Squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry, Avery thought of his father. Surely his father was cold in his grave now. The funeral had been two – no, three – weeks ago. He'd lost all sense of time. It was June now.
Pressing tight against the wall, Avery waited. He concentrated on the fact that what he was doing would help him get revenge for his father's murder. The policeman who had killed Gerard Moreau would not bask in his glory much longer. He would freeze in a grave during winter. Avery had sworn that.
A cell phone chirped down the alley. It was her phone. He breathed a sigh of relief to know she was still there. He'd been worried she'd figured out he'd led the men to her. More than anything, he couldn't fail Lesauvage.
Then a gunshot shattered the quiet locked in the narrow alley.
Okay, Annja thought grimly as she listened to the strident ring of her cell phone in her pocket, the element of surprise is surprisingly gone.
The two men whirled to look up at her. Both of them held pistols and looked ready to use them.
With the tent pole in both hands, Annja leaped, propelling herself upward and out.
One of the men fired, and the bullet tore through the space she would have occupied if she'd thrown herself directly at them. The steel-jacketed round fragmented against the stone wall and left a white scar.
Annja flipped through the air and landed gracefully in the alley, now to the men's backs.
"No shooting!" one of the men bellowed.
With her feet spread apart, knees bent to remain low, Annja swiveled her makeshift bostick from her left hand to the right and hit the shooter in the side of the face. His sunglasses shattered and blood sprayed from the impact. He squealed in pain.
Moving quickly to her left, using the stumbling man as a barrier to prevent his companion from aiming at her, Annja gripped the stick in both hands again. This was so not a good idea, she told herself.
She wasn't by nature a violent person, but she immediately resented anyone who tried to take advantage of or intimidate her. That was one of the reasons she'd taken every martial-arts class she could in New Orleans as she'd grown up.
Plus, Sister Mary Annabelle at the orphanage – eighty years old and still spry – was a firm believer in a sound mind and a sound body. Sister Mary Annabelle had never missed a single tai chi class. She was an embarrassment to the other nuns, but she didn't care and Annja had loved the old woman for it.
Annja went on the attack at once. Outrunning a pistol in the twisting confines of the alley was out of the question.
Her phone rang again, sounding inordinately loud in the alley even after the thunderous peal of the gunshot. She wondered if anyone had called the police.
She stepped forward, her mind working rapidly as it always did. She wasn't scared. During her experiences as an archaeologist working in countries far from home, she'd encountered a number of potentially threatening situations caused by weather, ancient traps, geology and men.
Being scared wouldn't help anything.
Striding forward, her left hand over the top of the stick and her right hand under it, Annja slid her right hand down, leaving her right knuckle over the top of the stick as it came over and down, and struck.
The stick slammed against the man's forearm. Something cracked. He released his pistol and screamed. Annja cut off the scream with her next blow, an up strike that caught him under the jaw and dropped him to his knees.
Whirling, knowing the first man she'd attacked was regaining his balance, Annja took another grip on the stick. Stepping forward, she slammed the blunt end of the stick into the man's stomach, doubling him over.
Unbelievably, he brought his pistol up and squeezed the trigger. Two shots ricocheted from the wall behind Annja, missing her by inches.
Dodging again to the left, Annja spun the stick and swung at his gun hand, aiming for the thumb and wrist. Bones broke like dry branches cracking in a campfire.
Staying on the attack, Annja whirled again. She hit the man across the back, aiming for his kidneys. Then she struck him across the backs of his knees, dropping him to the ground.
Even then, doubtless blossoming with pain, he tried to face her. Annja drove the blunt end of the stick against his forehead. He was unconscious before he sprawled on the ground. Blood dripped from the half-moon wound on his forehead.
The other man reached for his dropped pistol.
Annja drove the end of the stick forward, catching the man in the side of the neck and knocking him aside. She kicked the pistol away.
Over the past few years, she'd learned how to use pistols, but she didn't want to touch either of theirs. There was no telling how many crimes were attached to them, and she didn't want to confuse the issue with her fingerprints in case they were all taken into custody.
Before the man could get up again, Annja pinned him to the ground with the stick against the base of his throat. "No," she said.
The man grabbed the stick in both hands and wrenched it away. She kicked him in the face with her hiking boot. The black La Sportiva with Gore-Tex lining had plenty of tread. For hiking slippery slopes and kicking butt, Annja thought, they just can't be beat.
The tread ripped at the man's face, opening a cut over his right eye. Annja put the end of the stick against his throat again, almost making him gag.
"Do that again," Annja said in an even voice, "and you'll regret it."
The man held his hands up beside his head in surrender. Blood trickled into his eye, forcing him to squint.
Holding the stick in place, Annja carefully stretched to search the unconscious man. She found money, two clips for the pistol, but no identification.
"Who are you?" Annja asked the pinned man.
The man growled a curse at her.
Annja pressed the stick against his throat and made him retch. She let him up enough to turn over and vomit.
"Bad mistake," she said.
A siren wailed in the distance, growing closer.
Annja decided she didn't want to be around to answer questions from the Lozère police. As an American, even one with a proper passport, things could become tense. She wasn't on a dig site with administration backing her.
She tapped the man hard on the back of the head with the pole. "Don't let me see you again."
The man cursed at her again, but he remained on the ground.
Annja held on to her stick and jogged down the alley. Her mind whirled and the adrenaline rush started to fade and leave her with the quaking aftermath. Her legs felt rubbery.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She was in Lozère hunting an old monster story. According to plan, she'd be in and out with a few details that would satisfy the young crowd who watched Chasing History's Monsters, and a paycheck would soon – she hoped – follow.
Was this a mugging? She wondered. Maybe the two men had heard about her or simply were intrigued enough about the backpack to come after her.
But she got the feeling something more was going on. She just didn't know what.
Get out of town, she told herself. Get to the mountains and see if you can find enough to do the story. Once you finish, you can get back to Brooklyn and edit it, get paid and maybe get to North Africa for Poulson's dig.
Poulson's dig site was interesting to her. The team was looking for one of Hannibal's campsites when he marched across with his elephants. Annja had never been to Africa. She'd always wanted to go. But Poulson's team was privately funded and he didn't have the budget to pay her way.