"Just so. I myself spoke to God's Hound before he left on this mission of his. He goes, you see, to investigate whether something demonic lies behind these apparitions in New Mexico." He shook his head. "His superior, Secretary Cangelosi, insists he actually finds such infernal influences. And dispatches them in a most efficient way."
"God's Hound?" Garin asked.
"It's what we call this Walloon Jesuit. He looks like a hound. He is tenacious as a rabid dog. And can be as ruthless. Domini Cane."
Garin laughed. "He might take umbrage. The term was once used to refer to the bitter rivals of his order, the Dominicans."
"Really? I had no idea. Well, I personally took Father Godin aside and charged him to recover this relic. To think – the sword of St. Joan restored! You are certainly correct. It must be returned at once to the bosom of the church!"
Garin bowed to hide his smile. He found Roux's new project, Annja Creed, to be a thoroughly delightful young woman. She was beautiful, vibrant, resourceful, indomitable. But if she stood between him and his continuing ageless immortality – well, was it not the way of mortals to wither and fall from the vine?
He knew about Father Godin. The former Belgian paratrooper, Congo mercenary, French Foreign Legionnaire had a list of doctorates as long as his arm. He was one of the world's most esteemed counterterrorism experts. Indeed, certain of Garin's companies had at various times hired him to consult on security, although Garin had never met the man. But his great passion and his life's work were to serve as the special secret operative of the church, answering only to the Pope's confidential secretary.
Despite advancing age he was deadly as a krait. And for all his genius-level intellect he had the single-minded tenacity of what Cardinal de Souza blithely named him, and what he resembled – God's Hound.
If any mere mortal could separate Annja Creed from her cursed blade, it was Godin. Garin was counting on that.
"We live in an age of miracles as well as dangers, Eminence."
"Just so, my son, just so."
The cardinal rose and made the sign of benediction over the industrialist, who piously crossed himself in turn.
"May God bless you, Garin Braden."
"He has, Your Eminence," Garin said with a wholly genuine smile. "Many times."
Chapter 7
Two men pinioned Annja's arms from behind. She had never sensed them coming. She looked back over her shoulder. The man on her right had a head like a Muppet, all blond shag and gap-toothed grin. He wore an oversize Army jacket and smelled sour.
The scruffy man who had originally approached her had shifted to place himself between Annja and the street to screen what was happening from cars passing in the twilight. He smiled at her.
"Don't scream or struggle, honey," he said. "Or we'll have to hurt you."
The man who held her left arm rammed a fist into her kidney. She gasped as pain shocked her system. Her knees buckled.
The men hustled her toward the minivan. They moved around to flank her, making themselves look more like helpers and less like abductors while keeping pressure on her shoulder and elbow joints.
They've done this before,Annja thought. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. The aftershocks of pain made her blink. She forced herself to breathe deeply and focus.
The first man moved around her to open the van's back doors. The rear row of seats had been discarded, leaving an extralarge cargo space. Her two handlers, grunting from the exertion, hoisted her into the van.
"Damn," the man on her left said with a Latino accent. "Bitch is heavy."
"Muscular," the gap-toothed guy said. "Watch her. She might get ideas."
"No way," the first man said, climbing in after them and shutting the doors.
The sunset gloom was replaced by darkness that seemed complete. Annja felt panic fluttering around inside her belly and rib cage like a bird trying to break free. She drew in a deeper abdominal breath.
"She knows she'd better be a good girl. And if you are a good girl, we'll make you feel real good."
Rapists? she wondered. It was the most obvious explanation for this attack. But from the very outset she doubted it was the motive.
The first man was pleasant-looking, if you overlooked the patchy three-day beard and an overlay of grime that she strongly suspected had been applied by hand rather than hard living. He had his hand inside his jacket. When it came out Annja saw a glitter as her eyes adjusted to the last rays of daylight filtering in the front windows of the van.
The grubby hand held a hypodermic syringe. There could be no mistake.
Annja sagged. "There, sweetie," the man said. "This'll sting at first. Then you'll feel fine."
The fear she felt on seeing the needle turned her stomach. It was time to stop pretending to be a victim.
She ripped both arms forward. The two men holding her were caught off guard in spite of their previous discussion. She clapped her hands together on the sides of the bearded man's head as if clashing the cymbals.
He bellowed in surprise and dropped the syringe, reeling back. Annja slammed both her elbows straight back. She felt her left one glance off the Latino's forehead. The shaggy man caught it right in the mouth. She felt teeth break and gouge her elbow through her windbreaker.
She was pretty sure the gap in his teeth had been blacked out. He'd have a gap for real now. He fell back from her, howling.
"Jesus Christ!" the Latino guy shouted. Holding her biceps with his left hand, he let go to do something urgent with his right.
Suspecting what it was, she pulled her knee to her chest. The man who'd held the syringe crouched before her. His eyes were glazed but starting to refocus with purpose – and rage.
Annja kicked him in the sternum with all her strength. The force blasted him backward. He had not fully engaged the door latch. The van doors blew open and he flew out to land hard on the pavement.
Annja was already twisting clockwise. The Latino was bringing a handgun to bear. It was a serious handgun – a Heckler & Koch USP of some kind, big and black. It was expensive hardware for a penniless, panhandling derelict.
Annja recognized the standard equipment for a professional killer.
She caught his right wrist in her left hand, pushed the barrel upward. It went off with a bang that seemed to bulge the thin-gauge metal van walls outward and Annja's eardrums inward. With her eyes stinging from the muzzle-blast Annja squeezed. Hard.
The Latino's dark eyes went wide. His mouth worked. No sound came out.
His wrist bones broke with a crunching sound, like rocks breaking beneath the tires of a heavy truck.
He screamed. With a twist, to make sure raw, splintered ends and loose parts ground against nerves and shocked him into incapacity, Annja flung him bodily against the shaggy man, who now had a bloody beard to go with an authentically vacant black gape of mouth.
She leaped from the van. The man who had first accosted her had struggled to his feet. He had his hands down in his pants. As she sprinted the few steps toward him, Annja did not reckon he was playing with himself.
The hand popped out of his waistband clutching some kind of black autopistol. It was blocky: maybe a Glock, she thought. She crescent-kicked with her right foot, up, across. The inner side of her boot slapped the handgun spinning from his hand. She used the kick's momentum to plant her right foot, pirouette on that leg and deliver a spinning reverse kick to his jaw with the heel of her left foot.