them.”
“How long should I wait for you?” he asked.
She’d anticipated the question and had her answer ready. “I don’t want you to wait. Run for civilization as fast as you can. I’ve spent enough time in the bush. I can handle myself as long as it takes for you to come back with reinforcements.”
Henry agreed reluctantly. Annja didn’t care, reluctant or not, provided he did as she suggested. As he hurried off down a path they hoped would provide him shelter, Annja decided to give their pursuers a reason to come after her rather than him.
She bent and quickly picked up half a dozen rocks. Each was reasonably round and roughly the size of a racquetball. They were just large enough to cause some serious damage if they struck the right spot but not so big she couldn’t throw them with accuracy.
Aware that the rifleman might still be out there waiting for her, Annja peeked around the boulder and then let out a breath. The former gunman was now climbing up the slope behind the rest of them.
Perfect.
She took a couple of deep breaths. She’d only get one chance at this and wanted every throw to count. When she was ready she stepped out from behind the rock, scanned for and then found her target and, with a throw to rival that of a major league pitcher, she let the first rock fly.
* * *
PORTER WAS LABORING up the steep slope, fighting to keep his balance in the loose footing, when something whipped past his head.
He heard rather than saw it and by the time he turned his head to look down the slope it was already out of sight, whatever it was.
He stopped for a moment and straightened, allowing himself a few seconds to catch his breath. The way seemed clear; Creed and the doctor must have continued onward.
No matter. He’d catch up to her in time, and when he did, he’d make her pay.
* * *
ANNJA SHOOK HER FIST in frustration and cursed her lack of thought. Her first throw had gone long and high; she’d been throwing from a height and had forgotten to factor in the slope of the trajectory.
Thankfully no one appeared to have seen her.
She gripped another rock loosely in her hand and got ready for another throw.
* * *
PORTER HAD TAKEN another half dozen steps when he heard that strange whistling again. He was just turning his head to look when something smashed into his right cheekbone, snapping his head violently back and knocking him to the ground, where he promptly began sliding back down the slope in an uncontrolled tumble. It was only the presence of Bryant behind and below him, and the man’s iron grip, that finally arrested his descent.
By then, the pain from his shattered cheekbone was making itself known and he let out an involuntary scream that echoed across the canyon.
He rolled onto his hands and knees, then leveraged himself upright. Bryant reached out a hand to steady him and Porter noted the look on his face, the same look that was on the faces of the other men near them. Whatever had struck him must have done significant damage. His cheek pulsed like a heartbeat and it swelled so badly in just a matter of moments that he could no longer see out of one eye.
Being made a fool in this way was intolerable, and his anger bloomed like a supernova.
He opened his mouth to order them to get moving when a second projectile whipped down the slope and struck him in the upper chest, just beneath his collarbone. However, he had enough padding there that it didn’t do anywhere near the damage the first blow had, but it hurt just the same.
Ignoring the pain, he looked up the slope and was just in time to see Annja send another stone whistling at them. This throw was the most accurate so far, the rock striking the head of the man standing a few yards to Porter’s left. He went down hard and stayed down.
In that instant any thought of keeping Creed alive to help him with the final task of locating the Lost City vanished. He looked up at her with his one good eye, pointed a finger in her direction and shouted to the men around him, “Kill her!”
* * *
ANNJA WATCHED HER second throw fly true, the stone striking Porter in the face, and felt a surge of satisfaction.
That’s for Xabba.
She’d thought someone had seen her for sure, but all eyes were on Porter and she was able to send two more blistering shots down the slope, taking at least one of her pursuers out of the game.
As Porter’s shout reached her ears, she turned and dove back behind the boulder she’d been using as cover just in time. The crack of gunfire filled the air and bullets whined past her, ricocheting off the rocks. They wouldn’t take long to cover the remaining distance between them once the shooting stopped, so she got to her feet and took off, using the massive boulder as cover for as long as she could.
The rock walls quickly rose around her as she ran deeper into the canyons. Her sense of direction was better than most, so she was confident that she could find her way back again provided she kept calm and didn’t lose track of the twists and turns she made. She fell into the rhythm of taking the right-hand path every time the opportunity presented itself, heading eastward with every turn.
Shouldn’t take long to lose them.
* * *
WHEN PORTER, BRYANT and the rest of his men made it to the top of the ridge, they found the area deserted. Porter could barely contain his anger as he whirled on Bryant.
“Which way?” he snarled.
