Cradle of Solitude (10 page)

The fall was a good couple of hundred feet and Annja knew that in order to survive it she was going to have to control how she entered the water. Crisp and clean was the order of the day. If she was even the slightest bit off center, she'd bounce off the surface just as if it were fashioned of six feet of solid cement.

Her arms and legs pinwheeled for a moment and then gravity took over, hauling her downward. The fall might feel like it was taking forever, but Annja knew she had only a few seconds in which to prepare herself for the impact at the bottom. She brought the image of her sword to mind and did her best to emulate its long, sleek form with her own body, tucking her arms flat against her sides and squeezing her legs together tightly, her toes pointed. From somewhere in the distance came a shout and the echo of a gunshot, but she didn't have time to think about either right now. She tucked her chin against her chest and hoped for the best.

The collision, when it came, was everything she expected it to be, a bone-jarring crash into the surface of
the water followed by a swift plunge toward the bottom. She had no idea how deep the water was and found herself praying that she didn't run out of room before she bled off all that downward momentum she'd picked up from the drop.

Thankfully, the river was deep and she felt herself slowing down before she struck the bottom. This presented her with a new set of difficulties, however, for no sooner had her downward momentum slowed that she felt the tug of the current trying to pull her along in its wake. Realizing the danger she was in, she began clawing her way toward the surface, driving herself upward with powerful kicks of her long legs.

But for every foot she rose upward, the river carried her two feet sideways and it wasn't long before she began to feel herself tiring. Her lungs protested her treatment of them, as well, demanding fresh oxygen, but to open her mouth at this depth meant a sure death by drowning, so she clamped her mouth shut and fought for the surface as hard as she could.

The churning water kept her from being able to feel the natural buoyancy of her body and kept her from trying to open her eyes underwater, worried as she was about all the natural debris rushing along in the current with her.

Was she struggling so hard because she was headed for the bottom rather than climbing toward the surface? How could she tell?

The thought nearly paralyzed her, the fear it evoked overwhelming in its intensity. The animal side of her brain began screaming at her, telling her she was going in the wrong direction and that she was going to die if she didn't do something about it
now,
and it took all of her concentration to force that monster back into the
mental closet it had suddenly lurched out of. She fought to think clearly, rationally, but her burning lungs were demanding she take another breath and she felt her lips peeling back as her body disobeyed the commands her brain was giving it…

Annja broke through to the surface of the water with a tremendous gasp, surprised to feel the cool mountain air filling her lungs like a miracle from above. Her relief was short-lived, however, for the rush of the water swept over her head and forced her back underwater seconds later.

This time, though, she was prepared for it, her fear now firmly in check, and so she was able to swiftly fight her way back to the surface and keep her head above water as she sought a way out of the predicament her wild jump had gotten her into.

Looking around, she discovered that she was being swept downstream even faster than she'd thought. She was already quite far from where she'd entered the water and even as she looked back the way she had come she was carried around a bend in the river and the monastery was lost from view. Perhaps even more disconcerting, however, was her realization that the water itself was shockingly cold, so much so that staying in it for too long was not an option.

If I don't do something, I'm either going to freeze to death or get swept all the way to the English Channel.

The right bank was closer, so with grim determination she turned toward it and began swimming perpendicular to the current, trying to make her way across. Thankfully, the river was reasonably free of jutting rocks and she didn't have to worry about being slammed against them as she was swept along.

It was hard going, the current fighting her for every
inch of progress and the cold leeching the energy from her limbs, but she didn't have any choice but to continue pushing forward. Bit by bit, the shore drew closer, until at last she felt the river bottom beneath the soles of her shoes. After another ten minutes of grueling effort she broke free of the current and emerged into shallower depths at the river's edge.

She dragged herself out of the water and up onto the shore, rolling onto her back and doing what she could to catch her breath after the ordeal she'd just been through. She didn't lay there long, though, for once out of the water the coolness of the mountain air cut through her wet clothes like an Arctic wind and she quickly found herself shivering on the riverbank despite the afternoon sun above.

Annja knew that if she didn't get out of her wet clothing soon she'd be in serious danger of hypothermia, especially once the sun went down.

I've got to get moving, she thought.

She climbed to her feet, only to have a bolt of pain shoot up her left ankle. It hurt enough that she promptly sat back down and gave it a look. She could move it in a slow circle, so she knew it wasn't broken, and with her shoe on it didn't seem to be overly swollen, but it was definitely tender to the touch and was already turning a deep shade of bluish black.

I must have twisted it when I hit the water, she thought.

She could see the road through the trees about a dozen yards away and knew she had to head in that direction. She was miles away from even the smallest town and didn't remember passing a single house or homestead during the final part of her drive. The chances of a random motorist headed in the direction
she was going were pretty slim, which meant she was going to have to make her way back up the mountain to the monastery on foot.

At least there she could find some dry clothes, check to see if there were any survivors and even call for help, if no one had done so already.

All she had to do was walk a couple of miles, uphill, on a sprained ankle.

