Garin and Henshaw froze. Annja knew if either of them had so much as flinched, someone—perhaps both—would have died.
Getting to his feet with as much aplomb and dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, Roux cursed and worked his jaw experimentally, a bad combination as it turned out.
Annja dropped into fighting stance, both hands held clenched in fists before her. “I didn’t do anything to the sword,” she told the old man. “It disappeared. I lifted it from the case—”
“The pieces disappeared as soon as you touched the hilt,” Roux snarled. “I saw that happen.”
“Pieces?” Annja echoed. “It wasn’t pieces that disappeared. I drew the sword out of that case. It was whole.”
Roux searched her face with his harsh, angry gaze. “Poppycock. The sword was still in pieces.”
He’s insane, Annja thought. That’s the only explanation. And Garin, too. Both of them as mad as hatters. And they’ve given you something—a chemical—something that soaks in through the skin. Or maybe the room has something in the air. You didn’t see what you thought you saw. Something like that can’t have happened.
She told herself that, but didn’t completely believe it. She’d been under the influence of hallucinogens strong enough to give her waking dreams and walking nightmares before.
Once, in Italy, she’d come in contact with a leftover psychotropic drug used by one of Venice’s Medici family members that had still been strong enough to send her to the hospital for two days.
In England, she’d been around Rastafarians who had helped with packing the supplies on a dig site who had smoked joints so strong she had a contact high that lasted for hours. She’d never used recreational drugs. But she knew what kinds of effects to look for.
There were none of those now.
“Think about it, Roux,” Garin insisted. “If she took the sword pieces, where are they? She has no pockets large enough to store them. We were all watching her.”
Roux cursed more as he searched the case and came up empty again.
“The sword wasn’t in pieces when it disappeared,” Annja told them. “Aren’t you listening?”
“It was in pieces,” Roux growled. “I saw them.”
“I took the sword from the case—”
“Those pieces disappeared while they were still inside the case,” Roux snapped. “I watched them.”
“Then you didn’t see what happened.” Annja blew out her breath angrily. “The sword was whole.”
Roux turned to Henshaw. “What did you see?”
“The sword was fragmented when it disappeared, Mr. Roux,” Henshaw said. “Just as it was when you first showed it to me. Never in one piece.”
“There you have it,” Roux declared angrily. “All of us saw the sword in pieces.”
“No,” Annja said. “You didn’t see it properly.”
“You’re imagining things.” Roux sank into the huge chair behind the big desk. He regarded her intently. “Tell us what happened.”
“I reached into the case for the sword—”
“Why?” Garin asked.
“Because I wanted to feel the weight of the haft,” Annja answered. She didn’t feel comfortable talking about the compulsion that had moved her to action. “As I touched the sword hilt, the pieces fit themselves together.”
“By themselves?” Roux asked dubiously.
“I didn’t move them.”
“She didn’t have time to fit the pieces together,” Garin said. “You, on the other hand, have had time. And I’ll bet nothing like this happened while you were trying to put those pieces together.”
After a moment, Roux growled irritably, “No.”
“Something happened to the sword fragments,” Garin said.
“It was whole,” Annja said again. She could still see the sword in her mind’s eye. It felt as if she could almost touch it.
But neither of the men was listening to her.
“Five hundred years, Garin.” Roux leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “Over five hundred years. I searched everywhere for that sword, for those pieces. Now they’re all gone.”
Garin’s voice was gentle and kind. He didn’t sound like someone who had tried to kill Roux.
Of course, Annja decided, he didn’t sound insane, either, and he had to be. Both of them had to be.
Roux stared at the empty case.
“Once I had them all together, something should have happened,” Roux complained bitterly.
“It disappeared,” Garin said. He looked relieved.
“It wasn’t supposed to do that,” Roux argued.
“You said you didn’t know what it would do.”
“Wait.” Annja held her hands up and stepped between them. “Time out.”
They gave her their attention.
“Who told you to find the sword?” For the moment, Annja decided to go along with their delusion or outright lie that they had seen Joan of Arc carry the sword.
“I don’t know,” Roux said.
The old man shrugged. “Joan was one of God’s chosen. A champion of light and good. It was my duty.”
Annja breathed deeply and tried not to freak. The situation was getting even crazier.
An alarm erupted, dispelling the heavy silence that fell over the room.
