The Spirit Banner (3 page)

"Put down the gun!"
Annja stood just inside the circle of light, the automatic rifle in her hands pointed unerringly at the rebel commander standing in front of her.
He started in surprise at the sound of her voice and turned in her direction, the gun in his hand coming up slightly toward her.
Annja didn't wait to see what he was going to do with it, but stitched a row of bullets across the dirt at his feet.
"I said put down the gun," she said, "or I'll fill you full of holes."
It surely wasn't the first time the captain had had a weapon pointed at him and his sense of machismo wouldn't let him surrender to a woman that easily, it seemed.
He didn't drop the weapon, but neither did he raise it any higher in her direction. Instead, he glanced behind her while trying to stall.
"You are making a mistake,
señorita
. A very big mistake."
Annja shook her head. "I don't think so. And you can stop looking over my shoulder. They aren't coming."
"Pardon?"
"Your troops. They aren't coming."
He scoffed, but after a moment or two more of silence, he frowned. As more time passed and help still didn't arrive, he began to realize that he was on his own.
Here it comes, Annja thought.
The rebel leader had been backed into a corner. He could either surrender to a woman, something his masculine pride objected to strongly, or he could try and fight his way out of his current predicament.
Annja had little doubt which option he was going to choose.
When he made his move, she was ready for him. He snapped his arm up toward her as he turned to the side, hoping to present a smaller target for her to shoot at while giving him enough time to kill her and thereby save himself.
Anticipating just such a move, Annja put two bullets into his upper chest before he could complete his turn.
An expression of surprise crossed his face and then he fell to the ground, dead on impact.
Silence covered the scene in its heavy embrace and then her companions were shouting her name and cheering. She dropped her weapon and moved to their sides, untying them and then directing those who were free to do the same for the rest.
Under Annja's supervision, the rebels were rounded up by the archaeologists and other camp staff, the hands and feet of those soldiers who were still alive tied securely with the ropes that they'd just taken off their own wrists. They were placed under the lights by the mess tent, where they could be watched until help could arrive. The dead were brought over, as well. Annja caught more than one of her dig mates watching her when they thought she wasn't looking—after they saw what had been done to the soldiers. Annja didn't care. She'd done what she'd had to given the circumstances. She'd spared lives when she'd been able to and so her conscience was clear.
When they were finished, everyone gathered in front of the mess tent, arguing about what they should do next. Annja had just managed to get everyone settled down so they could discuss things rationally when Evans, the cook, pointed back over Annja's shoulder and shouted, "Look!"
Annja turned to see multiple sets of headlights coming down the narrow dirt track that served as the only entrance to the camp. They were moving rapidly and it only took a few minutes before they were close enough to see the vehicles were American-made military Humvees painted in green camouflage.
As the trucks braked to a stop, armed soldiers in blue jumpsuits, black flack vests and helmets poured out and took up defensive positions around the camp while Annja stared openmouthed in surprise.
A short, muscular man in an officer's uniform climbed down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, looked at the rebel soldiers, all carefully bound and gagged, and then marched over to where Annja stood. He stared at her for a moment, his expression grim, and then said, "Who is in charge, please?" in heavily accented English.
Annja had no idea who these men were, what they were doing here, or even if they might be allied in some way with the rebels that she'd just defeated. Her hand curled ready to summon her sword, but she didn't draw it. Not until, at least. Not till she knew who they were or what they wanted.
Deciding her friends and teammates had had enough for one night, Annja bit the bullet and answered his question. "I am," she replied.
His grim expression broke into a toothy smile. "Then my compliments to you,
señorita
. You and your people have saved me considerable time and energy in tracking down and detaining these dogs."
As he explained, the officer in question was Major Enrique Hernandez, of La Policia Mexicana, and he and his squad had been tracking this particular group of rebel soldiers for the past several days. Unfortunately they had lost them a few miles to the south of their present position. Hernandez had been trying to pick up the rebels' trail again when they had intercepted an emergency radio signal from the camp indicating it was under attack. The major explained that it had probably been just bad luck that the rebels had stumbled onto the excavation site, but their leaders weren't fools and the chance to add any artifacts that could draw good money on the black market had likely been too good to pass up.
Surprisingly, Hernandez didn't ask many questions about what had happened to the rebels or how a few archaeologists and graduate students had managed to overpower six soldiers armed with heavy weaponry. He seemed happy just to have the problem dealt with and in so final a manner. Perhaps he felt he was better off not knowing.
Either way, Annja wasn't going to complain. The last thing she wanted was more attention from the law enforcement community, in this country or any other. She'd certainly had her fair share of that lately.
As the major began ordering his men to secure the weapons and pick up the bodies, Annja excused herself and went looking for a hose. She could stand the stench of the muck she was covered in for only so long.

