The Other Crowd (22 page)

Slater sighed. “Probably.”

“We have to get back to that warehouse.”

“We’re out at city’s edge, with no vehicle or weapons. We’ll never make it in time to stop the destruction.”

“I just want to get there before they kill anyone.”

“Even after the man tried to drown you?”

“And shoot me, don’t forget that.”

“And sell you to a bandit as his new girlfriend.”

She’d forgotten about that one. “Eric is my responsibility. I won’t let him down.”

“Guess that means we’re going for a walk. I don’t have my wallet or ID. It won’t be easy to rent a car.”

“Are you telling me MI-6 didn’t teach you how to hot-wire a vehicle?”

“Annja, grand theft auto is against the law.” He said it with a grin. “But I like the way you think.”

They scanned the area. On the way to the dock, they’d driven about ten minutes from the warehouse; they were still within city limits.

“West. It’s a quiet part of town. Mostly warehouses and old machinery shops,” Slater said.

They climbed the moss-padded embankment and slopped their way across the gravel. Wringing out her T-shirt, Annja would have liked to stop and empty her boots of water, but she didn’t want to risk losing time. She’d walk off the water.

Five minutes later they’d entered a neighborhood that reminded her of a medieval village with its cobbled, narrow streets and terraced houses fit tight against one another. It was the kind of neighborhood she could live in.

A pimped-out white van pulled up alongside Annja and Slater with an abrupt squeal of the tires. Slater gripped her arm. She allowed him to pull her back so he stood in front of her.

“Who is it?” Annja asked.

“Oh, this day just gets better and better.” Slater slapped at his shoulder holster but Neville’s man had removed his gun. “It’s the bandits who hijacked our truck.”

The van doors opened. Out jumped two men, followed by the familiar leader in the knit beret. This time he held his AK-47 ready to fire. “Hello, luv. We meet again. Got yer boyfriend with you this time, I see. What are the two of you selling today, if you will?”

“Sorry, fresh out of contraband weapons,” Slater said. He raised his hands slowly to his shoulders.

The leader’s brows narrowed and he chewed a cigar stuffed at the corner of his mouth. He gestured with his rifle as he spoke. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Get in line.”

Annja winced at Slater’s casual dismissal of real danger. The two men flanking the leader cradled their AK-47s like cherished children.

“That diamond you traded for the weapons was flawed.”

“You’re fashin’ me,” Slater said, assuming the dialect. “That’s a risk you take when you—”

“You said it was grade A! I know me rocks, and that stone was bloody grade nothing! The thing shattered when I tapped the crown with me pistol.”

“What the hell did you do that for? Diamonds are not forever,” Slater argued calmly. “The diamond industry only wants you to believe that Valentine’s crap so you’ll shell out the big bucks for your woman.”

“Shut up!”

Slater took a step back when both AK-47s aimed for his chest. “Let’s talk about this, mate.”

“I am not your mate. You duped me out of fifty thousand pounds and this prime bit of bird.” The leader looked Annja’s wet body up and down. She held eye contact with him. She wasn’t about to show fear. “Now you and the bird are going to bleed.”

“You wouldn’t kill an MI-6 agent,” she blurted out.

Slater dropped his head down and he huffed out a breath. “She’s lying.”

“MI-6?” The leader locked gazes with her and she nodded. She wasn’t willing to risk another death match, not when Eric’s life was on the line. “Show me your ID,” he said to Slater.

“I don’t carry ID,” Slater said, “because I’m not MI-6. Don’t listen to the woman. She’s been chasing faeries all day.”

The leader jerked back a shoulder as if offended by that remark. He gestured for his men to lower their weapons. Approaching Annja, he tilted the AK-47 against his shoulder. A strong whiff of marijuana surrounded him. “The other crowd, eh?”

She shrugged. “Why the hell not? They’ve been stealing crew members from an archaeological dig.”

“You see?” Slater said.