Annja's pace was even slower than she thought it would be. Her injured ankle bore her weight, but just barely, and she was forced to limp along at a pace made all the more frustrating by the fact that she knew there were people at the facility above who needed her help.

She spent the entire journey in a state of tension, listening for the sound of an engine, worried that the attackers would find her alone on the road after leaving the monastery above. She was constantly checking the undergrowth on either side of the road, picking out potential hiding places that she could reach quickly and with a minimum of fuss should the sound of an approaching vehicle reach her ears, but in the end she didn't need any of them; not a single vehicle passed her going in either direction.

That meant the attackers had probably done what they had come to do and had left the monastery behind while she was still trying to save herself from the river's current.

That wasn't a good sign.

Step by step, teeth gritted against the pain, she made her way up to the monastery gates as quickly as she could.

The gates stood wide open, which wasn't a good sign. As she hobbled through them, she caught sight of a brown-robed figure lying unmoving in the grass between the gates and the small guardhouse nearby. The dark stain that covered the front of his robe didn't bode well for his chances, but she had to check to be sure before moving on. If he was only injured and she left him behind…

As she drew close enough to see his face, she recognized the silent monk who had let her into the complex earlier. From the looks of it, he'd been shot with a short burst from an automatic weapon. Kneeling down next to him, she checked for a pulse but, as she'd expected, didn't find one. His eyes were open, staring at the sky above, and so she brushed her hand over them, and then got back to her feet.

Her car was still in the parking area, but the driver's window had been smashed and the line of bullet holes stitched across the hood let her know that she wouldn't be taking it anywhere in the near future. Since it wasn't her car, she didn't feel all that torn up about the damage; it wasn't the first vehicle wrecked by those she'd been forced to confront since taking up the sword. No, what made her want to scream in anger and frustration was the fact that they'd gotten the chest, and therefore the puzzle box that it contained. When she'd returned to the complex and rushed back into the monastery, she'd left the chest on the rear seat of the car, easy pickings for anyone looking for it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Of course, hindsight was twenty-twenty. There was
nothing to do now but soldier on and see what she could make out of the mess.

There were two more bodies on the front steps to the main building and another just inside the door. Each of them had been gunned down in similar fashion. Farther inside she found more of the same. It appeared that the intruders, whoever they had been, had wanted to be certain there wasn't anyone left to serve as a witness to what had happened here.

She kept up her search for survivors all the way to the cathedral, but she didn't find a single one by the time she reached her destination.

Inside, she found the abbott lying on the floor in front of the altar, a bullet through the skull. Four of the fingers on his left hand were broken and horribly twisted, letting her know that there'd been a serious effort to get him to tell them something. Whether he'd divulged what they wanted or not was uncertain, for they could have executed him after he'd given up the information or when they'd decided that they didn't have any more time to waste.

In the end, it hadn't really mattered, she thought. They'd gotten what they'd come for, anyway—thanks to her carelessness.

Standing there, looking down at the body of the man who only hours before had helped her uncover a key clue to the mystery unfurling before her, Annja felt a rage begin to build inside her. She vowed that she'd bring the perpetrators to justice, no matter what.

She searched the rest of the complex, but didn't find a single survivor. The monks living there had been slaughtered to a man.

No witnesses, she thought bitterly.

She did, however, find a phone on the abbot's desk. It
was the only one she'd seen so far in the entire monastery, so she was thankful that the intruders hadn't torn it loose from the wall. It was an oversight that could have come back to haunt them, had any of the monks been quick enough to capitalize on it, and Annja was pleased to see it. It meant the enemy, whoever they were, made mistakes.

Mistakes could be exploited.

She punched in 1-1-2, the general emergency number throughout all of France, and explained to the operator that there had been a violent attack on the monks at the monastery. She identified herself when asked and stated that they could contact the American Embassy for confirmation of who she was so that they would know this was not a crank call of any kind. Given the nearest town was almost an hour away, and she didn't remember seeing any kind of emergency response services when she'd driven through, Annja knew she had a long wait ahead of her.

Now that she had taken care of the most pressing issues, she realized that her teeth were chattering and that she was shivering violently. Her clothing was still wet despite the long walk and the chill mountain air hadn't helped any. She suspected she might be slipping into hypothermia and knew she had to do something about it quickly.

But a search of the abbot's quarters turned up nothing but boxers, socks and the long brown robes she'd been seeing on every monk she encountered. The same held true of the rest of the rooms she looked into at the other end of the hall.

The idea of meeting the authorities dressed like Friar Tuck didn't appeal to her at all, but what choice did she have? She selected a robe that looked to be the
closest fit, stripped out of her wet clothing and used a towel from a nearby bathroom to dry herself as best she could. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she pulled the robe on over her head. To her surprise, the fabric was much softer than she'd expected, and warm, as well. She might be stuck looking like an extra from
Monty Python and the Holy Grail,
but at least she'd be comfortable while doing so.

Only half an hour had gone by when the sound of a helicopter's rotors caught her attention. She glanced out the window, saw it approaching in the distance and went out to meet it.