"They say that you single-handedly defeated the rebels. Is that true?"
The voice was male, with a clipped British accent, and decidedly unfamiliar to her.
Annja used one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the floodlights and looked toward the speaker.
The newcomer was tall and good-looking, with dark curly hair and a five-o'clock shadow that somehow made him look more carefully groomed than if he had been simply clean shaven. His white shirt and tan suit had yet to pick up any of the telltale streaks of red dust that quickly covered anyone who had been on location more than a few minutes, which meant that he'd just arrived.
He stood in a relaxed, easygoing manner, but something about him still set her radar to tingling.
Ever since coming into possession of the magically restored sword that had once belonged to Joan of Arc, her life had been full of dangerous situations and even deadlier enemies. She'd been forced to fight for her life in more than a dozen places around the world, from the jungles of the Amazon to the sands of New Mexico, from the snows of Siberia to the waters of Indochina. She'd quickly learned to recognize the wolves moving among the sheep, and the man standing before her was definitely not one of the latter.
Given the close relationship between Mexico and the U.S., Annja pegged him for some kind of government adviser who had come in with the troops. Probably CIA or Department of Defense. It had to be something like that. His complete indifference to the police troops moving about the camp was a dead giveaway.
Having sized him up, she turned away, no longer interested.
"Yeah, well, you shouldn't believe everything you hear," she said dismissively, as she continued to hose herself down in an effort to get the blood and muck off her clothing. When she straightened back up, she found him still standing there, watching her, in turn.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked, with more than a bit of frustrated exasperation in her voice. The last thing she needed was some government flunky ogling her.
"That would depend. Are you, by chance, Annja Creed?"
Annja frowned. Aside from her producer, Doug Morrell, she hadn't told anyone where she was going when she'd left Brooklyn three weeks before. And while it wasn't unusual for fans of the television show she worked for—
Chasing History's Monsters
—to recognize her in public, it was strange to find a fan in the middle of the Mexican jungle at a dig site that only a handful of people were even aware of.
She used his words back at him. "That would depend. Who's asking?"
He chuckled. "Touché, Ms. Creed. Touché. Forgive me. My name is Mason Jones, though my friends call me Mason. I'm here with an invitation from my employer, John Davenport."
Annja wasn't certain if she'd heard him correctly.
"John Davenport?"
"Yes."
"
The
John Davenport?"
Jones cocked his head to one side and looked at her as if he were examining some fascinating new species of insect. "Is there some other John Davenport I should be aware of?"
"No. No, of course not," Annja said quickly, caught more than a little off balance by the way the situation was unfolding. So much for the government adviser theory. And Jones was right. There was only one John Davenport worth talking about. Davenport was to Britain what Gates was to America or Murdoch to Australia. All three were incredibly wealthy, but only Davenport had an active interest in ancient cultures and used his immense wealth to regularly sponsor major archaeological expeditions to all kinds of unusual locales.
Of course, none of them had the kind of wealth her mentor, Roux, or even his former protégé, Garin Braden, had acquired during their long existence, but that was neither here nor there. It wasn't actually a fair comparison for one thing. Both Roux and Garin were tied to the mysticism surrounding the sword of Joan of Arc, just as she was. She had met them both during that fateful excursion in the mountains of France, when she had been hunting the Beast of Gevaudan. She'd found the beast, but she also found something else—the final missing piece of Joan's sword, shattered by her English captors before they burned her at the stake. It was only later, after the sword had mysteriously reforged itself as if by magic, that she had discovered both men had been contemporaries of Joan. Roux had been one of Joan's protectors. Garin, in turn, had been his squire. Something mystical had happened when Joan's sword was shattered, something that had kept them from aging or dying for hundreds of years. Comparing Davenport's wealth, obtained over a single lifetime, to theirs was like comparing apples and watermelons. Still, the fact that Davenport even knew she existed was frankly astounding to Annja, never mind that he had sent someone to find her in the middle of nowhere.
With nothing else looming on the horizon, she had gladly accepted when the dig's director had come calling. Several weeks in the jungle unearthing the treasures of the past had sounded like just the thing to escape the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn and the pop culture version of archaeology she was often forced to serve up in the name of ratings or
Chasing History's Monsters
.
Now, it seemed, the world had come looking for her again.
"What can I do for Mr. Davenport?" Annja asked. She was suddenly acutely aware of how she must look—her hair still full of the muck from the bottom of the cenote and her T-shirt and pants now wet from the hose.
Jones reached inside his suit jacket and came out with a cream-colored envelope. He handed it to her. The envelope was sealed with a dollop of red wax, in the middle of which had been pressed the Davenport company logo. The seal was unbroken, but Annja didn't leave it that way for long. Inside was a note on a small white card. It was handwritten in a smooth, flowing script that spoke of the confidence inherent in the man who'd penned it.

