Eternal Journey

by Alex Archer

  She didn’t speak, didn’t even consider asking that they surrender. They wouldn’t, couldn’t really, given the gravity of what they were doing. It was an all-in gamble, for which she suspected they were being well paid. If they were caught, something she was certain they believed impossible, Annja was certain Australia’s justice system would never let them go free.

  The two men with pistols dropped to one knee and fired, both bullets striking the metal door she’d been standing in front of a heartbeat before. She’d run to their left, something they hadn’t expected, and darted toward the tanker truck and cover.

  “Kill her!” This came from one of the men with the chains. “She was in the forest last night. She is the kelbeh we were to kill first.”

  “Do not hit the truck!” someone shouted.

  Annja dropped and rolled beneath the tanker, barely avoiding bullets that whizzed into the floor and sent concrete chips flying.

  The men were all shouting what sounded like curses.

  I’m glad I don’t know your language, Annja thought. I really don’t want to know what foul names you’re calling me. She kept rolling, keeping the sword protected from hitting the concrete. She came up on the other side of the truck, where the man in jeans and the two in Bob’s Pools shirts had hidden.

  She leaped to her feet. The Korean was on a walkie-talkie, speaking rapid-fire about her. The man in jeans and the flannel shirt was in front of him. To her right was the other Bob’s Pools fellow.

  The one in the flannel shirt shouted. He dashed at her, ducking as he closed in an effort to avoid the sweep of her sword. Annja hadn’t intended to kill him with the blade, had merely wanted to entice him into just what he was doing. She had no desire to skewer an unarmed man.

  The sword whistling in the air above his head to keep him low, she kicked out with her right leg, heel catching him in the center of the chest so hard she suspected she’d cracked his sternum. The pain in her ankle was excruciating.

  The Korean skittered as her first foe fell back. She spun and kicked the man again near the same spot. Not quite as much force in the second blow, it was nonetheless enough to send him hard against the concrete, his head bouncing with a sickly sound at the feet of the Korean, who continued to chatter rapid-fire on the walkie-talkie. He lay unmoving as she pivoted to her right, where the other man in the Bob’s Pool shirt stood.

  This one had pulled a gun, small enough that it could have come from his pocket. He fired three times in rapid succession, but she’d dropped just in time. She pushed off and lunged with all her might, sword leading and sinking up to the hilt into his stomach.

  Through all of this she heard shouting—from the men with the guns and chains she’d avoided by rolling under the truck. She heard the slap of their shoes over the concrete floor, and a metallic groaning noise followed by the clank of something heavy hitting the floor, probably the large wrench.

  She whirled to face the Korean, only to find him dead on the concrete; the three bullets his companion had intended for her had found their mark in him instead. The broken walkie-talkie next to him made a hissing, crackling sound.

  Four to go, she thought as she vaulted over the Korean and came around the front of the tanker truck. She nearly slipped in a puddle of water, her ankle shooting lances of fire straight up to her hip. The odds still were not good, four against one, but the fellow shooting the Korean had helped. And the siren she now heard in the distance might go a very long way to bettering the odds…provided it was the police and provided they were coming here.

  In a split second she assessed the situation. The two men with guns stood between her and the hole they’d drilled in the concrete. The other two had dropped their chains and were working with the hose from the tanker. The teenager had loosened the main connection with the wrench. The way the hose vibrated, Annja could tell something was being pumped through it and into the water pipes.

  “No!” she shouted.

  “By all that’s holy, yes.” The voice came from behind her, punctuated by the slamming of the truck cab door.

  She’d not had a look inside it, assumed it was empty. She spun, rewarded with another fiery lance up her leg and took in the leering visage of the Sword.

  “You’re done,” he whispered. “Your God is not mine, Annja Creed, and mine will help me win this day.”

