Destiny (13 page)

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.

“Stop her but do not kill her!”

As she ran, Annja knew the command gave her a slight edge over the monks pursuing her. She didn't try running back onto the roof of the house. Monks were already taking up perimeter positions atop it.

Instead, Annja ran for the side of the house. When she was past the house's edge, she put the car fob between her teeth, shifted the pistol to her left hand and used her right to drag against the house. Her fingers clutched and tore at ivy as she began the steep descent.

She ran faster and faster, gaining speed as gravity reached for her and she raced to keep up the pace by lengthening her stride. But in the end she didn't have a stride long enough to remain in control.

Somewhere past the second story, Annja's foot slipped on a rock, her hand tore through the clinging ivy and she grabbed a handful of air.

She fell.

Tumbling end over end, unable to control either her speed or her direction, Annja gathered a collection of bruises and scrapes. She landed with a force that left her breathless.

Get up! she willed herself. Somehow, her body obeyed, pushing, shoving, working even though she felt as if she'd been broken into pieces. Incredibly, her knees came up and she was driving her feet hard against the ground.

Bullets slammed into the house beside her and into the ground. A man stepped out of the darkness ahead of her. She brought her pistol up automatically and fired for the center of his body. The bullets hit him and drove him back.

She was around the house and running for all she was worth. Shadows closed in around her. She couldn't help wondering how many members belonged to the Silent Rain monastery.

She thought of the sword in her hand. The look and feel of it, the weight, it was almost there. As if she could reach out and touch it.

Everyone around her seemed to be moving in slow motion. But she moved at full speed.

Bullets thudded into the ground where she'd been. She moved more quickly than the monks could compensate. When she saw Garin's Mercedes, monks flanked it, standing at either end. One stood on the hood of the car and raised an assault rifle.

She didn't hesitate; there was nowhere else to go. Pointing the pistol, never breaking stride, she found she'd fired it dry. Knowing that if she turned away she would only be an easier target, she ran straight toward the monk and leaped, sliding across the car's hood and knocking her opponent from his feet as he fired over her head.

Landing on the other side of the car in a confusing tangle of arms and legs, she fought free and stood. The man standing at the rear of the car tried to turn but he was too slow. She swung the empty pistol at the base of his skull and knocked him out.

As the man fell, she stepped forward and delivered a roundhouse kick to the monk in front of the car. Her foot caught him in the chest and knocked him backward several feet.

Annja was too scared to be amazed. Adrenaline, she told herself. She'd never kicked anyone that hard in her life.

She slid behind the wheel, keyed the ignition and heard the powerful engine roar to life, and shoved it into gear. The rear wheels spun and caught traction, then she was hurtling forward.

The front gates were still locked. Annja mentally crossed her fingers and hoped that the armored car was sufficient for the task. As she drove into the gate, she ducked her head behind her arms and hung on to the steering wheel.

For a moment, it sounded as if the world were coming to an end. An ugly image of her trapped and burning in the car filled her head. Fire had always been one of her greatest fears.

The car shuddered and jerked. Then, miraculously, it powered through the broken, sagging tangle of gates. Sparks flared around her as the car rode roughshod over the gates. She was on the other side, fighting the sudden fishtailing as the car lunged briefly out of control.

She cut the wheels just short of the trees at the side of the road and managed to keep the Mercedes pointed in the right direction. One of the headlights was broken—she could tell that from the monocular view of the road—but she could see well enough with the other.

She hoped Garin, Roux and Henshaw had made it to safety, but she had no intention of trying to find them. She'd had enough craziness for now.

Switching on the car's GPS program, she quickly punched in directions to Paris. She was catching the first flight to New York she could find.

 

A
NNJA BOUGHT
a change of clothes—a pink I Love Paris sweatshirt and black sweatpants—a black cap she tucked her hair into and black wraparound sunglasses at a truck stop outside Paris. They were tourist clothes, overpriced and gaudy. It wasn't much of a disguise, but wearing her own clothes was out of the question. Somewhere along the way she'd gotten someone's blood on them. She left them in the trash in the bathroom.

She abandoned the car and caught a ride with a driver making a delivery to the airport, wanting to conserve her cash in case she had to run again.

As Europe's second-busiest airport, Charles de Gaulle International was busy even at one o'clock in the morning. The driver was kind enough to drop her at Terminal 1, where most of the international flights booked.

Annja cringed a little when she paid full price for the ticket, but went ahead and splurged for a first-class seat. After the events of the past two days, she didn't want people piled on top of her.

Especially not when the persons around her could be black-garbed monks in disguise.

You're being paranoid, she chided herself. But, after a moment's reflection, she decided she was all right with that. A temporary case of paranoia beat a permanent case of dead.

 

A
NNJA DOZED
fitfully on the plane. No matter what she did to relax, true sleep avoided her. Finally, she gave up and spent time with her journals and notebook computer. Thankfully she'd left them in Garin's car when they got to the mansion. She didn't know if she'd ever again see the materials she'd left at the bed-and-breakfast.

She opened the computer and pulled up the jpegs she'd made of the sketches she'd done of the charm. She moved the images side by side and examined them.

“Would you like something to drink, miss?”

Startled, Annja looked up at the flight attendant. The question the man had asked slowly penetrated her fatigue and concentration.

“Yes, please,” Annja replied. “Do you have any herbal tea?”

“I do. I'll get it for you.”

The flight attendant returned a moment later with a cup filled with hot water and a single-serving packet of mint tea.

“Are you an artist?” the flight attendant asked.

“No,” Annja answered, plopping the tea bag into the cup. “I'm an archaeologist.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you were working on a video game.”

