Rogue Angel Series by Alex Archer
Rogue Angel #4
Rogue Angel #5
Forbidden City
Alex Archer
A stunning artifact holds the key to an untapped power of global destruction-- While working on a dig in the California wilderness, archaeologist-adventurer Annja Creed uncovers evidence of a tragedy that's linked to Chinese miners during the days of the Gold Rush. A sudden attack on the site by shadow if gures drives Annja to if nd the connection to a mysterious buried city in China. Lured by legends of gold, betrayal and the vengeance of a Han Dynasty overlord, Annja travels on the Orient Express, battling avaricious treasure hunters and a modern-day descendant of an ancient league of assassins. Her adversaries will stop at nothing to stake their claim on the fabled lost city, where a Han leader's dark past promises doom for those who dare to reveal its evil power.
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Rogue Angel #6
The Lost Scrolls
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved."I thought Julius Caesar burned down the Great Library," Annja Creed said. She picked her way gingerly across a small lot of churned-up dust with chunks of yellow-brick rubble in it, glad for the durability of her hiking boots. She was sheltered from the already intense morning Mediterranean sun by the floppy straw hat she wore over her yellow T-shirt and khaki cargo pants."He did, Ms. Creed," her handsome young Egyptian archaeologist escort said, turning to smile at her. He had a narrow, dark hawk's face and flashing eyes. His white lab smock hung from wide shoulders and flapped around the backs of his long skinny legs in the sea breeze snaking around the close-set buildings. "Among others.""Call me Annja, please," she said.He laughed. His teeth were as perfect as his English. His trace of accent made young Dr. Ismail al-Maghrabi seem that much more exotic. I love my job, she thought."If you will call me Ismail," he said."Done," she replied with a laugh.Ahead of them stood a ten-foot-high loafshaped translucent plastic bubble. The rumbling of generators forced them to raise their voices as they approached. Some kind of structure had recently been demolished here, hard by the Alexandrian waterfront in the old Greek quarter. Big grimy warehouses and blocks of shops with cracked-stucco fronts crowded together on all sides. Although Alexandria was a major tourist destination the rumble and stink of buses and trucks through the narrow streets suggested little of charm and less of antiquity. Still, Annja's heart thumped in her throat with anticipation."For one thing," al-Maghrabi said, "the library was very extensive indeed. Also parts of it appear to have been scattered across the Greek quarter. As you probably know, in 2004 a team of Egyptian and Polish archaeologists uncovered a series of what appear to be lecture halls a few blocks from here."She nodded. "I read about it on the BBC Web site at the time. A very exciting development.""Most. The library was a most remarkable facility, as much a great university and research center as anything else. Along with the famous book collections, and of course reading rooms and auditoria, it offered dormitories for its visitors, lush gardens, even gymnasia with swimming pools.""Really? I had no idea."He stopped to open the latch to a door in a wooden frame set into the inflated tent. "The envelope is for climate control," he explained, opening the door for her. "Positive air pressure allows us to keep humidity and pollution at bay. Our treasures are probably not exceptionally vulnerable to such influences, considering their condition, but why take chances?"The interior seemed gloomy after the brilliant daylight. Annja paused to let her eyes adjust as he resecured the door. There was little to see but a hole cut into the ground. "You seem to enjoy some pretty enviable resources here, if you don't mind my saying so, Ismail.""Not at all! Our discoveries here have attracted worldwide attention, which in turn helps to secure the resources to develop and conserve them properly. For that I believe we have to thank the Internet—and of course your own television network, which provides a share of our funding.""Yes. I am thrilled they allowed me to come here," Annja said."I'm told the scrolls contain revelations about the lost civilization of Atlantis." Annja couldn't mask the skepticism in her voice."Come with me. I trust you don't mind a certain amount of sliding into holes in the ground?"Annja laughed. "I am a real archaeologist, Ismail. I don't just play one on TV."She didn't actually have to slide. A slanting tunnel about three feet wide and five feet high had been dug down to a subterranean chamber perhaps a dozen feet below ground level. Hunched over, they followed thick yellow electrical cords down the shallow ramp. "As you no doubt know," her guide said, "the library is believed to have been built early in the third century B.C. by Ptolemy II, around the temple to the Muses built by his father, the first Ptolemy.""That's the Mouseion, isn't it?" she said."Origin of our word museum?""Yes. It was also said that Ptolemy III decreed that all travelers arriving in Alexandria had to surrender any books or scrolls in their