Studied as intently as any man with glassy eyes and a gun could possibly do, Annja defied his insolence with a sure stance. Finally he nodded and stepped back. “I believe the woman before I believe the man who tried to sell me worthless glass.”

“It was diamond.”

“Is that the kind of diamonds your Mr. Neville deals in?” The leader chuckled. “And he’s got an MI-6 agent attached to him? Ha! I think I will leave the poor bastard to his own troubles. Leave them,” he directed his men.

And that was it. The men piled into the van with intention of driving away.

“Are you headed into town?” Annja yelled after the leader. She didn’t flinch as Slater slid her a razor-sharp condemnation in a glance. “We need a ride.”

The leader’s brows raised as he considered the nerve of the woman he’d just threatened to kill. “Faeries, eh?”

“Yes. Maybe. I’m sure they’re out there somewhere.” Feeling absent of good sense, and a trifle lost, Annja ran a palm up and down her arm. The shivers would not leave her alone. She hadn’t a better plan, and really, how dangerous could a bunch of stoned bandits prove? “I felt their presence,” she said.

A decisive nod preceded the bandit’s gesture. “Hop in, luv. Where you headed?”

“To White Street.” Slater gave the address.

“Will I be delivering you to the man with the glass diamonds?”

“No, he’s too far ahead of us,” Annja said. “It’s a matter of life or death, though. A friend of mine.” She winced and gave the leader a sincere face. Playing up to his compassion was working so far. “He’s in trouble.”

Rolling his eyes, and swinging his weapon, the leader gestured he was in compliance.

Annja was allowed to sit in the front seat and grabbed hold of the door for support as the van pealed into motion. Slater fit himself into the back among the other bandits, of which Annja hadn’t managed a proper head count. Slater was a big boy; he could handle himself, she thought.

A small glass bong suspended by a black ribbon bobbed from the rearview mirror and various empty shells and AK-47 magazines littered the floor. The whole vehicle stunk like week-old athletic socks left out to dry in the sun.

“You best be careful if you’re tracking the fair folk,” the leader said to her. “Me cousin went for a five-day walk last summer all in his own backyard. He didn’t escape the fair folk’s clutches until he turned his clothing inside out.”

All righty, then. Annja refrained from asking if the cousin had been eating magic mushrooms. She glanced at the bong.

Her eye fell upon a business card stuck in the open ashtray.

She grabbed it and winced as she read the single word and a phone number. She flicked it at the leader. “Wine?”

“Oh, aye. If you want some bloody good wine you go to that man. He likes to barter.”

She would bet he did. And she wouldn’t even ask what kind of barter he took. It wasn’t as though the cavalcade of bandits had much to offer beyond weapons and illicit drugs.

“You keep it,” the leader said. “Tell him the Handy Man sent you.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

Annja still wasn’t answering her phone. Yet it was ringing, so that meant she had to be aware someone was calling. Garin Braden knew the woman had a talent for getting herself into trouble. She also had an incredible knack for getting out of said trouble. Most of the time, skill was all she required. Sometimes she needed help. Sometimes she amazed him with her luck.

But he did like to know if that luck was holding out now. He was in the area. Why not lend a hand?

He left another voice message. He was in County Cork looking for Wesley Pierce, and was aware she’d been filming on the dig.

Where was Pierce? Spending NewWorld’s profits from the sale of the rough diamond?

That both digs had cleared out so swiftly did not sit well with him. And while the name Frank Neville meant nothing to Garin, he suspected if Neville was powerful enough to wrest a dig out from under NewWorld’s control, then he must have a particular reason for it.

Could there have been more diamonds? He’d done some internet research. There were no diamond pipes in Ireland. But there had been a heist in the nineteenth century that Garin placed to the area where the dig was located. It had been a sensational case, kept under wraps by the burgeoning diamond industry. A find related to that case would yield a handful of roughs—worth a fortune nowadays.

Yet how did that tie in with Collins?

People who associated with Daniel Collins were more than mere treasure seekers. Ruthless cutthroats was a term that came to Garin’s mind. And because of that, he was even more determined to find Annja and make sure she was safe.

