Cradle of Solitude

by Alex Archer

  The deck appeared to be empty.

  The voices were louder now and a few short sharp sentences were followed by the unmistakable sound of a fist striking bare flesh. Whoever they were, they weren’t there to make friends, it seemed.

  Still not having seen anyone, Garin took a chance to swiftly cross the deck, threading his way through the lounge chairs until he reached the far side.

  Crouched down next to the railing, he cautiously raised his head to get a look at what was happening on board the Kelly May below him.

  He could see Jimmy Mitchell kneeling in the middle of the deck with his hands in the air, his face battered and swollen. A large thug in a dark jacket and jeans stood looming over him, no doubt the source of the bruises. Two other thugs, similarly dressed, stood a few feet behind the pair. Both of them held automatic rifles in their hands.

  A fourth man stood near the stern of the boat, watching the proceedings with a bored look on his face. He was better dressed than the other three and was clearly the man in charge. He glanced away from his captive, toward the dive line that stretched down into the water, and Garin got a good look at his face.

  To his surprise, he recognized the man. He’d seen his face staring back at him from the photo in the file Griggs had handed him just a few days before.

  Blaine Michaels, the man who currently headed the Order of the Golden Phoenix.

  Garin was suddenly glad he’d opted for the cautious approach. By the way Michaels was watching the dive line, it was clear that Mitchell had told him that his two companions were in the water below.

  Where was Annja? Garin had yet to see any indication that she’d surfaced after him and that concerned him even more than the newcomers aboard the Kelly May. She should have done so by now. Her air supply had to be running dangerously low at this point.

  It seemed Michaels knew that, as well, for he kept glancing toward the dive line, watching for movement that might signal Annja’s ascendance. Garin didn’t spare a second thought for Jimmy Mitchell; the man was an uncultured bore who more than likely deserved what he had coming to him.

  But Annja was another story. Michaels’s men had already tried to kill Annja once and Garin had no doubt that things wouldn’t end well if she fell into his clutches at this point.

  He had to find a way to warn her off before she surfaced.

  Garin turned away from the rail with some vague plan of hustling back across the deck and returning to the water half formed in his mind. He walked right into a punch thrown by the man standing behind him.

  If he’d been standing, the blow would have hit him in the stomach, but because he was crouched over, it caught him on the chin. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawling to the deck.

  Even with his head spinning from the unexpected blow, Garin kept enough of his wits about him to sense the other man moving in to finish the job. As he drew closer, Garin spun around in a half circle and lashed out with his legs, striking his assailant behind the ankles and sweeping him off his feet.

  No sooner had the other man hit the deck than Garin swarmed atop him, covering him with his body to keep the other man from getting back up and locking his hands around his throat to prevent him from shouting a warning.

  The newcomer wasn’t going to go down without a fight, though. He grabbed Garin’s hands in his own, trying to pull them off his throat. Rather than wasting more of his energy and air when that didn’t immediately work, he switched tactics, pounding at the sides of Garin’s body with his big fists, alternating those strikes with attempts to land a good solid cross on Garin’s face.

  Garin, however, was in excellent physical condition and he simply ignored the body strikes, knowing it would be a while before the other man did enough damage to trouble him. He tucked his head between his outstretched arms to keep it from being hit by a wayward blow and tightened his grip on the other’s man’s neck, hoping to choke his assailant into unconsciousness as quickly as possible.

  As the seconds ticked past, and the other man refused to weaken, Garin’s frustration grew. He had no choice but to end this as quickly as possible.

  When the solution occurred to him, he cursed himself for not thinking of it immediately.

  As his attacker’s flailing continued, Garin reared back and then thrust his head forward, slamming the crown of his skull into the other man’s forehead with an audible crack.

  It was like turning off a light switch. One moment the man was bucking and struggling away beneath him, the next he lay still, knocked into unconsciousness by the force of the blow.

  Garin climbed off the other man, intent on making his escape, only to be brought up short by the cold touch of a gun barrel against the side of his head.

  “Ne se déplacent pas.”

  Don’t move.

  Garin put his hands in the air, surrendering.

  28

  Annja fumbled at her belt with her free hand, trying to free the device, but it was no use. It had gotten stuck somehow and wouldn’t come free. She gave it one more tug as the alligator closed the distance between them and then she had no choice but to take hold of her sword in both hands as the beast was upon her.

  It thrust its snout forward, jaws open wide, ready to snap them shut on her tender flesh, but Annja was no longer where she had been a second before. At the last moment she turned to her left, evading the snap of the gator’s massive jaws and stabbing with her sword.

  She felt the tip of her blade bite into the creature’s flesh as it rushed past, blood spilling into the water.

  While she might have drawn first blood, the alligator didn’t come out completely behind in the exchange. As it swept past, one of its legs lashed out, clawing Annja across the ribs and adding some of her blood to the mix.

  She didn’t have time to worry about it, because if she didn’t do something quickly she’d be gator lunch.