  She hesitated. He was too far away for her to lunge and strike him before he could shoot. His hand was holding steady on the trigger, and his eyes held hers as surely as if they were a tightening vise. He had a presence, though not a pleasant one. His gaze was commanding and frightening, and it complemented a face that was at the same time striking and horrid. She couldn’t turn away.

  The lower half of his face was shiny and pale, scar tissue from a deep burn. There were scars on his neck, too, the worst a thick ropy disfigurement that snaked into the unbuttoned neck of his Bob’s Pools shirt. His cheekbones were high and his nose straight and in perfect proportion to his features. His eyebrows were thin, as if he plucked them, and the narrow mustache under his nose was shot through with a hint of gray.

  His hair was oiled and pulled back into a ponytail, the hair lying so tight against the sides of his face it looked painful. It would have been a handsome face except for the scarring, and except for the hateful expression it bore.

  Behind her, she heard the men working and heard the thrumming sound from the tanker truck as it continued to pump the neutralizing agent into the water. She had to move, go for the Sword, and leap at him despite the distance. But her legs seemed rooted to the spot.

  “It’s too late, Annja Creed.” His voice had a mesmerizing quality, but it dripped venom and sent a shiver down her spine. “You should have died quickly yesterday, and I should have sent better men to do it. How could I have known that one American woman would be so difficult to slay? There is something in you, Annja Creed, which sets you apart. I sense in you a singular soul, and I will regret—and rejoice—in its passing.” To the men behind her, he hollered, “Quickly! The chlorine must be gone from the water!”

  A reply came in a language she couldn’t understand. Then, in English someone said, “Shall I shoot her, Sayed?”

  “No. I want her to taste the poison that everyone in this city will soon be drinking and bathing in. She is too beautiful to mar with bullet holes or with the cut of a knife.” He waved the gun at her. “Put down your sword, Annja Creed, or I will be forced to wound you horribly and make your death slow and painful. Let us give your family something to bury, eh?”

  I have no family, Annja thought.

  “She should die slow!” This came from behind her. “My brother, she killed him. Let me hurt her!”

  The work with the pump and the water main continued until a chuffing sound signaled the tanker was empty.

  Sayed smiled, revealing perfect, glistening white teeth. “That sword, Annja Creed. That beautiful weapon. I want you to put it down now.”

  Let my strike be true, Annja prayed. She made a motion as if to drop the sword, but instead dismissed it to the other here.

  The terrorist’s eyes widened in shock, and Annja capitalized on that instant, pumping her legs as she raced toward him, pushing off and hurling herself toward him. She heard his gun go off, and then she heard the impact of her open hand against his chest. It was intended as a killing blow, a karate maneuver taught only by masters and only to choice students. It was designed to strike the heart and stop it.

  He flinched at the last instant, but she struck close anyway, the blow sending him back, gasping and quivering as if he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. He might die from her blow, but not immediately as she had planned. And she could not finish him now, as there were four other men to think about.

  One of them was shooting at her. She bobbed, weaved and whirled so she did not give him a stationary target. She summoned the sword as she went, and the men shouted their surprise, one of them calling her a witch.

  She leaped over the felled Korean and th
e man she’d killed and came to the truck’s bumper. She raised the sword above her head and brought it down hard and quick, severing the hose attached to the back of the tank. It might have already dumped its load into the water line, but it didn’t need to recycle the mix and dump it elsewhere. And it didn’t need to be equipped to dump any poison.

  Liquid sprayed from the severed hose, showering her. It stung her eyes and she tried to spit out what had got in her mouth. It burned fiercely.

  “Police!” she heard.

  She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt and saw a blurry image of two uniformed officers rushing through the door she’d opened. She dismissed the sword and looked between them and the four men, two of whom were putting their guns down on the floor. The other two were raising their hands. Nothing was quite in focus, the liquid still stinging her eyes and lips.

  “You, too! Get your hands up!”

  It took Annja a moment to realize they were talking to her.

  The police moved into the room, one taking up a position across from the four men, gaze flitting to her. He motioned with his head that she should join the others.