Back in the days when Bryant was a legitimate member of the SAS, he spent most of his days tracking insurgents through the sands of the Middle East. He could have read the signs the two fugitives had left behind and followed in their wake, but that wasn’t necessary in this instance. Instead, he simply reached into his pocket and took out the smartphone he carried. A touch of the screen brought up a gridlike structure laid over a satellite image of the local terrain. Within the grid were two icons, one blue and one red. The icons represented the GPS signals the phone was receiving from the tiny tracking devices Bryant had slipped into their captives’ clothing while securing them in the SUV earlier. With the device in hand, Bryant could follow the fugitives while at the same time mapping their own route by tracking waypoints on the map with the phone’s built-in GPS. A glance at the monitor told him their quarry had split up. The blue icon, the one representing Dr. Crane, was headed west, while the other, indicating Creed’s current position, was moving northeast at a faster pace.
Bryant showed the display to Porter. “The doctor has
n’t gotten far. We can grab him and get back on Creed’s trail long before she loses us.”
Porter began to shake his head, then stopped abruptly from the pain. “He can rot in the desert for all I care. It’s Creed I want.”
“Then it is Creed you shall have,” Bryant answered. He indicated the northern trail. “This way.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Annja stopped for a quick breather. Behind her, the sounds of pursuit continued. Time and time again she thought she’d thrown them off her trail only to discover that wasn’t the case. No matter what she did, she just couldn’t seem to shake them. Even now they seemed to be closing the distance rather than falling behind because of her superior trail-craft.
She was thirsty, had been for a while, but she made herself ignore it. She didn’t have any water, anyway. It would be a problem if she overexerted herself, but she didn’t have any choice. She promised herself that if she got far enough ahead of the others she’d take a few minutes to figure out a solution. Right now, she just didn’t have the time.
After only a few moments of rest, she set off again, doing her best to stay close to the walls of the canyon where the shade was thickest and the cool air seemed to collect.
She wondered how Henry was doing. She hoped he had made his way back to where Porter and his men had left their vehicles by now. Provided he could get one started, it wouldn’t take him more than a few hours to reach any of the seasonal safari camps to the south. From there he should be able to get help, both in the way of resupply and in numbers to ensure his safety when he returned for her.
Annja continued forward, moving, running, one foot in front of the other over and over and over again, ignoring the pain in her muscles and the tightness in her throat from her deep thirst. After a time—twenty minutes? an hour?—she reached a wide fork in the trail and slowed momentarily, thinking about her next move. If she continued following the plan she’d set at the beginning, she was supposed to choose the right-hand path, but something didn’t feel good. It was much narrower than the trail on the left, with far more debris along it.
The left path, on the other hand, was wide, well lit from the sun high above and relatively free of loose rock fall. It would be a much easier route, never mind that her strategy to lose her pursuers didn’t seem to be working, anyway.
If they were on to her choices, then wouldn’t it be better to shake things up and break the pattern?
It was that last thought that decided her. She turned to the left and raced down the wider path, even as the shouts of the men behind her became discernible. The high rock walls and narrow canyons wreaked havoc with acoustics but it still seemed to her that the others were getting even closer.
She forced herself to go faster, knowing she wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace for much longer but equally aware that she would need to if she didn’t lose them sooner rather than later.
If she could just get a big enough lead.
Annja charged around a corner...and skidded to a halt.
A few yards in front of her the canyon ended in a sheer rock face that rose a good twenty or thirty feet above where she stood. She looked frantically about, hoping she missed some opening somewhere that she could try to squeeze through, but there was nothing.
It was a dead end.
30
She turned, intending to race back the way she had come. If she could get to the fork quickly enough, she might have a chance of staying ahead of her pursuers....
But she was already too late. She could hear their cries echoing down the passage she’d traversed only moments before. There was no way for her to avoid them if she took that route. For a split second she thought about doing it, anyway, imagined herself charging into them, knocking them aside with enough speed and surprise to get through, but then common sense reasserted itself. She’d never make it past all of them.
Annja wasn’t ready to give up. Abruptly changing course once more, she rushed over to the wall that formed the canyon’s end and began searching for hand- and footholds that might carry her to the top. She was gambling that Porter still wanted her alive and that they wouldn’t immediately shoot her down when they saw her. It was climb or stand here and surrender.
Annja wasn’t the type to do the latter.
She grabbed another handhold and pulled herself fully onto the rock face, seeking and finding support for her feet and then reaching for the next hold with her other hand. Despite her need to escape, she had to force herself to go slowly. The rock was smooth and there were limited handholds to take advantage of.
