Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ man with the pistol leaned out from the second-floor landing and fired several shots.

      Annja dodged back just in time for the shots to miss her. The bullets ripped along the low brick wall in front of her and tore through the air. She reversed her grip on the sword, stepped along the wall four paces and leaned out again.

      The man stood farther down the stairs, almost to the ground.

      As the man turned toward her and froze in his position, Annja whipped the sword at him. The keen blade caught the man high in the chest and knocked him over the railing. He dropped in a loose heap to the ground and writhed in pain.

      He wasn’t dead. She hadn’t intended to kill him. Although she had killed while saving her life or the lives of others, the idea of doing that didn’t sit well with her.

      Annja started to climb down, but the other two men pulled out pistols. She ducked back again. Great, she thought. Everyone has a gun but me.

      Bullets smacked against the building. She felt the vibrations more than she heard the harsh cracks of the gunshots.

      She concentrated for just a moment, felt for the sword and pulled it through otherwhere again. On the ground, the man screamed in agony. The blade appeared in her hands blood free. Annja still didn’t know how the sword did what it did, but she’d come to trust it and use it when necessary.

      She shifted and moved to a new position. Then she looked over the roof’s edge again. Below, the two healthy men had the third man between them in a fireman’s carry. They ran toward the street. One of the men talked on a phone.

      Annja started down the fire escape with the sword in her hand. She took the steps two and three at a time, boots thudding against the steps, almost spilling over the landings in her haste. At the second-floor landing she let her momentum get the best of her and vaulted over the side. She flipped and landed on her feet, her sword swept back and ready.

      A dark sedan screeched to a stop near the three fleeing men. The rear door swung open. The two men carrying the third stared in awe at Annja. They passed their wounded comrade inside and climbed in after him.

      Annja ran after them, thinking that she might be able to keep pace. She willed the sword away and reached for her phone. For a moment she kept up with the retreating vehicle and strained to make out the license plate.

      The rear window sank down smoothly. The wicked mouth of a submachine pistol jutted out just as Annja closed in on an outdoor café packed with diners.

      Annja couldn’t risk innocent bystanders. The people at the café would never see the threat in time, much less be able to take evasive action. Frustrated, she stopped, then dived for cover as the submachine gun chattered to life. Bullets passed over her head and shattered the windows of the clothing store behind her.

      Glass shards rattled down all around her. She kept her hands and arms wrapped around her head to protect her face. The deadly rain had stopped, and she made sure she wasn’t bleeding from anything serious. When she looked up, the dark sedan was gone.

      She punched the car’s license plate number into her phone’s memory and hoped the police would arrive soon.

      3

      Annja watched the Prague police detective and tried to read his lips. The man’s mouth hardly moved, and the bushy mustache further disguised what he was saying.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re going to have to speak up.” Her own words barely penetrated the thick cotton in her ears. “I can’t hear very well since the explosions.”

      The detective, whose name was Skromach, calmly started over. He looked like a patient man. Slight of stature, he exuded an air of competence. His salt-and-pepper hair needed the attention of a barber, but his suit was impeccable.

      “You ran after the men, Miss Creed?” Skromach asked.

      “Yes.” Annja sat on the steps of a nearby building. An ambulance attendant treated a thin cut below her left eye and another along her jawline. Neither was bad enough to scar, but they would show for a while. She hoped Garin wasn’t planning on taking her anywhere too elegant because she would look like a ragamuffin.

      Skromach held his pen poised over his notepad. “Why would you do such a thing?”

      “I didn’t want the men who did this to get away.”

      The detective nodded. “You think they did this?”

      Annja nodded at the burning pyre of cars the local fire department was dealing with. Water streamed from hoses. Gray steam clouds mixed with the black smoke.

      “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said.

      Skromach shrugged. “Perhaps it was an overzealous special-effects person.”

      “No,” Annja said, feeling the need to defend Barney and his crew. “That blast was deliberately set.”

      “For the movie, yes?”

      “No.” Annja shook her head. The ambulance attendant, a no-nonsense woman, grabbed her chin and held her steady. “The special-effects crew is good. They wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.”

      Skromach flipped back through his notes. Annja had seen him questioning movie people while she’d talked to Barney and Roy. Both of them were banged up but they were going to be fine.

      “I see here that you’re not a special-effects person,” the police detective said.

      “No,” Annja said, realizing her hearing was beginning to clear.

      Skromach nodded. “You’re here as an archaeologist attached to the film?”

      “Yes. But I’m only loosely attached. I’m taking care of the props.”

      “I see. Tell me about the props.”

      “They’re Egyptian. Statues of Bast and Anubis.”

      “Were they pharaohs?”

      “No. Gods. A god and goddess, to be exact. Bast is an ancient goddess worshiped since the Second Dynasty. About five thousand years, give or take. Anubis was the god of the underworld. Usually he’s shown having the head of a jackal.”

      That seemed to catch Skromach’s interest. “These statues are valuable?”

      “Only to a collector. They aren’t actually thousands of years old, but they are a few hundred.”

      “A few hundred years seems like a valuable thing. I collect stamps myself, and some of those are worth an incredible amount of money after only a short time.”

      “That’s generally because they’re issued with flaws. This—” Annja tried to find the words she wanted but failed “—wouldn’t be like that.”

      “I see.” Skromach didn’t sound convinced.

      “Someone hosed the gag,” Annja said.

      Skromach blinked. “Hosed the gag?”

      “Sorry. СКАЧАТЬ