T
HE ARMORED TRUCK RACED
away from the warehouse as the bandits’ van chauffeuring Annja and Slater arrived. Slater swore, grabbed the driver’s shirt collar and demanded he follow the truck.

“Wait!” Annja opened her door to keep him from driving off. “Don’t you see that smoke? Eric could be in there.”

“I have to track them,” Slater argued. “They’ll lead me to the harbor where Neville may have a contact waiting. It’s imperative.”

“You think the forger could be waiting there?” Annja asked.

He nodded.

“Then leave me behind.” He grabbed her arm as she attempted to slide from the passenger seat. “Let go, Slater! It’s just smoke right now. I can still get inside to look for him.”

“You’re going to inhale smoke and never make it out. Give it up, Annja, he’s dead.”

“No.” She tugged out of his unrelenting grip.

“Let her go!” the leader of the bandits said. “And you, too, mate. Get out. We’re not a taxi service.”

Slamming the door behind her, Annja stalked toward the warehouse. She eyed a wooden barrel below a water drainpipe slinking down the side of the building, and headed toward it.

The van drove away slowly, braked—she heard a loud curse—and it veered backward to the door beside her.

Slater stepped out of the van, running, and peeling off his shirt as he did so. He tore it in two as he approached her. Annja grabbed the shirt sections and dunked them in the water barrel.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he asked as he squeezed the water from his half of the shirt. “What does hosting a television show have to do with running into a burning building? They don’t give medals to idiots, you know.”

She smirked and tied the wet shirt over her mouth and nose. Tugging it down she said, “I thought you had a forger to catch.”

“I’m giving you fifteen minutes. We can’t be inside this building any more than five or ten, as it is. It may be smoking now but it can become an inferno in a heartbeat. Stay close to me.”

“You stay close to me,” she said.

She turned and kicked in the front door. Smoke billowed out, and Annja squinted against the burning fog. He was right, more than ten minutes in this death trap and no one would be walking out alive. Fortunately, the warehouse was wide-open, which dispersed the smoke, yet it also provided more oxygen to fuel the fire.

She scanned the warehouse floor. Not one wooden crate had been left behind on the bare concrete. The office was located on the upper floor that overlooked the loading dock. Flames licked around the door, but hadn’t yet crept to the walls.

“This way!” she shouted. She pressed the shirt over her nose and mouth as she ran.

Annja took the steel staircase hugging the wall two steps at a time. Rushing to the end of the landing, she kicked down the door she suspected was an office, sending flame sparks flying into the smoke-filled room.

Fire roared behind and below her. Its beastly growl warned her she had to be quick. She wasn’t keen on fire. She’d had nightmares about fire. She thought it had something to do with Joan of Arc and the sword.

Ducking low and inside the office, she heard coughing. Near the door, someone grabbed her ankle.

It wasn’t Eric.

“I got him!” Slater dragged the bound man out. “It’s Brian Ford,” he yelled. “He’s alive.”

The admittance of air into the room fanned a burgeoning flame licking in the office corner near the window. Annja heard a man’s muffled shout.

She raced to the wall and beneath a boarded-up window she found Eric. His hands were bound before him, but his ankles were free. He could have walked out—unless he was drugged. Head tucked down toward his chest, he hacked and choked. Flames ate at his shirt.

She slapped the flames out. He shouted and cursed.

“Eric, it’s Annja Creed.” She tugged his arm but he wouldn’t move. Instead, he gazed up at her. His face was black from the smoke, and sweat runneled streaks in it.

“So beautiful,” he moaned. “Your wings…”

“I’m not a faerie,” she said.

“Yes, the faeries.”

“Hell, he’s high on LSD. Slater!”

The MI-6 agent crouched on the floor next to her and assessed the situation. “I can lift him over a shoulder if you help me get his head and shoulders up. The smoke has already zapped my strength. We have to hurry.”