She’d gotten about eight feet off the ground when the rocky little spire she was standing on crumbled beneath her feet unexpectedly just as she reached for a new handhold. As she felt herself falling, she scrambled against the rock, looking for something, anything, to stop her downward slide but there wasn’t anything big enough.
Down she went.
She managed to twist as she fell, so instead of landing directly on her back she caught most of the impact on her hip and shoulder. The fall knocked the wind out of her and for a few seconds all she could do was lie there and fight to breathe. In the end it was her fear of being caught that way by Porter and his men that got her back to her feet.
She was just in time, too.
The sound of running feet echoed into the rocky cul-de-sac and a moment later Bryant appeared at the entrance. He had a 9 mm pistol in his hands that he quickly brought up and aimed at her. Behind him came several other men. All of were armed, some with pistols, some with automatic rifles.
Behind them, Malcolm Porter, brought up the rear.
“Well, well, well,” Porter said as he pushed his way to the front of the group. “What have we here, boys?”
For the first time, Annja got a good look at the damage her stone had done to his face and it wasn’t pretty. Porter’s eye was all but obscured by the swelling, and from the way it was already bluish-black Annja knew she’d broken at least his cheekbone, possibly even fractured his skull. His grin was a horrible caricature. “Caught like a rat in a trap, are we, Creed?”
Annja glanced past Porter to the guns his men held and knew all it would take would be a few ounces of pressure on the trigger of one of those weapons to end this once and for all. She was a sitting duck; there was nowhere for her to go and at this range Porter’s men couldn’t possibly miss.
But she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t believe Porter would have her shot.
The man was a control freak. Simply killing her wouldn’t do any good. He would know she’d gotten the better of him, that he’d been unable to bend her to his will and force her to hand over the information his father had left behind. That would be unacceptable to a man like him. Taking the journal from her wasn’t enough, especially not after she’d hurt him. He had to control her, to cow her, to make her grovel for forgiveness for daring to harm him in the first place.
As long as she refused to bend to his will, she had a fighting chance at life.
That was all Annja ever needed, a fighting chance.
“I think it’s time for you to understand who’s in charge here,” Porter said.
He turned to Bryant. “Give me your knife.”
Annja watched as the former commando turned over a wicked-looking combat knife with a blade nearly half a foot long.
Porter’s good eye widened with anticipation as he turned toward Annja, knife in hand. “Playtime!” he said, and began walking toward her.
He was expecting her to be afraid and shrink from him. That was, after all, what most bullies got off on from dominating and controlling a weaker individual.
She, however, was anything but weak. If he thought he could make her cower with that little pigsticker of a blade, he’d obviously forgotten their earlier encounter in the restaurant back in Maun. She was going to show him what a real blade looked like.
“What’s the matter?” Porter taunted as he twisted the knife back and forth so that the sunlight glinted off the blade.
“Where’s that smart mouth now?”
Take a couple steps more and I’ll introduce you to her.
Annja fought to keep a grin off her face. She wasn’t ready to accept that this was going to be her final showdown, but if it was, if Bryant and company gunned her down in the moment after she struck, at least she’d die with the satisfaction of having put Porter in his place.
“I’m going to enjoy teaching you how to behave properly,” Porter told her, and took those final few steps to bring him into range.
Annja laughed. “Give it your best shot.”
A sane, rational person would have stopped and wondered why Annja looked so unconcerned. She was, after all, unarmed and facing a man with a nasty-looking knife in hand, but Porter was caught up in the bloodlust of vengeance.
He held the knife up in front of him. “I have a friend I want you to meet.”
“Sure, right after you meet mine,” Annja said nonchalantly.
31
Annja’s arm flashed out and by the time it was fully extended she held an English broadsword firmly in her grip. The hilt fit her hand as if it had been made for her and her alone, and even though she knew that wasn’t exactly true she found the sense of familiarity comforting nonetheless. She gave a quick little twist with her hand and slashed the tip of the blade down the side of Porter’s already injured face, from just beneath the eye, through the swelling and down to a spot below the ear.
The response was instantaneous.
Porter shrieked and clapped a hand to the side of his face. Blood welled up over his fingers. His good eye was as wide as a dinner plate as he stood there and stared at her sword, trying to make sense of what had just happened and where it had come from.
Annja took advantage of his bewilderment to cut him again, this time in a line right across the chest from shoulder to shoulder.
Porter bellowed in pain again but this time had enough foresight to dance backward out of reach.
Annja could have killed him with that first attack. She could have simply thrust the sword through his throat and it would have been all over except for the burial. She knew it but, more important, Porter knew it, as well; she could see it in his eyes.