Swordsman's Legacy. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ shuffled backward, hands up. The other gunman returned with a red gas can and began to soak the edges of the tent.

      Annja shook out her hands, her fingers aching to grip a weapon, a sure defense against all that was wrong.

      She did not want to reveal her secret to the three witnesses. Ascher, she wasn’t even sure whose side he was on. The risk wasn’t worth the payoff—yet.

      The tent lighted to a blaze and the gunmen took off.

       “Allez!” Ascher shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

      “If we flatten the tent we can smother the flames,” Jay said.

      “Get out, Annja!” Ascher shoved her, and she stumbled toward the tent opening.

      She did not stick around and wait for a second warning. Though intuition whispered that the sword wasn’t the sword, she wasn’t about to let it get away until she knew the truth.

      Dashing over the two-foot-high border of flame eating the canvas tent, and into the clean night air, Annja did a scan of the surroundings. The night had quickly grown dark; there wasn’t a moon in sight. A Jeep was parked on the other side of the marked dig. Had they driven across the field and around the forest?

      The thugs would return the same direction they had come. Their only escape was the waiting SUV.

      Taking off at a sprint, Annja vacated the blazing campsite and entered the dark confines of the trees. It wasn’t exactly a forest, more a strip of birch and maple, probably edging an arable block that was once an old medieval plot.

      Her suspicions about the sword the thugs had taken off with felt right. And Ascher’s silent but effective eye signals had further confirmed her doubt about its authenticity.

      But that didn’t mean the bad guys were going to get off scot-free.

      Generally thugs were just that—big loping oafs with muscle. They usually answered to someone. And Annja wanted that someone’s name.

      Branches snapped under her rushing steps, but she didn’t worry for stealth. Already she could hear her prey ahead, plodding through the undergrowth and cursing the darkness. The forest opened onto the field. A hundred yards ahead, the SUV’s parking lights beamed over Annja’s rental car.

      Annja reached out to her right, exhaled a cleansing breath, and focused her will to that untouchable otherwhere that served her wishes. With her inhale, she felt the weight of Joan’s sword fit to her grip.

      This sword belonged to her. She had claimed it when she’d fit the final missing piece to the other pieces her mentor Roux had collected, quite literally, over the centuries. It answered no one’s bidding but her own. And it had become her life.

      She curled her fingers around the familiar hilt. Wielding the well-balanced weapon expertly, Annja swept it through the air before her in a half circle and then to en garde position.

      One of the thugs sat on the ground, huffing, both palms to the grass. Obviously he’d tripped.

      “Get up! The entire forest will soon be ablaze!” The other man beat the air in frustration with the stolen sword.

      “Now boys, that’s no way to handle a valued artifact,” she announced.

      Both looked to the woman who stood at the edge of the forest, medieval sword wielded boldly and determination glinting in her eyes.

       4

      Knowing both thugs carried guns, Annja dashed across the grassy meadow, cutting their distance, and the range for an easy shot, to a minimum.

      The one standing reacted by defensively stabbing the stolen sword at her.

      Annja took the bait. But she didn’t connect her blade to the ancient blade. Instead, she delivered a thrust to the air just over the opponent’s shoulder and slapped her elbow against the very tip of his blade, which bounced it out of threatening position.

      The man on the ground thrust out his right arm. Annja knew a gun would be in his hand. She swept her blade across his forearm, slicing through his leather jacket. The gun dropped. Blood spattered her wrist as she did a one-foot reel, swinging forward to grab the gun and spinning up into a twirl to land on the other side of the grounded thug.

      A cold jab poked her neck. The man with the sword smiled, and charged again. He’d actually poked her with the thing! Yet a slap to her neck did not find blood, only a sore spot.

      “You’re going to destroy what you believe to be a valuable artifact?” she challenged, and bent to avoid another inexpert swing of the rusted weapon. “You must have come after it for a reason. Why risk damaging it now?”

      That question appeared to give the idiot some thought. Tossing the sword to his left hand, his right then went for his gun, tucked in the front of his waistband.

      Aware that the man on the ground groped for her ankle, Annja kicked, landing her heel aside his head. He fell unconscious.

      Instinctively diving to the ground, Annja’s palm hit the grass as a bullet skimmed her shoulder. It burned, but didn’t go deep. Rolling to her side, she pushed upright. Her weapon was not designed for choreographed fencing moves. Nor was she. Annja jammed her sword into the thigh of the gunman. The thug took the hit with surprising sanguinity. He grunted, but appeared to swallow back a curse. The Glock found aim with her head.

      A dry branch cracked under her boot as she stepped to the side and bent, charging forward. The pistol retort echoed in the sky.

      Crown of her head barreling into the gunman’s gut, Annja put her weight into the move, and kicked from the ground. They both went down. Thinking she’d land with her palms, Annja willed away the sword. Her fingers slid across dried leaves and grass.

      She spied the gun but it was a grasp away. Cocking out an elbow, she jammed it into whatever she could, landing on the tender curves of an ear. It was a choice shot. The gunman growled and dropped his head, rolling toward her.

      Again willing the sword into her grip, Annja swung out and with the heavy hilt, clocked the man at the back of his head above his ear. He dropped, out for the count.

      Scrambling forward, she grabbed the second gun. Another Glock—the clip was full. Stuffing the first at the back of her waistband, she then stood and held the second on both downed thugs.

      “Annja!” Ascher appeared, scrambling out from the trees. “What the hell?”

      “I’m fine.” She walked toward Ascher, who clutched his left side.

      As for her sword, she always seemed to release it without thought. It was safe, wherever it was that it went when she did not need it. That made it very handy when the need to be discreet presented itself. There’d be no long black Highlander coats for this chick.

      “How did you do this?” He looked over her carnage. “They both had guns.”

      “I charmed them,” she offered, and then smiled because if he knew the truth, he’d never believe it. “You got some rope back at camp?”

      “Yes, but—they’re getting back up.”

      Annja СКАЧАТЬ