possession to be copied by official scribes before being returned to them. While we don't know for certain if that is true, the library's collection swiftly grew to be the grandest in the Mediterranean world."They reached a level floor of stone polished slick by many feet over many years. Banks of yellowish floodlights lit a chamber perhaps ten by twenty feet. Three people were crowded inside, two on hands and knees rooting in what appeared to be some kind of lumpy mound. One was bending over a modern table. The air was cool and smelled of soil and mildew.The person at the table straightened and turned toward them, beaming. He was a tall, pot-bellied young man with crew-cut blond hair and an almost invisible goatee on the uppermost of his several chins. "Greetings! You must be Annja Creed."He held out a big hand. Annja knew at once he was a working archaeologist. He looked soft and pale overall, but his hand was callused and cracked like a stonemason's, from digging, lifting and the painstaking work of chipping artifacts from a stony matrix with a dentist's steel pick."This is Dr. Szczepan Pilitowski," Ismail said. He struggled with the first name—it came out sounding close enough to Stepan. "He's our expert in extracting the scrolls safely from the ground.""We all do what we can," Pilitowski said in a cheerful tone. "There is much to be done."The other two, a man and a woman, turned around and picked themselves up from the floor. They wore kneepads, Annja noticed. One was a man, the other a woman. Both were thin and dark, and she took them for Egyptians."This is Ali Mansur and Maria Frodyma," Ismail said. The man just bobbed his head and grinned shyly.The woman stuck out her hand. She wore her black hair in a bun, and had a bright, birdlike air to her. "Please call me Maria," she said in a Polish accent as Annja shook her hand."Annja.""This was a library storeroom," Ismail said."Most of the scrolls were kept in locked cabinets, in chambers such as this. Only the most popular items, or those specifically requested by scholars, were stored in the reading rooms.""So that heap…?" Annja said, nodding toward the rubble mound where Maria and Ali had been working."The remains of a cabinet," Pilitowski said."Damaged by the fire, it collapsed and mostly decomposed, leaving the burned scrolls behind.""How many scrolls did the library possess?" Annja asked. "Or does anyone really know?""Not precisely," Maria said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand. She seemed to show a quick smile to the bulky and jovial Pilitowski, whose own smile broadened briefly. "Some have hypothesized it held as few as forty thousand scrolls. Others suggest the founding Ptolemy set a goal of half a million. On the basis of what we have found, we feel confident conjecturing the former limit is far too low. As to the upper—" She shrugged expressively."This isn't my time period," Annja confessed, believing as she did in professional full disclosure. "But I can certainly see how the recovery of any number of scrolls at all from the ancient world is a terrific thing.""Oh, yes," Maria replied."And here you see three of them," Pilitowski boomed. A vast callused paw swept dramatically toward the table.They looked like three forearm-sized chunks of wood fished out of a campfire, Annja thought. They lay on a sheet of white plastic."These are actual scrolls?""Yes, yes," Pilitowski said. "My friends and I extracted them this morning."Annja felt a thrill. She'd seen older artifacts—she'd seen Egyptian papyri a thousand years older in the British Museum. But there was something about these scrolls, the thrill of something lost for two thousand years and believed to be indecipherable even if found. Yet modern technology was about to restore the contents of these lumps of char to the world."Even if they're just grocery lists," she said a little breathlessly, "this is just so exciting."The others just smiled at her. They knew. "Who really burned the library, anyway?" she asked Ismail. "Was it Julius Caesar?"The others looked to Ismail. Ali was still grinning but had yet to utter a syllable. Annja's first thought had been that he didn't speak English. But that appeared to be the common language on the multinational dig. She began to suspect he was just shy."Caesar was one of the culprits," her guide said."One of them?""And not the first," Maria said. The archaeologists seemed glad of the break. Annja understood that. They loved their work, she could tell, as she loved the work when she was engaged in it. But it could be brutally arduous, and breaks were welcome."The first major fire damage occurred around 88 B.C.," the woman said, "when much of Alexandria burned down during civil disorders. This may have been the greatest destruction. Then during the Roman civil wars in 47 B.C., Julius Caesar chased his rival, Pompey, into the city. When Egyptian forces attacked him, Caesar set fire to the dockyards and the Egyptian fleet. The fire probably spread through trade goods piled on the docks waiting to be loaded on ships. The library lay near the waterfront, like now. Many scrolls were lost in the conflagration. Also it appears Roman soldiers stole many scrolls and sent them to Rome."