“Why?”

The flight attendant shrugged. He was in his late thirties, calm and professional in appearance. “Because of the coin, I suppose. Seems like a lot of games kids today play have to do with coins. At least, that's the way it is with my kids. I've got three of them.” He smiled. “I guess maybe I'm just used to looking for hidden clues in the coins.”

“Hidden clues?”

“Sure. You know. Maybe it's a coin, but there are clues hidden in it. Secret messages, that sort of thing.”

Annja's mind started working. She stared at the side of the charm that held the wolf and the mountain. Is there a clue embedded in here? Or is this just a charm? Why would that warrior wear it when he fought La Bête? Another thought suddenly struck her. Why was the warrior alone?

“I'll leave you alone with your work,” the flight attendant said. “Have a good flight.”

“Thank you,” Annja said, but her mind was already hard at work, separating the image of the wolf and the mountain into their parts.

The obverse was the stylized sign of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. But she didn't know how stylized it was. Perhaps something had been added there, as well. She peered more closely, pumping up the magnification.

A moment later, she saw it. Behind three of the straight lines in the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, she saw a shadowy figure she hadn't seen before.

 

W
HEN SHE REACHED
New York City, the first thing Annja did was look to find out if she was going to be picked up by the police. Since the NYPD SWAT team wasn't waiting to cuff her when she stepped off the plane, she hoped that was a good sign.

Still, she didn't want to go home without knowing what to expect.

She hailed a cab in front of LaGuardia International and took it to Manhattan to an all-night cyber café. Since she lived in Brooklyn, she felt reasonably certain Manhattan would be safe.

Settled into a booth, her laptop plugged into the hard-line connection rather than the wireless so there would be no disruption of service—or less of it at any rate—she opened her e-mail. A brief glance showed she'd acquired a tremendous amount of spam, as usual, and had a few messages from friends and acquaintances, but nothing that couldn't keep.

There was a note from NYPD Detective Sergeant Bart McGilley that just read, Call me about those prints.

Annja didn't know if he was going to protest being asked to look them up or if he'd gotten a hit. Or maybe he was just the bait to bring her in. That gave her pause for a moment.

She decided to put off the call for a few minutes. At least until she had time to eat the food she'd ordered with the computer time.

She was surprised to find that once her mind started working she didn't feel the need for sleep. She didn't know where she was getting the extra energy from, but she was grateful.

She opened the alt.archaeology site and found a few comments expressing interest in the images she'd posted, but nothing helpful.

The alt.archaeology.esoterica board netted three replies to her question regarding the images.

The first was from [email protected].

 

Saw your pictures. Loved them. What you're looking at is some kind of coin minted for the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. Wasn't used for money, but it's made of silver, Right?

If it is, then it's legitimate. There were also copper ones, and there are rumors of gold ones, too, though I've never talked to anyone who's seen one.

I've been researching European Monastic cults for my thesis. The brotherhood was disbanded three or four hundred years ago for some kind of sacrificial practice.

Sorry. Don't know any more than that. If you find out anything, I'd love to know more. Always curious.

The sandwich arrived, piled high with veggies and meat, with a bag of chips and a dill pickle spear on the side. A bottle of raspberry iced tea completed the meal.

As she ate one-handed, Annja worked through the other entries.

 

You've probably already found out that the stylized rain on the back of the coin represents the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. They were one of the longest-lived monasteries in the Lozère/Mende area. Back when it was more commonly called Gévaudan.

 

That made the tie to La Bête more accessible, Annja thought. Since she didn't truly believe in coincidences, she looked for the connection.

 

Anyway, what you might not know is that it's still around. That coin you found was only minted for a few years. Maybe a dozen or twenty. Like everything else the monks did, they smithed the coins themselves. Had a forge and everything. What you've got there is a real find. I've got one of them myself. I've included pics.

 

Why would a basically self-supporting monastery mint its own coins? Annja asked herself.

Not only that, but the charm hadn't been minted of silver. Whoever forged it made it from the metal of the sword.

From Joan of Arc's sword.
Annja still couldn't get around the thought of that.

Setting her sandwich to the side for a moment, Annja opened the attachments. The poster had done a great job with the pictures. They were clear and clean.

Judging from the pictures, the coin the poster owned was very similar to the one Annja had found in the cave. But that one looked like silver, even carried a dark patina that had never touched the one that Annja had found.

However, the coin in the pictures only had the image of the mountain, not the wolf. And there was no shadowy figure trapped behind three lines in the die mark.

She sighed and returned her attention to her sandwich. The mystery had deepened again. She loved archaeology for its challenges, stories and puzzles. But she hated the frustration that sometimes came with all of those.

The third message was from Zoodio, the original responder to her posting.

 

Hey. Hope you've had some luck with your enigma. I've had a bit, but it appears contradictory and confusing.

 

Welcome to archaeology, Annja thought wryly.

 

The coin you've got is different than the ones minted at the monastery. And minting for a monastery is weird anyway. I understand they took gold for the Vatican and all that. Had to fund the additional churches somehow. But they marked ingots with the papal seal. Most of the time, though, the church never bothered to melt down and recast anything that came through the offerings.

I noticed differences on your coin, though. I mean, the images I pulled up and got from friends are different. But I didn't find any that looked like the one you've got.

Taking a moment, Annja opened the images Zoodio had embedded in the message. Sifting through them, she found they were similar to the ones she'd gotten from the previous poster.

 

To start with, the coin you found doesn't appear to be made out of silver. Some other material?

Also, yours has differences. Did you notice the shadowy figure behind the stylized rain? I didn't at first. Had to look at it again, but I think it's there.