  Everything flashed around her in a strange liquid dance, the gator’s motions seeming oddly disjointed in the flashing light of the strobe. The creature rushed past her, slamming into the opposite bulkhead thanks to the momentum of its charge. As it righted itself it lashed out with its powerful tail, sending a stack of three cannons tumbling downward to the floor. For a moment, it was trapped behind a debris pile of its own making.

  Annja saw her chance. While the alligator was thrashing about, trying to right itself in the narrow space, she turned and threw herself toward the opening, trying to get clear of the wreckage while ignoring the pain in her side at the same time.

  For a split second she thought about making a run for the surface. If she could get up to the boat before it freed itself…

  But then reason reasserted itself.

  If the alligator caught her in the open water, she’d be dead.

  And chances were, injured and exhausted as she was, it would catch her.

  So rather than trying to make a run for it, she turned around as soon as she was clear of the opening and positioned herself atop the overhang that covered it, legs braced shoulder-width apart and the sword held point downward in her two hands.

  I’m only going to get one shot….

  Having already tasted the sharpness of her blade, the alligator was more cautious leaving the wreck than it had been when entering, which was exactly what Annja was counting on.

  It stuck its snout out of the opening first, testing the water.

  That was the target Annja had been waiting for. The moment the alligator’s snout came into view, Annja stepped off the ledge, thrusting her sword downward with all her might as she fell.

  The resistance of the water delayed her blow slightly, but she’d anticipated that and planned for it. Thanks to the delay, rather than passing through the top of the creature’s snout, which only would have enraged it more, her sword pierced the beast’s skull a few inches behind its eyes as her weight settled fully atop the beast.

  It reacted instantly, throwing itself around like a bucking bronco, but Annja wrapped her legs a
round the creature’s neck and held on to the sword with all her might, still pushing downward.

  Blood spilled into the water, obscuring them both, but Annja didn’t care. She was too focused on driving that sword deeper and was holding on with her legs for dear life.

  There was a moment of resistance and then the blade slid all the way home, the guard on the hilt coming to rest against the reptile’s bony hide.

  Beneath her, the alligator finally went still.

  Annja held on, waiting, wanting to be sure before she let go, but when it hadn’t moved for several long moments she finally released her death grip on both the sword and the alligator.

  The sword vanished back into the otherwhere, as if it had never been, leaving only Annja’s blood-covered form and the sinking body of a dead alligator as evidence that it had existed at all.

  Annja tried to draw in a deep breath from her regulator and got only a thin mouthful of air.

  Uh-oh.

  A glance at her air gauge told her she was well into the red. She had only moments of air left.

  Trying to keep from panicking, Annja hung in the water for a moment, watching her air bubbles. All the gator’s thrashing had disoriented her and she needed to determine which way was up before she started swimming. She didn’t want to head off in the wrong direction and make things worse.

  When she saw the direction the air bubbles were rising, she began swimming frantically in the same direction.

  She almost made it, too.

  She was only ten feet from the surface when her air tank ran completely dry.

  Annja didn’t let that stop her, though. She spit the regulator from her mouth and kicked harder, pushing herself up toward the light shining down from above.

  She broke the surface of the water and sucked in a great, life-giving breath of fresh air.

  That was when she noticed the man standing on the stern of the Kelly May, pointing the muzzle of the automatic rifle at her.

  29

  “You don’t listen too good, do you, Miss Creed?”

  Annja stared up at the speaker, a dark-haired man in his mid-forties standing next to the gunman, and resisted the urge to correct his grammar. No sense in antagonizing him, at least not yet.

  Behind him she could see Jimmy Mitchell and Garin kneeling on the deck, a second gunman standing far enough away that he could keep his weapon trained on them without worrying about being jumped. Three other thugs stood nearby, guns in hand but not pointed at anyone. All around it was a good, tactical position and, seeing it, Annja knew they were dealing with professionals.

  That was going to make things more difficult.

  She turned her head slightly, taking in the large yacht that was tied up next to the smaller Kelly May. That explained where the men had come from. She could see several other men on board the other vessel, which told her they were vastly outnumbered.

  It didn’t look like there was an easy way out of this one.

  “I thought I was quite clear,” the speaker said. “Or is there some other way of interpreting ‘stay out of my business’?”

  Annja focused her attention back on him. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asked.

  The man laughed. “Who am I? Oh, that’s rich, Miss Creed. Truly. You’re being held at gunpoint and the first thing you care about is being sure we’re properly introduced.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Reinhardt told me you were a little spitfire, but I must admit I didn’t quite believe him. Now I know better.”

  Annja’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Bernard, but she didn’t say anything, not yet. There would be time enough to deal with that. Right now she wanted to prevent them all from being killed.

  “Let me introduce myself, then.” The man affected a little bow. “Blaine Michaels, at your service. As for what I want? I think we both know the answer to that.”