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Rogue Angel #7
God of Thunder
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The four men approached Annja Creed like a well-oiled machine. Their actions told her they'd done this before.She didn't break stride or change direction, heading toward the Mailboxes & Stuff store that she used to mail and receive packages. In her career as an archaeologist, she often received items for study and sometimes for authentication. A handful of museums and private collectors paid her to do certificates of authenticity on items they were putting on display.Although everything added up, payment for the certificates wasn't much. However, the benefits included free access to those museums and private collections, and the goodwill of curators who were valuable sources of information when she was doing research.The four men moved with determination, without speaking. They were young and athletic, casually dressed and instantly forgettable. She guessed that they had military training.Everything's already been planned, Annja thought. Adrenaline spiked within her, elevating her heart rate and her senses. She stayed within the flow of the lunch crowd flooding out of the buildings onto the street. Everyone was hurrying to try to make it back on time.She knew the four men had been waiting for her, and wondered if they had followed her from her loft. She hadn't been home in weeks. A dig in Florida had consumed her and given her a brief respite from the dregs of winter that still hovered over New York. She'd quickly dropped off luggage and headed back out.Layered in dark winter clothing—a thigh-length navy wool coat, sweater over a long-sleeved top, and Levi's, with a knitted black beanie and wraparound blue-tinted sunglasses, her backpack slung over one shoulder—Annja figured the team had watched her closely to recognize her. But at five feet ten and with chestnut-colored hair that dipped below her shoulders, she forgot she had a tendency to stand out in a crowd.Nikolai, the manager at the shipping business, had left messages with her answering service to let her know she had a number of packages waiting for pickup.So why hadn't they picked her up at the airport? Annja mulled that over and realized that they weren't law-enforcement personnel. Maybe they hadn't wanted to draw attention to themselves.Then why hadn't they nabbed her at her loft? If they knew about Mailboxes & Stuff, they surely knew where she lived. That thought led to a whole new line of questions.Although it stunk to the high heavens, the situation made Annja curious, and curiosity had driven her through most of her life.Annja took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in numbers."Mailboxes & Stuff," a friendly male voice answered."This is Nikolai. How may I help you?" His Russian accent was charming, but Annja knew it was fake. Nikolai had been born and raised in Brooklyn."It's Annja.""Ah, Annja, it is so good to hear from you." Nikolai lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You would not believe what has been going on."Annja stopped at the newsstand at the corner across the street from Mailboxes & Stuff. She waited in line as customers ahead of her picked out newspapers, magazines and snacks.Checking the reflections in the windows of the nearby coffee shop, Annja watched the four men attempt to lose themselves in the crowd of pedestrians. If she hadn't already made them, she knew she wouldn't have noticed them."So tell me," Annja invited."A man came into the store," Nikolai said. "He showed me government credentials and claimed that he needed a package that was supposed to be delivered to you."The newsstand owner dealt with his clientele quickly. The line shrank faster than Annja wanted."What kind of credentials?" Annja asked."I don't know. I didn't get a good look. They tried to intimidate me. Something with a photograph and badge.""Do you remember his name?""Agent Smith." Nikolai cackled. "I thought it was very humorous. I asked him if he'd seen The Matrix."Nikolai was a die-hard science fiction fan. He spoke Klingon and was constantly trying to teach phrases to Annja."What did he do?" Annja asked."He was not amused. Then he threatened me. So I told him he had to have a court order before I gave any package to him. He didn't produce a court order," Nikolai said. "So I called the police.""You called the police?""Sure. I'm not going to play around with them. You get expensive things here, Annja, but you're not the only client I have that does.""Right. So what did Agent Smith do?""What did he do? He left is what he did.""Did the police come?""An hour or so later, sure. Evidently my call wasn't very important.""Did you file a report?""I did. But I kept your name out of it. I just told them that someone using government ID wanted