  “I’m not with them,” she said. But she didn’t argue. To the other officer she said, “There are three men behind the tanker, two dead, one maybe dying.” Hopefully dying in the Sword’s case, she thought. That terrorist does not deserve to keep taking in oxygen.

  Four more officers filed in, going straight for the dark-clad men and handcuffing them.

  “Those canisters—” Annja gestured to the ones propped up against the old table, blinking furiously trying to clear her vision “—they’re filled with poison. And those—”

  One of the officers came up to her, handcuffs dangling in front of him. “Turn around,” he ordered.

  “Those men were trying to poison the water supply.” She turned and sucked in a sharp breath. When he yanked her hands up behind her back her ribs protested. “I called earlier. You’ve got to listen to me.”

  “Oh, we’ll listen, all right. Down at headquarters.” He roughly ushered her out the door.

  The parking lot was dotted with emergency vehicles, including two white vans that were disgorging people in hazardous-material suits. The bulk of them must have approached without sirens, she realized.

  The police officer she’d called earlier had obviously taken her seriously. She let out a guarded sigh of relief. “I’ve got a map in my car,” she said to the one shepherding her. “It’s marked with places where they might be dumping the poison right now. I know there have to be at least two more trucks.”

  “Jamie,” the officer herding her called out. “Check that SUV. Keys?”

  “Front pocket,” Annja said.

  He fished for them and tossed them to a tall female officer with a hard-set expression. Then he patted her down to make sure she didn’t have any weapons.

  “Peabody said he saw you with a sword.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I can’t even find a pocket knife.” He shrugged and nudged her to a faster pace, angling her toward the closest sedan.

  “Have the media been alerted?” Annja tried to slow him, but he persistently nudged her in the direction of the car, nearly knocking her over. “Listen, people need to know not to drink the water, that it’s poison and—”

  “I’m sure all of that’s being handled. Not your worry,” he told her. He opened the rear door and gestured. “In you go.”

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. Annja Creed, some kind of American celebrity. Got your face plastered all over the squad room. Not in O.J.’s class, but you’re wanted on suspicion of a double murder. You’ll be the top of the hour on the evening news.”

  Annja knew she could overpower him, but she wouldn’t get far. Not with all these police and emergency-response crews here, and not on her bad ankle.

  “Easy, okay?” She gingerly slid into the backseat. He leaned in to help her swing her legs around.

  “Hammy! Hey, Hammy!” The officer named Jamie waved and jogged toward him. “We got the map she mentioned. I know a couple of units are already on the Chinatown spot. But she also had a gun under the seat. And two extra clips.”

  “You’re under arrest, Annja Creed,” the officer said. “And you’re going to be locked up for a very long time. He slammed the door and made a brushing motion with his hands, as if to signal that he’d just disposed of the trash.

  26

  Sayed Houssam hadn’t died in the abandoned factory, Annja learned at the police station. And the man in the flannel shirt would recover—but indeed he had a broken sternum.

  The Sword was under heavy guard in the emergency-care unit of St. Vincent’s Hospital, and the verdict was still out on whether he would pull through. For all the evil acts he’d perpetrated through the years, she hoped he would die. It had been a long time since she’d wished someone dead.

  “Someone will probably give you a medal, Miss Creed. Some idiot out there will think you’re a hero.” The officer who sat across from Annja was pushing retirement age. He had more hairs showing on his arms than on his head, and he had liver spots on the backs of his hands. He had the bulbous, red-veined nose of a heavy drinker, and his eyes seemed too small for his round, ruddy face. But those eyes were clear and focused, and they stared at her as if to weigh and measure her and judge her mettle.

  He didn’t say anything else for several moments. Annja had seen enough police procedures to understand; silence often made people uneasy, and cops employed the technique to get their targets to talk. However, Annja had nothing to say at the moment; all her body wanted to do was sleep.