Annja looked up from the note to find Mason waiting patiently for her answer.
She thought about it for less than a minute and then shrugged, "Sure. Why not?" she said.

* * *

A
FTER CHECKING IN
with the site coordinator to let him know that she would be leaving, Annja changed into clean clothing, gathered what little gear she had from her tent and returned to the main encampment to find Mason standing next to a newer model Land Rover. The black exterior seemed to soak up the tropical sun, but Annja had little doubt the air-conditioned interior would provide a cool refuge from the heat. Jones opened the passenger door for her, stowed her bag in back and then climbed in behind the wheel. Mexico City was at the other end of a three-hour drive down a poorly maintained dirt track and Annja settled in for the trip, only to be surprised when Mason pulled off the main drag onto a side road that amounted to little more than a goat trail.
"Mexico City is that way," Annja said, pointing back in the direction they'd just come from, thinking he might have gotten turned around in the dense jungle.
Jones nodded. "You are correct, Ms. Creed," he said, glancing at her, his expression noncommittal. He turned his attention back to the road before him.
Annja gave him a moment to explain further, but when it was clear he wasn't going to do so, she asked, "Then why on earth are we going this way?"
"Because this is where I left the helicopter," he said.
"Oh," Annja replied.
They bounded over a few potholes, skirted a fallen tree trunk and emerged suddenly into a small clearing recently cut from the undergrowth.
In the middle of the clearing sat a Bell JetRanger helicopter, its sleek black frame looking like some kind of giant insect in the midst of that primeval landscape.
"Right. The helicopter. How silly of me," she said.
This time, Jones couldn't keep a straight face and actually grinned.