to go through the packages.""What did the police say?" Only two people separated Annja from the newsstand vendor."Just to let them know if the guy showed up again. They really don't like people jacking around with official identification and pretending to be police officers.""Have you seen him today?" Only one person remained in front of Annja."No. Why?"The last customer moved off after buying copies of Time and Newsweek."Hang on a second." Annja asked for copies of Cosmopolitan, Wired, National Geographic and People. If she ended up in some government agency's interview room, it would be nice to have reading material while she waited for her attorney to arrive."Are you at the newsstand?" Nikolai asked.Annja paid for the magazines and said thanks. Then she returned to the phone conversation. "Yes."Across the street, Nikolai peered through the Mailboxes & Stuff window. He had shoulder-length dark hair, beard stubble, a checked shirt under a sleeveless sweater and deep blue eyes."Do you see Agent Smith?" Annja slid the magazines into her backpack, two on either side of her notebook computer to provide extra cushioning. The backpack was built around an impact-resistant core case, but it never hurt to be prepared.Nikolai scanned the crowd waiting for the light. "Maybe. He's wearing different clothes today."Annja was aware of the four men closing in on her. "Who was the package from?""Mario Fellini."The name surprisedAnnja and took her back a few years. When she'd finished school, she'd worked at a dig at Hadrian's Wall in England. The Romans had built the eightymile-long wall to cut the country in half, walling out the Picts.Mario Fellini had been on the dig after completing a double major in fine arts and archaeology. He was Italian, from a large family in Florence, with four older sisters determined to marry him off.During her time there, Annja had struck up a close friendship with Mario but it hadn't gone any further than that.Annja didn't know why he would send her something. They hadn't been in touch in years."Annja?" Nikolai said."Yes?""The light is green."Annja became aware of the pedestrians flowing around her, crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and continued across."Do you know this Fellini?" Nikolai asked."Yes. At least, I did. We haven't talked in years." Annja's pulse quickened."Would he send you anything illegal? Like contraband, maybe?""If he's still the same guy I knew, then no, he wouldn't.""This is good," Nikolai said. "Some of my customers, I'm not so sure. I try to stay away from trouble.""I know. I'm sorry you're caught up in this.""You're more caught up in it than I am. That is Agent Smith behind you and to your right."Great, Annja thought. She took a deep breath. "Is the package there at the store?""No. With all the interest in it, I thought perhaps I could arrange a more private delivery. I've got it put away for safekeeping."Annja smiled. "Thank you." "Is no problem, Annja. For you, anything. If you hadn't gotten so famous doing that show, maybe you wouldn't attract strange people, you know?"Annja knew Nikolai was referring to Chasing History's Monsters, the syndicated show she cohosted. During the trip to Florida she'd worked the dig site involving Calusa Indians. Although now extinct, the Calusa had been Glades culture American Indians who had lived on shell mounds.Doug Morrell, Annja's producer on Chasing History's Monsters, had turned up a story of a ghost shark that protected the sunken remnants of Calusa villages. Annja had covered the legend of the ghost shark—which, as it turned out, most of the local people hadn't even heard of—while she'd been on-site.As a result of the television show, Annja had ended up being known by a lot of strange people around the world. Sometimes they sent her things."You remember the shrunken head the Filipino headhunter sent you?" Nikolai asked."Yes." There was no way Annja was going to forget that. It wasn't the shrunken head. She'd seen those before. The troublesome part was that it turned out to be evidence in a murder case against a serial murderer who had liked the show. That had involved days spent with interviewers from several law-enforcement agencies.To make matters worse, in the end the investigators found out that the head shrinker had intended to send the head to Kristie Chatham, the other star of the television show. Kristie was known for her physical attributes rather than her intellect. Annja had to admit Kristie's enormous popularity sometimes bothered her."That was a mess," Nikolai sighed. "I thought I would never get the smell out.""I'm sure it's not another shrunken head," Annja said."I hope you're right."Annja's mind was racing. She was usually a quick thinker even under pressure. "Can you make a fake package about the same size as the one I was sent?" "Y...