The wall behind them exploded, shooting splinters and sparks into the room. A splinter seared across Annja’s cheek. She slapped at it and sucked at the wet shirt. But it was no longer wet, and she was now inhaling smoke.

Heaving up Eric’s head, she shoved him toward Slater, who managed to wrangle him onto a shoulder and stand. Slater stumbled and faltered.

“You’re going to make it!” Annja shouted.

“It’s too smoky in here!” he called.

Tugging up the shirt over his face, she gave the loosened knot at the back of his head a tug to secure it. “Just follow me!” She grabbed him by the belt loop and led him toward the door.

Outside, the other man sat in a daze against the stair railing. “Can you move on your own?” she asked him. He nodded when he saw Annja. “Get down the stairs now!”

He shuffled forward on his butt and took the last two steps in a leap, landing on the concrete in a belly flop. He might have broken something, but he wasn’t yelling in pain.

Slater used the railing for support, sliding against it as he stepped down, and made it to the ground. He stumbled once he reached the bottom step. Annja lunged to catch Eric’s body and he sort of rolled over her and she bent to make sure he landed more gently than Brian.

“Sorry.” Slater coughed.

“No apologies. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got Eric. You grab Brian.”

They raced to the door and outside into the gray evening sky.

Clean air infused Annja’s lungs. Slater collapsed near the water barrel, Brian’s body splayed out beside him. She tugged the shirt from Slater’s face and gave his cheek a smack with her palm.

He gasped in a breath and heaved in rapid breaths.

Annja turned to Eric to assess his condition. He was breathing and moaning about faeries. He’d be okay, but she had to get him emergency care. Brian, too. He’d passed out near the doorway.

Raindrops spattered her head and shoulders. For once, she was thankful for the weather. And yet…

“Where’s the other guy? I thought there was another one?” She gripped Brian’s shirt and shook him. “Was there another man with you?”

“Richard,” he muttered. “Think…he ran off…”

Annja could only hope it was an escape to freedom, and ultimately a local hospital.

“Five minutes to spare,” she said to Slater, who checked his watch. “Time enough for you to drop us off at the emergency room before heading to the docks.”

“Deal. I’ll find us a vehicle.” He touched his cheek and winced. “Was the slap necessary?”

“You were flirting with unconsciousness.”

“I never flirt, Annja.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

His relieved grin accompanied a shake of his head. So the man was human underneath that stoic countenance. Any other time, and any other place…

“What will you do when you find the boat?” she asked.

“I’ll take care of it, Annja. It’s not the shipment I’m worried about, as I’ve explained.”

“But after you’ve arrested the forger, you have to stop the boat, right? Can you get to Neville once he’s taken to open water? What if they’ve already departed?”

“Annja, leave things to me. All right? I’ve got it under control.”

She looked over his sooted face and chest and noted that he eased himself up slowly to a stand as if his back muscles ached. He had no weapon, no shirt, no contact with his superiors, not even a car.

“Do you think the Handy Man went after them?”

“Doubt it. The bandit knows MI-6 is involved now. That’ll keep him away, and ensure he alerts every criminal in Ireland of my identity. Thanks for that, Annja.”

“I was trying to keep us alive. I know it was stupid. I
am
sorry.”

He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You’re good at staying alive. I like that about you.” He winked and nodded. “Let’s find us a vehicle and get these men to the hospital. Hell, a phone to call an ambulance would be good right now.”

She tugged out her cell phone. “What’s the emergency number in this country?”

T
HEY WEREN’T COVERT
; that was sure. Four men loaded heavy wooden trunks onto a yacht moored at the end of the Kinsale dock. They did work efficiently. They’d done this before, Garin assumed. He liked experience and always sought to work with men of a certain talent in his own endeavors.

He lowered the binoculars. He wasn’t sure he wanted a piece of this action, though. If MI-6 was involved the deal was gray. He preferred things to be either black or white, no fuzzy middle stuff. And he liked to stay as far from any organized government as possible.

So long as Annja Creed didn’t show up he would let them go about their business.