* * *

T
HE FLIGHT DIDN'T TAKE LONG
and her companion turned out to be enjoyable company. They talked for a time and then Mason asked the one question that inevitably came up.
"How do you like working in television?"
Annja hesitated. "You've seen the show?" she asked cautiously, trying to feel him out to see what he thought.
Chasing History's Monsters
wasn't for everyone. The weekly show was focused around the exploration of legends, myths and the possible existence of strange creatures like the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch. Every episode featured two or three different stories, presented with a mix of facts and fiction. Being the scientist she was, Annja's role usually involved shooting down the more outrageous claims, especially those of a supernatural sort. Her field of expertise was on the historical basis of even some of the most ridiculous stories and she tried to show how myths and legends grew out of factual events that were often distorted or misunderstood over time.
Of course, using hard science to prove that things like vampires and werewolves didn't exist only gave the true believers more reason to shout, "Cover-up!" and go on believing all the same.
Luckily, Mason wasn't one of those.
"I'm a regular fan," he said. "In fact, it was because of your work on the show that the boss decided to seek your advice."
"Oh," Annja said, thinking that one of the world's richest men watching her show on a regular basis was just a bit…weird. She couldn't quite wrap her head around it.
That little voice in the back of her head spoke up. Maybe he's watching it for some other reason, it said.
Almost as if he were reading her mind, Mason said, "Gotta tell ya, though. I don't care much for that other host. Kristen? Kathy?"
"Kristie. Kristie Chatham."
"Right. I mean, my Lord, could they hire a bigger bimbo? She can't even string three coherent sentences together and the wardrobe malfunctions became tiring after the first time or two. Do we really need one every other episode?"
Mason was banking the chopper, paying attention to the controls rather than looking her way, and so he missed the expression of shock on her face, shock that quickly turned to delight as he went on.
"Do they think every guy watching the show is a complete moron?"
Yes, Annja thought, but didn't say. She decided right then and there that she and Mason Jones were going to be very good friends.
"Tell me more," she said with a smile.
By the time he set the chopper down on the landing pad at Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City about forty minutes later, they were on a first-name basis.
A car was waiting for them when they disembarked, a uniformed chauffeur standing beside the open door.
Mason introduced Annja to the driver, whose name was José, and told her that José would take her to her hotel so that she could freshen up prior to her dinner with Davenport.
"What about you?" Annja asked.
Mason jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the helicopter behind them. "Someone has to put away the toys," he said.
Satisfied that she was in good hands and things were proceeding the way they were supposed to, something she had learned the hard way not to take for granted, she climbed into the air-conditioned vehicle and let José drive her to where she needed to go.
The hotel turned out to be the Four Seasons on the Paseo de la Reforma, or, as the locals called it, Reforma, just a few blocks from Chapultepec Park—the oldest national park in North America—as well as the National Museum of Anthropology and History. The hotel staff was expecting her, José obviously having called ahead, and she was quickly whisked away to a luxury suite on one of the hotel's upper floors. The porter who carried her bag upstairs and deposited it in the walk-in closet passed on the message that all gratuities had been taken care of and that the car would be back for her at six. He shut the doors softly as he exited the room, leaving Annja to take in her posh surroundings.
The suite consisted of a spacious living room area, complete with a wet bar, a flat-screen TV, a stereo and DVD player, all carefully arranged amid the couch and several armchairs. The bedroom contained a king-size bed and another television artfully mounted on the wall, as well as a walk-in closet and private dressing area. But it was the master bath, with its oversize soaking tub, that did it for her. Annja wasted no time in filling it with hot water and scented bath oil, then stripped off her dust-covered clothing and settled in to enjoy a long soak.
When she had scrubbed away the last of the dirt and grime of the jungle and her muscles had unknotted enough that she was again feeling human, she rose from the water and slipped into the thick terry-cloth robe the hotel provided its guests. She sat in the dressing area and brushed out her long hair, then, noting it was almost five-thirty, decided she had just enough time to get dressed for her meeting with Davenport.
But when she stepped into the closet to retrieve her bag, she found a selection of quality clothing of different colors and styles hanging on the racks.
She whistled long and low.
A peek confirmed her suspicions—all of them were in her size. How Davenport had known that was beyond her. While she appreciated the thought and attention he had obviously put into this meeting, it also made her feel uneasy. Just what did the man want? And why the show? She didn't know, but there was one way to find out.
She ran her fingers over the fabrics of the dresses hanging in the closet, admiring their cut and the feel of each garment, then turned away and pulled some clothes from her own bag. By the time the porter called up to tell her that her car was waiting, she was comfortably dressed in a pair of tan cargo pants, a white linen blouse and her sturdy hiking shoes. She wasn't here to play dress up for Davenport and she hoped her choice of clothing would convey that message without making her seem ungrateful. She added a native bead necklace that highlighted her amber-green eyes and decided it would have to do.
With a last glance in the mirror she headed for the elevator, her curiosity over being summoned to dinner by one of the richest men in the world nearly overwhelming her.