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Rogue Angel #9
Warrior Spirit
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The fist shot at her face much faster than she'd expected.Annja Creed felt certain it would impact somewhere along the bridge of her nose, but at the very last second, her body seemed to take over and jerk her head out of the way. The fist sailed through empty air and as it went past, Annja saw the opening she needed. In the blink of an eye, she fired three punches into the attacker's midsection, scoring solid hits with all three."Matte!" The referee's voice barked out above the cacophony of the crowd's cheers. Annja stopped, and sweat poured down her face and into the folds of her karate uniform. The gi was stained with the sweat, dust and exertion of the past three hours.She turned to the judges and waited. Two white flags went into the air.Annja beamed but contained her joy over winning the match. Instead she executed a formal bow from her waist to the judges. Then she walked to her opponent, a twenty-something punk rocker with tea-stained reddish-brown hair. He was still bent over, looking for the air Annja had knocked out of his lungs.As she approached, he looked up and frowned. "How did you do that?"Annja shrugged. "I thought you had me, Saru. But somehow my reflexes kicked in.""Good fight. I may never breathe again, though." He tried to grin, but grimaced instead. His friends helped him off the traditional tatami mats.Annja turned and went the other way toward the side where her gear awaited. One more match and she'd be done. But the last fight of the evening was looking to be nothing short of nearly impossible.She gulped down water and waited for the next opponent to walk onto the mat.When he did, Annja felt her stomach twist itself into knots. Nezuma Hidetaki was one of the most feared fighters that the Kyokushinkai had ever produced. A hard stylist, Nezuma liked to practice his punches against brick buildings. He'd split his knuckles so often that doctors had finally removed the remaining cartilage and simply sewn the knuckles together. Nezuma had calluses on top of his calluses and though short at only five feet six inches, his thighs were as big around as tree trunks.He strode across the mat and stood in front of Annja with his arms folded across his barrel chest. "I will not be as easy as Saru was," he stated.I didn't think Saru was easy, Annja thought.She took another sip of water and then mopped her brow. The material of her gi top stuck to her skin. She flapped it, trying to get some air circulating so she'd be able to move without getting caught up in it.Nezuma did some deep squats across the ring, warming up his body. As the reigning champion, he only had to fight one match—the last one.Annja was already as warm as she was going to get. All that remained before her in this tournament being held in the Tokyo Budokan, was Nezuma. If she won this match, she'd be the lightweight champion in the Interdiscipline Budo Championship.The judges looked at Annja and she nodded, then stepped onto the mat. Nezuma turned and bowed to the judges. Annja did the same.Nezuma turned to Annja and gave her a curt bow. Annja bowed in the same style. If he's going to be rude, so be it, she thought. I can play that game, as well.The referee stepped in between them and held his hand horizontally. He looked at both of them again, but Annja already had her eyes locked on Nezuma's."Hajime!"Nezuma immediately stalkedAnnja, coming at her from the side, almost like a crab.Annja pivoted to her southpaw stance, bringing her guard higher than normal, aware that Nezuma preferred to attack with straight punches aimed at the head, trying to score immediate knockouts. He had successfully knocked out three of his previous opponents on his way to becoming the champion he was—the one Annja hoped to become.Nezuma shot out a feint with his right leg, a flashing roundhouse kick aimed at her upper thigh. Annja stepped back out of range, letting the kick sail past her. Nezuma's follow-up was a straight blast aimed at her head.Annja ducked and deflected the blow away to the inside and punched at Nezuma's exposed right chest. He brought his left hand in sharply and punched Annja's arm out of the way. Annja dropped back and away, clutching her arm.Well, that hurt, she thought. She took a breath and gritted her teeth. Let's see how he likes this.Against all her normal strategic thinking,Annja jumped and let a bloodcurdling shout erupt from her lungs as she folded her legs up and under her, aiming her left foot at Nezuma's head.The jumping side kick caught her stocky opponent by surprise, and he barely missed losing his head to Annja's kick. Annja landed, aware that Nezuma was already punching at exactly the spot where she'd be landing. Instead of standing, Annja let the momentum drop her to the ground and then pivoted and swept Nezuma's legs out from under him. He went down hard and the judges scored it one point for Annja.Just two more to go, she thought as Nezuma hauled himself to a standing position