Immediately, a section of the wall to the left of the computer desk split apart and revealed sixteen security monitors in four rows. Ghostly gray images sprinted across the landscaping outside the big house.
“Intruders,” Roux said.
The intruders wore familiar black robes and carried swords that flashed in the pale moonlight. They also came armed with assault rifles and pistols.
A security guard took up a position beside the house and fired at the monks. Almost immediately, a monk with an assault rifle chopped him down, then turned and came toward the house.
The new arrivals began targeting the security cameras. One by one, the monitors inside Roux’s study went dark.
Galvanized into action, the old man ran for the vault. “Who the hell are they?” he shouted.
“Monks,” Garin replied.
“Monks?” Roux took an H&K MP-5 submachine pistol from the vault, shoved a full magazine into it and released the receiver to set the first round under the firing pin.
Annja was familiar with the weapon from the training she’d received.
“Some kind of warrior monks from the looks of them,” Garin added. “Like the Jesuits. With better firepower.”
“What are monks doing attacking my home?” Roux asked.
“In Lozère, they were looking for the woman,” Garin said. After a brief glance at Roux’s armory, he took down a Mossberg semiautomatic shotgun with a pistol grip and smiled like a boy on Christmas morning. He shoved boxes of shells into his jacket pockets.
Roux turned his gaze on Annja, who stood panicked and confused.
“Do you prefer a short gun or long gun, Miss Creed?” Henshaw asked. He had two rifles slung over his shoulders and was buckling a pistol around his waist.
“Pistols,” Annja said, thinking that they would be more useful in the closed-in areas of the big house.
Henshaw handed her a SIG-Sauer .40-caliber semiautomatic with a black matte finish.
“I thought I saw another one in there,” Annja said.
For the first time that night, Henshaw smiled. “Bless your heart, dear lady.” He handed her a second pistol, then outfitted her with a bulletproof vest with pockets for extra magazines.
Roux buckled himself into a Kevlar vest, as well. “I don’t suppose they’re here to negotiate?” he asked rhetorically.
The lights went out. For a moment blackness filled the room. Then emergency generators kicked to life and some light returned.
Roux clapped on a Kevlar helmet. “What the bloody hell do these monks want?”
“Their mark was on the back of the charm,” Annja said. “What do you think the chances are?”
“I think I should have paid more attention to that damned charm. Giving it back to them before was merely out of the question. Now that option appears gone for good.”
“This house is pretty well fortified,” Garin said as he saw to his own protection.
“Thank you,” Roux said. “I tried to see that it was well-appointed.”
“Do you think they can get through the front door?”
A sudden explosion shuddered through the house with a deafening roar.
Roux touched a hidden button on his desk. The dark monitors, powered by generator, came back on. This time the views were from inside the house.
On one of the screens, a dozen monks poured through the shattered remains of the elegant front door. They opened fire at once.
“Yes,” Roux declared. “I believe they can.” He picked up the submachine pistol.
“Do you have an escape route?” Garin asked.
“I recall having escaped from your assassins on a number of occasions.”
Garin scowled. “This isn’t a good time to revisit past transgressions.”
“Then you’ll warn me before you transgress again?” Roux asked.
Garin remained silent.
“I didn’t think so,” Roux said. “Henshaw?”
“Yes, sir.” The butler stood only a short distance away, always positioned so that Garin couldn’t take him and his master out at one time with a single shotgun blast.
“You know what to do if this bastard shoots me,” Roux said.
“He won’t live to see the outcome, sir.”
“Right.” Roux smiled. He took the lead with Garin at his heels as if they’d done it for years.
At the wall beside the security monitors, the old man pushed against an inset decorative piece. A section of the wall yawned open and revealed a narrow stairwell lit by fluorescent tubes.
“Where does it go?” Garin asked.
“All the way up to the third floor. Once there, we can escape onto the hillside. I’ve got a jeep waiting there that should serve as an escape vehicle.” Roux stepped into the stairwell and started up the steps.
Garin followed immediately, having to turn slightly because he was so broad.
Two monks dashed into the study and raised their rifles.
Calmly, Henshaw pulled the heavy British assault rifle to his shoulder and fired twice, seemingly without even taking the time to aim. Each round struck a monk in the head, splattering the priceless antiques behind them with gore.
Before the dead men could fall, Henshaw had a hand in the middle of Annja’s back. “Off you go, Miss Creed. Step lively, if you please.” He sounded as pleasant as if they were out for an evening stroll.
