Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

      

      The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable

      Annja had experienced such things before. Women generally did. Usually it was better to just ignore things like that, but Annja was aware that she no longer lived in a usually world.

      A figure stood at the window, and he was staring at her. Gaunt and dressed in rags, the old man looked more like a scarecrow than a human being. A ragged beard clung to his pointed chin. His hat had flaps that covered his ears and gave his face a pinched look. His eyes were beady and sharp, mired in pits of wrinkles and prominent bone.

      He lifted a hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off. His dirty forefinger pointed directly at Annja, and even from across the room, she read his lips.

      “Annja Creed.”

      A chill ghosted through her. How did the man know her name?

      “Annja Creed,” the old man said. “The world is going to end. Soon.”

      Gabriel’s Horn

      Rogue Angel_™

      Alex Archer

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      Special thanks and acknowledgment to

       Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Epilogue

      1

      Prague, Czech Republic

      “He’s going to catch fire when the motorcycle hits the back of the overturned car?” Annja Creed asked in disbelief.

      “Yeah. But the real trick is when he catches fire.” Barney Yellowtail calmly surveyed the wrecked cars in the middle of the narrow street between a line of four-story buildings that had seen far better days.

      “When?” Annja asked, still trying to grasp the whole idea.

      “When is important,” Barney continued. He was in his late forties, twenty years older than Annja, and had been a stuntman for almost thirty years. “If Roy catches on fire too late, we’ve hosed the gag.”

      Gags, Annja had learned, were what stunt people called the death-defying feats they did almost on a daily basis.

      “And if you hose the gag,” Annja said, “you have to do it over and risk Roy’s life again.”

      Barney grinned. He claimed to be full-blood Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma and looked it. His face was dark and seamed, creased by a couple of scars under his left eye and under his right jawline. He wore rimless glasses that darkened in the bright sunlight, and a straw cowboy hat. His jeans and chambray work shirt were carefully pressed. His boots were hand-tooled brown-and-white leather that Annja thought were to die for.

      Annja was five feet ten inches tall with chestnut hair and amber-green eyes. She had an athlete’s build with smooth, rounded muscle. She wore khaki pants, hiking boots, a lightweight white cotton tank under a robin’s-egg-blue blouse, wraparound blue sunglasses and an Australian Colly hat that she’d developed a fondness for to block the sun.

      “That’s not the worst part,” Barney assured her.

      “That’s not the worst part?” Annja echoed.

      “Naw,” Barney replied, smiling wide enough to show a row of perfect teeth. “The worst part is that the director will be mad.”

      “Oh.”

      Barney looked at her as if sensing that she wasn’t completely convinced. “Mad directors mean slow checks. They also mean slow work. If you can’t hit your marks on a gag, especially on a film that Spielberg’s underwriting, your phone isn’t going to ring very often.”

      Annja wondered if you had to be certifiable to be a stuntman.

      “C’mon, Annja,” Barney said. “I’ve read about you in the magazines, seen you on Letterman and kept up with what you’re doing on Chasing History’s Monsters. You know life isn’t worth living without a little risk.”

      Annja knew her life hadn’t exactly been risk free. Actually, especially lately, it seemed to go the other way. As a working archaeologist, she’d traveled to a number of dangerous places, and those places were starting to multiply dramatically as she became more recognized.

      She thought about her job at Chasing History’s Monsters. Most days she wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. The syndicated show had high enough ratings that the producers could send Annja a number of places that she couldn’t have afforded on her own.

      The drawback was that the stories she was asked to cover—historical madmen, psychopaths, serial killers and even legendary monsters—were usually less than stellar. Fans of the show couldn’t get enough of her, but some of the people in her field of archaeology had grown somewhat leery.

      None of that, though, had come without risk.

      “Okay,” Annja admitted. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve never set myself on fire.”

      “Roy’s not going to set himself on fire,” Barney said. “I’m going to do that for him.”

      “Oh.”

      “It’s just that timing is critical.” Barney stepped to one side as his cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

      Annja nodded and surveyed the street. The film crew had barricaded three city blocks in Prague’s Old Town. A few streets over, the Vltava River coursed slowly by and carried the river traffic to various destinations.

      Prague