again.He glared at Annja.No way is he going to fall for that again, Annja thought with a smile. Still, it was worth it seeing the look of surprise on his face. Especially since she knew that Nezuma was a notorious misogynist who thought women belonged either in bed or in the kitchen, preferably both.The referee barked at them to begin again, and Annja and Nezuma squared off. budo."After her last adventure, she'd needed a vacation. More than that, she'd wanted to test herself. And the martial-arts newsgroup she sometimes frequented had posted news about the upcoming tournament. It seemed a perfect time to do something for herself, so she made her travel arrangements from her loft in Brooklyn. Within twelve hours, she was hopping a flight bound for Tokyo.Fourteen hours later, she arrived and went straight to her hotel and fell asleep, trying to get her system in tune with the time-zone change.And now, here she stood, awaiting Nezuma's final attack. Her nerves seemed poised at the edge of a very steep cliff, ready to jump at a moment's notice. Even the sweat seemed to be still wherever it was on her body.Nezuma's eyes glistened like those of a ravenous tiger about to consume an antelope he'd pursued and had cornered. Annja's stomach still ached, but her breathing had returned to normal. For the last time the referee stepped between them. Once more, he looked at them both.Annja nodded.Nezuma grinned. "Hajime!"The crowd roared and hopped to its feet. Shouts and cheers echoed across the cavernous room as Annja circled Nezuma. The Kyokushinkai fighter smiled and then roared as he launched a high roundhouse kick toward Annja's left temple. Annja stepped inside and started to drop to punch into Nezuma's groin.This'll teach him, she thought.But in that instant, Nezuma recoiled his kick and then shot his left arm out, clotheslining Annja across the throat in an aikido move known as irimi nage, the entering throw.Annja felt the pressure on her throat and knew that if the throw finished, she'd be defeated.Instead, she grabbed Nezuma's arm and used it to vault herself over like a gymnast. As she spun over, she kicked out with both feet at Nezuma's chest.He sidestepped and shot a punch at Annja's head. Annja ducked out of the way and the two of them broke apart again.Sweat poured down both of their faces. Annja blinked through the salt and kept her guard up. Her arms felt like lead weights, dragging her down, but she was all too aware of how prizefighters often tire. Once the guard started to drop, the other fighter usually had no problem finishing them off. Annja was determined to not let that happen. Especially since she'd spent enough time listening to her self-appointed trainer, Eddie, harp on her about keeping her hands up where they could protect her.Nezuma's guard had stayed perfectly in position throughout the entire fight. His arms looked like coils of tight sinew wrapped around steel girders. He still maneuvered on deeply bent legs, keeping his center of balance low and steady. Trying to unseat him would be almost impossible.He screamed again and came at Annja with a series of stomping kicks aimed at her midsection. He looked as if he was taking giant steps across the mat, and Annja had to sidestep them again and again.This is ridiculous, she thought. It's time I went on the attack.She turned and launched a single roundhouse kick at Nezuma's head. He casually flicked it away and in that instant, Annja went low, driving her elbow toward Nezuma's stomach.He blocked that, as well. Annja came up, driving up with an uppercut aimed at the underside of his jaw. Nezuma pivoted out of the way and then dropped unexpectedly to the floor. She felt the crushing instep of Nezuma's right foot sink into her stomach and then lift her up overhead. When it was fully extended, Nezuma retracted his right foot, but Annja kept sailing through the air, tumbling as she went like in some bad kung fu movie.She crashed to the floor in a broken heap just as the judges raised their red flags.Nezuma had won the match.Annja got to her feet, determined not to lie there like a beaten fool. Even though her stomach ached as if someone had just used a spoon to scoop out her insides, she bowed to the judges and then to Nezuma."Next time," she said through gritted teeth.Nezuma smiled.Annja hobbled over to her bag and drank down some of the last remaining water in her bottle. The crowd at the budokan was still cheering Nezuma and he soaked up the adoration. He bowed several times and then left the mat. The spectators left soon after, filing out in the same orderly way as they had come into the budokan.Annja sat there for another few minutes, catching her breath. She sucked at the bottle and realized that she was out of the precious fluid. "Here."She looked up and into the deepest, darkest eyes she'd seen on a man. He held out a fresh bottle of water and smiled. Wow, Annja thought. "Thanks," was all she could say. "That was some fight. You held your own against him remarkably well.""Remarkably well? What's that supposed to mean?"He held up ...
