Annja felt their eyes on her—they knew exactly where she was. She also sensed other eyes on her. Another gang member?
“Come out, girl.” The tall one again. “Girl, girl, girl. Come out. Come out.”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Annja whispered as she did just that. In a blur of taupe taffeta, chiffon and sequins, she sprinted forward, surprising both gunmen, who couldn’t draw a bead. She slammed into the lead one, striking his throat with her elbow and grabbing at his gun with her other hand. She threw the SIG Sauer behind her, listening to it clatter on the street. She pulled her second elbow jab to avoid killing him and stepped back as he dropped, crouching below the chain that cut through the air.
Five left standing.
Four after she shot toward one of the switchblade wielders, kicking him in the groin, then following through with a punch to his jaw that sent a few teeth and a spray of blood flying. Almost too easy.
“Scroafă!” the other man with the gun hollered. He was considerably older than the others, maybe thirty, with a short beard and a dead eye. He fired, missing her again as she dived, the bullet striking the pavement behind her. “Scroafă!”
Annja didn’t know the word. He fired again, and this time the bullet grazed her arm, feeling as if an open flame had been put to her skin. She slipped by the three men surrounding her and raced toward the one-eyed gunman, darting left when he brought the gun up again. The sword was in her hand; she hadn’t realized that she’d reached for it. The pommel felt good against her palm; its presence cut some of the burning sensation from the graze. She turned the blade vertical to the street and then brought it around like a batter would swing at an incoming ball. The flat of the sword connected with the man’s hand and caused the gun to fly from his grip.
“Bisturiu!” one of the men behind her shouted. “Spada!”
“Yes, it’s a sword,” Annja said. It had taken the wound to her arm to make her realize how stupid she’d been, looking for a fight just to get in some physical activity. Annja had been thrust into more than enough fights through the past few years. She didn’t need to go trolling for them.
“Idiot!” She cursed herself as she spun on the ball of her bare foot, a painful sensation on the rough pavement, and brought the flat of the blade around again, striking him in the arm. At the same time she kicked at his knee, hearing a discomfiting pop.
“Scroafă!” The one-eyed man repeated it like a chant before Annja cuffed him on the neck and rendered him unconscious. She turned to face the remaining three just as the one with the chain lashed her chest.
The air rushed from her lungs and she doubled over, still managing to point the sword at him. Determined, he whipped the chain at her again, as if it was a weightless thing in his hands. It caught the blade, but only for a moment.
“Infern!” the chain wielder gasped.
Annja took advantage of his momentary surprise to slice down with the sword. She pulled her punch, using just enough force to wound him, but not cut off his arm. The pain made him drop the chain. Some of it landed on her bare feet, adding to her aches.
“Ceda,” he said, grasping his bleeding arm and holding it close. Behind him, the others took off running. Annja realized they’d been the same two who had run away at the beginning...and come back with reinforcements. Would they return with still more? “Ceda.” He bent over, his back rounding and making him look like a turtle. “Ceda.”
“I suspect that means you surrender.” Annja willed the sword away and, despite her pain, shoved the man toward the wall.
In the shadows there, Annja found her purse, which she had dropped when she’d picked the fight with the first youth. She grabbed it, took her cell phone out and called the police, quickly explaining in French that she’d been accosted by a Roma gang and that some vigilantes came to her aid. The tale was half-true. Prodding the man to stay ahead of her, she nudged him toward her shoes, which she gingerly put on. Then she directed him to sit near one of his fallen fellows.
“Wait,” she told him. “Do you understand English? French?”
He nodded.
“Wait for the police.”
When she could hear sirens, she returned to the shadows, following the wall back to the old train station. And toward where she had earlier sensed someone else watching her.
“Roux.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ll heal.”
“Rather quickly no doubt.”
The wail of the sirens grew louder. Annja glanced toward the men, making sure none of them had bolted.
“And what was all of that for, Annja Creed?”
She touched her arm, feeling the sting from the bullet and the warmth of her blood. There was a first-aid kit in her suitcase at the hotel; she always traveled with one.
They kept close to the front of the massive Gare du Nord. The original train station had been demolished a century and a half ago, deemed too small. This huge affair, built in its place, had been recently added to. Designed by French architect Jacques Ignace Hittorff, it was one of Annja’s favorite places in Paris, the facade created around a triumphal arch, the main cast-iron support beams supplied by an ironworks in Glasgow. In daylight, you could see eight statues along the building’s cornice, each representing international destinations—London, Brussels, Vienna, Warsaw, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Berlin, Cologne. Annja and Roux passed beneath the one representing Vienna.
The station served all of northern Europe, so was a beehive of activity around the clock...though not so much outside the building this time of night. Well past midnight now, there were a few souls about, some gaping down the street in the direction of the downed gang.
From the cover of their vantage point, she and Roux watched as a police car arrived, its flashing ice-blue lights cutting through the thinning fog. A van pulled in behind it and policemen spilled out. Like swarming ants, they took control of the Romanies, lifting the unconscious forms and handcuffing the older one. Annja couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the older man pointed with his head toward the shadows and the train station.
Annja started to move again, as fast as she dared without drawing attention. She pulled Roux along with her.
They reached the far end of the station and turned the corner.
“Didn’t want to stick around and explain yourself to the police?”
“I’ll be in France for the better part of another week,” Annja said, changing the subject.
“Certainly enough time for you to pick another fight with the Romany gangs.”
She didn’t bother to answer that.
“More of the underground? For your television program?”
How did Roux know—? Stupid. Somehow he always knew where she was. Part of his shtick. One of Joan of Arc’s knights, he had been unable to save the crusader when she was burned at the stake. And, it seemed, he’d been cursed to live until her sword—shattered by the English—was reassembled. He’d spent more than five centuries searching for the pieces of Joan’s sword. But the sword was whole now, resting in the otherwhere until Annja needed it, and Roux was still around. Just how old he’d live to, nobody could predict. She looked upon him as a mentor of sorts. A mentor with an agenda. What had brought him out here in the early-morning hours?
“I’m done in the catacombs,” she said. “I leave tomorrow—later today, actually—for Avignon.”
“A vacation? Certainly long overdue.”
She shook her head and let a silence fall between them. She heard a bus chug by on the main street and a few cars motor past. From somewhere came faint music. She focused on it, trying to place it, finally coming up