  “You’re after the treasure,” Annja said, stalling for time while trying to come up with a plan. With the gun pointed at her head, she didn’t have many options. Diving back down beneath the surface was out of the question. She’d never make it deep enough quickly enough to avoid the gunfire that was sure to follow, and besides, that would leave Garin and Mitchell in their hands along with Bernard. Nor could she hope to climb aboard and free them before being cut down by gunfire.

  “Out of the water, please.”

  Somehow, Michaels made the word please sound anything but polite.

  Annja swam the last few feet to the side of the boat. When no one moved to help her up, she pulled herself up and over the stern. After fighting off an alligator and running out of air, that final effort nearly exhausted her. She sat with her back against the gunwale and panted to catch her breath.

  “The rifle. Where is it?” Michaels said.

  She looked up at him, feigning confusion. “The what? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  In hindsight, she realized she should have expected it. After all, nothing Michaels had done so far gave her any reason to think he was anything but deadly serious.

  Michaels didn’t bother arguing with her. He didn’t say anything at all, in fact. He just gave a little wave of his hand—nothing to it really, just a flick of the fingers—and the man holding the gun on Annja’s companions pulled the trigger.

  There was the crack of a gunshot and Jimmy Mitchell dropped to the deck, his sightless eyes staring in her direction as blood leaked from the hole in his forehead to mingle with the flow pouring out of what was left of the back of his skull after the bullet burst through it.

  Annja came halfway off the deck, her hands clenched, adrenaline surging through her system. It took incredible force of will to keep from drawing her sword, but somehow she managed it. Michaels and his men were too far away for it to do her any good and drawing it now would only give away her one real advantage.

  “You bastard,” she snarled.

  “Tsk, tsk, Miss Creed. Such language. There’s no need for it, really.” He took a couple of steps forward and stared down at her with contempt.

  “I’ll only ask you once more. Where is the rifle?”

  She didn’t see any option but to tell him. If she’d been on her own, she might have taken a chance in drawing her sword and trying to get her hands on Michaels before his henchman could line up a shot, but with Garin still under gunpoint she didn’t have that choice. Michaels had already shown he wouldn’t hesitate to fire and she didn’t want any more blood on her hands.

  “It’s in my dive bag,” she said.

  He glared at her for a long moment and she could see in his expression that he was trying to work out how that was possible.

  Not as smart as you think, are you? she thought.

  Michaels turned and looked at one of the thugs watching from the sidelines. The man got the message without being told and moved swiftly to Annja’s side.

  For just a second she thought about grabbing him, using his body as a shield to keep from getting shot as she tried to maneuver into a better position, but something in Michaels’s eyes told her it wouldn’t matter. He’d simply shoot through his underling in order to get to her.

  So she sat quietly instead, not doing anything as Michaels’s henchman came over, knelt beside her and, producing a knife from somewhere inside his jacket, cut the dive bag from her belt. He carried it over to Michaels.

  Annja watched as Michaels drew open the draw-strings and peered inside.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked, looking back up at her.

  “Ewell’s Rifle,” she replied wearily.

  If I can get them to think I’ve given up, they might make a mistake. And one mistake will be all I’ll need, she thought.

  Turning the bag over, Michaels poured the statue into his hand. He held it up for her to see.

  “Does this look like a rifle to you?” he asked, and this time she could hear the anger in his voice.

  “It does when you understand that the horse General Ewell rode into battle more than
any other was named Rifle.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it again without saying anything. Clearly, he hadn’t known. Annja watched as he processed that piece of information, imagining that she could almost see the information firing through the various synapses in his brain as he tried to make sense of all the angles that information generated.

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “You’ve got the statue, now let us go!” Garin said angrily, speaking up for the first time.

  Michaels didn’t even bother looking in his direction, just inclined his head toward his man with the gun standing nearby.

  “No!” Annja shouted, fearing the worse.

  The gunman stepped forward and cracked Garin across the face with the stock of the automatic rifle in his hands.

  Garin went down, hard, blood spraying from his mouth.

  “If he says another word, kill him,” Michaels said matter-of-factly. Annja knew he meant it.

  Across the deck, Garin shook his head, as if to clear it, spat blood on the deck and then pushed himself back up to his knees, glaring at the man who’d struck him.

  The other man smirked and raised the stock of his weapon again, trying unsuccessfully to make his captive flinch, never noticing that the man he thought was helpless before him was now several feet closer than he’d been before.

  Not yet, Garin, not yet, Annja thought, and prayed he wouldn’t make a move before she was ready.

  Unfortunately for them both, Blaine Michaels had just made several mental connections that would radically alter his plans for moving forward and rob the two of them of their opportunity to escape.

  He hefted the horse, perhaps noticing the weight of it for the first time, and then looked at Annja.

  “Let me guess. There’s something inside it, isn’t there?”

  Annja shrugged.

  That was apparently answer enough, though, for Michaels suddenly raised the statue and then dashed it against the hard surface of the deck between his feet, shattering it into several pieces.