Mystic Warrior. Alex Archer

looked at her. “There are more of these men?”

      “Yes.” Annja pulled the ear-throat mic into place and clipped the walkie-talkie to the ammo belt. A deep, controlled voice spoke at the other end, demanding that Fox Six reply. She ignored the command and nodded to Orta. “You know the campus layout. Which way is the quickest way out?”

      “Follow me.” Orta headed to the back door.

      Krauzer had the crystal wrapped in one arm like an oversize football and was reaching for the other machine pistol lying on the floor.

      Taking a quick step, Annja kicked the weapon under the table and out of Krauzer’s reach.

      He whirled on her, his features taut with rage and fear. “What are you doing?”

      “Trying to keep us alive,” Annja said. “You’re a director, not a commando.”

      “And you think you’re some kind of action hero?”

      Annja glanced at the two unconscious attackers. “I’ve got experience with this sort of thing.”

      “I can shoot! Two guns are better than one.”

      “Are you coming?” Annja asked as she jogged toward Orta at the back door.

      Krauzer started to go around the table, but another gunman slid into place out in the hallway.

      The radio came to life in Annja’s ear. “Fox Leader, Fox Six is down. The woman has a weapon.”

      “Kill them,” the deep voice ordered. “Do not harm the crystal.”

      Annja lifted the machine pistol and aimed. Then she fired off three short bursts. Bullets hammered the door frame, throwing splinters out into the hallway, and they struck the gunman, knocking him down. Annja didn’t know where the man was hit and knew she didn’t have time to confirm his condition.

      After fumbling with the back door, Orta opened it and stuck his head outside. Then he yelped and pulled back inside the room just ahead of a salvo of bullets that ripped into the doorway and outside wall.

      Grabbing the man’s arm, Annja pulled him back from the door, squatted and snaked around the door frame. Two men held the hallway, one positioned on either side, with their machine pistols at the ready. As Annja leaned out, one of the gunmen broke cover and rushed toward them.

      Annja brought up the machine pistol and fired at almost point-blank range. The gunman managed to get off another burst that burned the air beside her. Her bullets stitched the man from his chest to his face.

      She forced herself not to think about what she’d just done. She didn’t have time. She stepped into the guy and gripped his bloodstained tactical vest with her free hand.

      Leaning into him, guiding his slow fall by partially supporting his weight as he went down, Annja aimed at the other gunman in the hallway and fired a burst that scored the wall above his head. She corrected her aim as the dead man sagged on her, careful not to let his weight trap her.

      The other gunman fired his weapon, either knowing his partner was dead from the blood pooling on the floor or not caring if the other man survived. Bullets thudded into the corpse, some of them burrowing into the tactical armor and some biting into flesh.

      Ignoring the vibration of the bullets’ impacts and the grisly weight of the dead man, Annja fired again, emptying her weapon in two short bursts. Tossing the weapon away, she scrambled from beneath the falling dead man, slipped in his blood and recovered as she stripped his weapon from his hand.

      Landing on her knees, Annja brought up the new weapon and hoped that the dead gunman hadn’t emptied it during his charge. As she centered the machine pistol on the surviving attacker, the gunman collapsed to the floor. She was on her feet immediately.

      When she paused over the second man, Annja dumped the magazine in her weapon and grabbed a fresh one from his gear. She glanced back at Orta and waved him on.

      “Fox Nine,” the deep voice called over the radio. “Report. Report!”

      The tinny echoes of tactical gear jangling in the hallway reached Annja’s ears and her pulse accelerated. Orta reached her, looking pale.

      “Where?” Annja asked as she stood.

      Behind the professor, Krauzer spoke rapidly on a cell phone.

      “Two corridors ahead, there’s a door that will let us out of the building,” Orta said.

      “We can’t leave the building,” Annja replied. “Not yet. Whoever’s after us, you can bet they have someone watching the exterior of the building.” From the professionalism of the gunmen, she suspected there would be snipers.

      What was it about the crystal that had drawn attention like this? She had no clue. Yet.

      “We need somewhere we can hide,” Annja said, focusing on Orta. “Somewhere safe.”

      “Sure, sure.” Orta nodded. He glanced at the elevator farther down the hallway. “The elevator’s there.” He pointed.

      “Stairs,” Annja said.

      “Next to the elevator.”

      Annja took the lead, sprinting down the hallway and reaching the doorway. She paused long enough to peer through the safety glass and saw no one in the dark stairwell. As soon as she stepped through, the lights came on. She pulled the machine pistol into position and stared up the steps.

      “It’s automatic,” Orta said. “They’re on timers to conserve electricity.”

      The lack of lighting until now also meant that no one was in the stairwell. Annja felt a little safer because of that and led the way up the stairs. At the landing, pausing to make certain the way was clear, she checked on her charges and saw Krauzer putting away his phone.

      “Did you get hold of the police?” Annja asked.

      “Better than that,” the director said. “I’ve got a package plan with Sabre Race.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Not what. Who. He’s the best protection guy there is in Hollywood. And I’ve got him on speed dial. He’ll be here in minutes.”

      Anger rushed through Annja. Calling in an outsider was only going to complicate things.

      The doorway on the floor below was just starting to open. Setting aside her feelings, she leveled the machine pistol and waited as she waved Orta and Krauzer forward.

7

      “You have beautiful hands, Sabre. Strong hands. With so much history in them.” The woman clung possessively to Sabre Race’s hand, pulling it close to her breast.

      She was five feet nine inches tall, six inches shorter than Sabre, with coal-black hair cut in a bob that hung to her sharply defined jawline. Her bangs hung over her plucked eyebrows and shadowed her violet eyes. The black dress left her toned shoulders bare, showing off her dark brown skin and a hint of cleavage.

      “You simply must let me tell your fortune one day.” Her voice carried the spice of the Caribbean in her words. Seated at a private table inside the club, she drew the attention of every male in the room and a good number of the females.

      “I would love to,” Sabre said, “but tonight is not the night. I have to leave.”

      She released his hand and drew back with a pouty smile. Her name was Tessanne Evora and she was reputed to be one of the best fortune-tellers in LA.

      “Are you playing hard to get?” she asked him with hooded eyes.

      Enjoying the game, Sabre gave her a small smile that he knew was charming because he’d worked on it. He was fit and in his early thirties. He worked hard on his look. Everyone in LA did. It was all part of the package, and presentation was everything.