  It had been six hours since the police had stormed the abandoned factory. In those hours she’d learned that the authorities had managed to stop one more of the tanker trucks from disgorging its poison, but the other had emptied half of its load before the police arrived. Two men fled the latter scene and were still at large.

  Chemists were hard at work isolating the toxin and finding a way to neutralize it, just as the terrorist had used an agent to neutralize the chlorine.

  Bulletins had been issued not to drink the water or to bathe in it, as the toxin could splash in the eyes and mouth and be absorbed that way. One thing the chemists had learned was that the poison was terribly lethal.

  Bottled water and soft drinks were flying off the shelves at supermarkets and convenience stores. In some places, riots had been sparked and the police called in.

  Police shifts had been extended, and off-duty officers had been called in to help manage the panic. Several vacations had been nixed.

  The roads were filled with people leaving the city, and as a result there were dozens of fender benders.

  Hospitals and clinics were gearing up to treat poison victims—particularly those who did not hear the news alerts and were oblivious to the hysteria outside their doors.

  The police had no clues to Oliver’s whereabouts, though more than one of the captured Arabs admitted to hearing that the cameraman was dead. A detective told Annja it was unlikely a body ever would be recovered.

  “You certainly have the chest to pin it on, this medal they’ll want to give you,” the officer said, finally breaking the silence.

  Maybe he thought the verbal jab would get a rise out of Annja. She just sat there, exhaustion tugging at her core.

  Her ankle had been professionally wrapped by an ambulance crew at the abandoned factory, and her ribs checked. They didn’t wrap cracked ribs anymore, and she declined an X ray. Annja had gotten a look at her side in the mirror of the police station restroom, all blue and purple and ghastly—looking not quite as bad as it felt.

  She’d taken a couple of painkillers with a soda an officer had offered. Water was off-limits for a while, and so her much needed and coveted shower would have to wait. She’d rubbed the makeup off her face with a dry paper towel, smearing it pitifully, but getting rid of most of it and leaving in its place more bruises and an ugly black eye.


  “Yep, someone will want to give you a medal.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “Me? I just want to give you a nice cell. And I want to throw away the key.”

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Annja was too exhausted to care just how uncomfortable the straight back wooden chair was.

  THEY RELEASED HER three days later after extensive questioning, and after Wes and Jennifer Michaels, Dari and several members of the U.S. Embassy staff came forward to speak on her behalf.

  “If it weren’t for the archaeologists, and that odd-looking bald bloke,” the bulbous-nosed officer told her, “and a pair of police sergeants from Cessnock, we might have found something to hold you on. At the very least we could have gotten you on a weapons charge for having an unregistered and unlicensed gun.”

  Still she didn’t answer him; she simply had nothing to say.

  “But it looks like you’re the hero in all of this, not the villain. Though you’re no avenging angel with a sword, like some of the folks at the hotel tried to make you out to be.”

  Another officer had told her that after a few hours of study, the chemists discovered it wasn’t terribly difficult to neutralize the poison, though it was one of the most virulently toxic substances they’d seen—a bioengineered form of botulism. Quick acting and short-lived, it could have killed off a large portion of Sydney’s population before it was discovered—if it could have been detected by then. A very short life, the botulism strain had, they emphasized.

  The terrorist was still breathing, with the aid of a ventilator, and still in emergency care and under the gaze of a cadre of police.

  “Fortunate for the city that a freak heart attack felled him, this Sword fellow,” bulbous-nose said. “A bad ticker stopped the number-one man on Interpol’s list.”

  Dr. Hamam could not be found; apparently he’d turned in his resignation to the university, citing family problems at home. He’d taken a red-eye out of Sydney the day of the attempted poisoning. The authorities hadn’t yet found anything to tie Hamam to the terrorist plot. None of the men they’d captured in the factory and questioned would link the professor to the acts. The Sword, still attached to a ventilator and under heavy sedation, could not comment.