Annja went, stumbling over the first couple steps, then running for all she was worth. The door closed behind them. Her breath sounded loud in her ears as she rapidly caught up with Garin. Gunshots sounded behind her, muffled by the door, and she knew the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was tearing up Roux’s study.
All of this over a charm? Annja couldn’t believe it. The charm was hiding something, but she had no clue what.
THE TUNNEL ENDED against the sloped side of the roof. Roux sprung some catches and shoved the hatch open.
Through the opening, Annja stood on the roof and gazed around. The pistols felt heavy in her hands. Cooled by the breeze skating along the trees behind the house, she surveyed the area. Shouts echoed from inside the tunnel as their pursuers followed.
“Here.” Roux ran toward the tree line where the house butted into the hill. There, barely lit by the moon, a trail whipsawed across the granite bones of the land. “Another two hundred yards and we’ll reach the jeep.”
At that moment, shadows separated from the trees and became black-robed monks.
Garin swore coarsely. “These guys are everywhere!” The shotgun came to his shoulder and he started firing at once, going forward after Roux all the same.
Annja fired, as well, but she didn’t know if she hit anything or just added to the general confusion. Bullets pocked the rooftop, tearing shingles away at her feet.
Another round hit her, slamming into her high on the shoulder. The Kevlar vest did its job and didn’t allow the bullet to penetrate, but the blunt trauma knocked her down all the same.
She fought her way back to her feet, stayed low and moved forward. When her second pistol fired dry, she whirled behind a tree, shoved the first one up under her arm to free her hand and reloaded the second. She was reloading the first when a monk leaped out of the shadows in front of her.
His face was dark and impassive. “We have come only for the charm,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice. “That’s all. You may live.”
“I don’t have it,” Annja said as she brought the pistols up.
He leaped at her, his sword held high for a killing stroke.
Crossing the pistol barrels over her head, hoping she wasn’t about to lose her fingers, Annja blocked the descending blade. When she was certain the sword had stopped short of splitting her skull and lopping her hands off, she snap-kicked the man in the groin, then again in the chest to knock him back from her.
Before Annja could get away, two more monks surrounded her. They didn’t intend to use swords, though. They held pistols.
“Move and you die,” one of them warned.
Annja froze.
“Drop the pistols.”
She did, but her mind was flying, looking for any escape route.
One of the monks spun suddenly, his face coming apart in crimson ruin. The bark of the gunshot followed almost immediately.
The surviving monks turned to face the new threat. Muzzle-flashes ripped at the night and lit their hard-planed faces.
Garin fired the shotgun again, aiming at the nearest target. The monk moved just ahead of the lethal hail of pellets that tore bark from the tree behind him.
While the attention was off her, Annja stooped and scooped up the pistols. Just as she lifted them, a monk rushed Garin from the rear, following his sword.
“Behind you!” Annja pointed the pistols toward the monk, but Garin swung around into her line of fire.
The sword sliced through Garin’s black leather jacket. Coins and the keys to his car glittered in the moonlight as they spilled out. Catching the man on the end of the shotgun’s barrel, Garin loosed a savage yell and fired.
Trapped against the body with nowhere for the expanding gases to go, the shotgun recoil was magnified. Caught while turning on the soft loam, Garin went down under the monk’s body. Carried by the forward momentum he’d built up, almost ripped in half by the shotgun blast, the dead man wrapped his arms around Garin’s upper body.
Shouting curses, Garin rolled out from under the corpse and pushed himself to his feet. Gunshots slapped against his chest. Another cut the side of his face and blood wept freely. He pulled the shotgun to his shoulder and tried to fire, but it was empty.
He looked at Annja. “Run!” Then he sped up the mountainside as fast as he could go.
Annja tried to follow. Before she went more than ten feet, the arriving monks turned on her. The escape route was cut off. She didn’t know if Garin was going to make it before he was overtaken.
Metal glinted on the ground only a few feet away. Even as she recognized what the object was, she was firing both pistols, chasing the monks back into hiding. It was a brief respite at best.
When both SIG-Sauers blasted empty, she dropped the pistol from her left hand and scooped up Garin’s keys amid the scattered change lying on the ground. Then she turned and ran back down the mountain. Garin’s car, almost as heavily armored as a tank, still sat out in front of the main house. If she could reach the car, she thought she had a chance.