Mystic Warrior. Alex Archer
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The whorls and loops looked as though a machine had punched them out.
“Well?” Krauzer sat on a stool on the other side of the large table. His arms were folded across his chest and his lips were pursed into a petulant frown.
“What?” Annja asked.
“Isn’t somebody going to read the message?”
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
Krauzer shook his head in irritation. “You know, you might want to borrow my crystal again at some point.”
That was true. Annja focused on the message. “‘This is the last will and testament of Julio Gris, second mate of the good ship San Salvador. 1542.
“‘In my life, I have been many things before I took my post on Captain Juan Cabrillo’s ship, may God rest his unfortunate soul. If I had been caught for many of the things I did, I would have been shot by jealous husbands or hanged for thievery or murder.
“‘Captain Cabrillo only knew me as a mate aboard his ship, and I worked hard for him because I have always loved the sea. Even more than I loved the sea, though, I have loved the idea of treasure.
“‘God knows of the larceny in my darkest thoughts, and He has taken pains to see that I am properly punished, for it seems I may never claim this prize. I heard the story about the lost treasure of the Merovingian kings from a man who knew György Dózsa, a warrior from the Kingdom of Hungary. According to the man who gave me the story, Dózsa read the pages from the Bibliotheca Corviniana himself.’”
“Wait.” Krauzer held his hands up. “Just hold on. You’re throwing too much information out too fast. Who are the Merovingian kings?”
Before Annja could answer, the room’s main door opened and two armed men strode inside. They wore black clothing with abbreviated Kevlar armor and carried H&K MP5 machine pistols with thick sound suppressors. Dark eyed, the men looked related, but one of them was easily ten years older than the other. He was clean shaven with a well-kept mustache, while the other man had deliberate scruff. Both moved economically, spacing themselves out so they commanded the room.
“Put your hands in the air,” the older man commanded. His accent echoed faintly of French.
Not having any options, Annja did as she was told.
“Fox Leader, this is Fox Six.”
Moving quickly through the dim college hallways, Ligier de Cerceau carried his machine pistol in both hands. Adrenaline surged through him as he waited for his companion to unlock the classroom door they stood in front of.
“You have Fox Leader.”
“I have the packages in sight.”
De Cerceau stepped into the empty classroom, flicked on the bright light attached to the machine pistol and surveyed the space. Only tables and chairs occupied the space other than a lectern at the front of the room.
“Are the packages in good shape?” De Cerceau pulled back out into the hallway and took his smartphone from inside his jacket. The Kevlar body armor made the task more difficult, but he managed. He pressed the friend app and watched as the red pins popped up onto the screen to mark the locations of his men.
Twelve of his men roamed through the college of history, and all of them were dangerous, hard men. He’d handpicked each man for his core unit.
“The packages are in excellent shape,” Georges Dipre answered.
“Keep them that way.” De Cerceau gestured to the man beside him to proceed. “I’m on my way to your location now.”
He followed the other man, both of them as quiet as shadows as they drifted through the silent halls.
* * *
STANDING BESIDE ORTA, Annja watched the two men who were holding them prisoner. Their movements were precise and methodical. Professional soldiers, she realized.
“What do they want?” Krauzer whispered.
“The crystal,” Orta answered. Either he spoke French, too, or his native language was close enough that he had no problem following the rapid-fire conversations between the men and the person they were talking to at the other end of their communication units.
Annja had already discerned their interest and hated her helplessness.
“You can’t have the crystal!” Krauzer took a step toward the men. “I need that in my movie.”
“Stay back,” the older man commanded. He squeezed a quick burst from his machine pistol and, while the thick suppressor on the end of the weapon kept the noise quieted, the bullets ripped into the wall at the other end of the room, tearing divots and smashing through framed pictures.
“Okay, okay!” Krauzer dropped to his knees on the floor and held his hands up in surrender.
“Deal with that idiot,” the older man said in French.
The younger man put a knee in Krauzer’s back, pushing the movie director forward as he pulled a zip tie from a thigh pocket.
For a moment, the older man’s attention was diverted as he watched his companion and talked to other members of his group. Partially blocked from the man’s sight and standing to the right of the man handling Krauzer, Annja reached for the thick ceramic plates Orta had brought for their dinner. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the top plate and hurled it in a discus throw, spinning and getting her weight into the effort.
The older gunman brought his weapon to bear and fired a short burst that sliced through the air above Annja’s head as she ducked. Spinning, the heavy plate struck the gunman in the throat and knocked him backward.
Shifting his attention from Krauzer to Annja, the second gunman tried to spin to cover her. Balanced on both hands and one foot, Annja shot her other foot out and caught the gunman in the chest and arm, driving him back toward the table. His head struck the table’s edge with a hollow thump and his eyes slid up so that only the whites showed as he toppled to the floor.
Still in motion, aware that the older gunman had been only momentarily put off, Annja stood and reached for the second plate. She held the plate at the end of her arm like a tennis racket and swung it into the surviving gunman’s face in a backhand swing as she spun.
The plate shattered across the man’s grizzled features and shards exploded in all directions. Blood streamed from the man’s broken nose and a deep cut on one of his cheeks. Unconscious, certainly concussed, the man sank to the floor.
Annja knelt over the man and quickly went through his pockets but found nothing that identified him. A demanding voice spoke over the walkie-talkie the man wore over his shoulder.
She looked at Krauzer and Orta, both of whom stared at her in shock. “There are more coming,” she told them.
“For my crystal?” Krauzer sounded amazed.
“Get it and get moving,” Annja ordered as she took the man’s machine pistol and recognized it as one she was familiar with. She dumped the partially expended magazine and shoved in a fresh one taken from the man’s tactical gear.
Krauzer stood slowly, moving as if he was in a daze. He started at the blood pooling around the gunman’s head. “Is he dead?”
“No.” Annja stood and slung the machine pistol over her shoulder. She listened for footsteps out in the corridor. She didn’t hear anything, but she’d noticed the thick soles on the gunmen’s boots. The team would be moving quietly.
“This is stupid crazy,” Krauzer announced. He wiped his face.
Annja shoved him into motion. “Grab the crystal. Let’s go.” She was happy to see that Orta was already putting the manuscript sheets back in their protective