The aircraft came in over the trees, nose forward, so Annja didn't get a good look at the aircraft until the pilot spun it around and lined up for landing. That's when the insignia, a stylized dragon in midflight, became visible on the black fuselage.

Annja knew that logo.

It belonged to Dragontech Security Services, one of the many companies owned by her sometime-ally, sometime-nemesis Garin Braden.

“All-the-time pain-in-the-ass Garin Braden is more like it,” she said.

The helicopter landed on the grass beside the parking area. The door opened almost immediately and a squad of armed gunmen disembarked, moving with the kind of crisp efficiency that marked them as former military personnel. They fanned out in a half circle, the assault rifles in their hands pointing beyond her at the windows of the monastery.

Behind them came Garin Braden.

She'd met Garin at the same time she'd acquired her sword, the one that had once belonged to Joan of Arc. Whatever power had been imparted to the sword at the
moment of Joan's death had also affected Garin and his former mentor, Roux. Both of them had been her failed protectors. Both of them had been there to witness Joan's execution. Both of them had subsequently discovered that they no longer aged as other men did, that unless they were killed by injury or violence, it seemed they would most likely live forever.

Over the years they'd gone from being squire and master to equal competitors to deadly enemies. Only the arrival of Annja, and the reforming of the sword that had been broken, had brought them grudgingly back together again.

At first, Garin had been convinced that the sword controlled his destiny, that by possessing it Annja could threaten his very existence. He'd schemed to take it from her on more than one occasion, but thus far without success. Lately his overt activities toward that end had seemed to have been put on hold, but she was still wary around him.

Even knowing he often didn't have her best interests at heart, Annja found it hard to simply dismiss Garin Braden. The fact that he was terribly handsome, with his black hair and immaculately trimmed goatee, didn't help. He was also one of those larger than life personalities and being in his presence made her forget some of what she'd experienced with him. She constantly had to remind herself that he had a devil's heart to go with his devilishly good looks.

Even that didn't dampen her attraction to him, however.

He had a habit of turning up unexpectedly but just what the hell was he doing here?

Annja waited for him at the base of the front steps as he strode across the lawn. He was dressed beauti
fully, as always, in a suit that was tailored to show off his muscular frame. It was only as he drew closer that she remembered she was barefoot and naked beneath the monk's robe. She wanted to sink right into the stone beneath her feet.

“Hello, I'm looking for… Annja, is that you?”

She used irritation to try and hide her embarrassment. “What are you doing here, Garin? Did you get lost on your way home?”

He ignored her jibe, focusing instead on what she was wearing.

“I must say you look ravishing in mud brown, Annja. And the way it accents your curves—”

“Cut the crap. What are you doing here? What do you want?”

A pained expression crossed his face. “Must I always want something?”

She didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

“Well, you have me there,” he replied, grinning.

Annja tried not to think about how that grin made her feel.

Garin surveyed the scene behind her, taking in bodies just inside the open door. When he looked at her again his expression had gone serious. “Any survivors?”

“I haven't checked the entire grounds, but inside, no.”

He nodded, acknowledging her remark, and then waved to one of his men, summoning him over. They had a brief conversation outside of Annja's earshot and then the first man was joined by two others as they fanned out to search the grounds.

“Come on,” Garin said. “We've got to get you out of here.”

Annja snorted. “I'm not going anywhere with you,
Garin. The authorities will be here soon. Do you just expect me to leave all these bodies behind because you say so?”

The only person who knew where she was going was Bernard and she had no reason to believe the two men even knew each other. The more she thought about it, the more Garin's sudden appearance wasn't making any sense.

Garin's joking manner abruptly disappeared. “Yes, that's exactly what I expect. Every minute you stay puts you in more danger. We need to leave.”

“I told you, I'm not leaving. I called this in. I have a responsibility to be here when the authorities arrive.”

“That's exactly what they are counting on!” He clenched his fists in frustration. “Do you think I came out here just to see you looking like a reject from the local Renaissance faire?”

Garin's insistence, and his single-mindedness, had her worried.

“What's going on? What aren't you telling me, Garin?”

“For heaven's sake, woman, we don't have time for that—”

“You'll make time,” she cut in, “or I'm not going with you. Now out with it.”

But rather than say anything more himself, he pulled a digital recorder out of his pocket and hit the play button.

“The Creed woman apparently survived the fall from the roof. She needs to be eliminated before she speaks to the police. Get back up there and get rid of her before she becomes more of a nuisance.”

Annja didn't recognize the voice, but it was clear that whoever he was, he had intimate knowledge of what had happened at the monastery.

Garin wasn't kidding around.

“How did you get that?” she asked.

“I'd be happy to explain everything, but right now I think it's better if we got out of here, don't you?”

As Annja opened her mouth to answer, the sound of a racing engine reached their ears. They turned to see a dark model Mercedes bounce through the iron gates less than three hundred yards away and rush toward them. Even as they watched, the front passenger window rolled down and a man's head and shoulders appeared.

In his hands was an automatic weapon.

“Run!” Garin shouted as the bullets began to fly.