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Rogue Angel #10
Serpent's Kiss
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Annja Creed stood in a twelve-foot-deep sacrificial pit beneath a gathering storm. The storm, according to the weather reports, was hours away but promised to be severe. From the look of the skeletons on the floor of the pit and embedded in the walls, hundreds of years had passed since the last sacrifice.The passage of time hadn't made the discovery any less chilling. Even with her experience as an archeologist—and the recent exposures to sudden death that she thought were incited by the mystic sword she'd inherited—she still had to make the conscious mental shift from personal empathy to scientific detachment."Are those human bones?"Annja glanced up and saw Jason Kim standing near the edge of the pit above her. Jason was a UCLA graduate student who'd won a place on Professor Rai's dig along the southern coast of India.Jason was barely over five and a half feet tall and slender as a reed. His long black hair blew in the strong wind summoned by the storm gathering somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Thick glasses covered his eyes, which were bloodshot from staying up too late playing PSP games in his tent. He came from a traditional Chinese family that hated the way he'd so easily acquired American ways. He wore a concert T-shirt and jean shorts. A tuft of whiskers barely smudged his pointed chin."They're human bones," Annja answered."You think they're sacrifice victims?" Jason's immediate interest sounded bloodthirsty, but Annja knew it was only curiosity."I do." Annja knelt and scooped one of the skulls from the loose soil at the bottom of the pit. She indicated the uneven cut through the spine at the base of the skull."Followers of Shakti favored decapitation.""Cool. Can I see that?" Jason held his hands out. Annja only thought for a moment that the skull had once housed a human being. The truth was, in her work, the body left behind was as much a temporary shelter as the homes she unearthed and studied.Jason's field of study was forensic anthropology. His work primarily included what was left of a body. If anyone at the dig could identify the tool marks on the skeleton, it was Jason.Annja tossed the skull up to him.Jason caught the skull in both hands. It didn't bother him that it was so fresh from the grave. His smile went from ear to ear. He rotated the skull in his fingers. "This is the bomb, Annja." "Glad you like it.""Think they'll let me keep one?" he asked.Part of Annja couldn't believe he'd asked the question. The other part of her couldn't believe she hadn't expected it."Definitely not," she answered."Too bad. Put a small, battery-operated red light inside and this thing would be totally rad. I could even have a friend of mine majoring in dentistry whip up some caps for the incisors. I'd be the first guy to have a genuine vampire skull.""Except for the genuine part.And you'd have to explain why the skull doesn't turn to dust in sunlight,"Annja said."Not all vampires turn to dust. You should know that," he replied."Vampires aren't a big part of archaeology." Annja turned her attention back to the other bones. She didn't think she was going to learn a lot from the pit, but there were always surprises."I didn't mean from archaeology," Jason persisted."I mean from your show."Annja sighed. No matter where she went, except for highly academic circles, she invariably ended up being known more for her work on Chasing History's Monsters than anything else. The syndicated television show had gone international almost overnight, and was continuing to do well in the ratings.Scenes from stories she'd done for the show had ended up on magazine covers, on YouTube and other television shows. Her producer, Doug Morrell, never missed an opportunity to promote the show. "You ever watch the show?" Annja looked up at Jason and couldn't believe she was having the conversation with him."Sure. The frat guys go nuts for it. So do the sororities. I mean, DVR means never having to miss a television show again."Terrific, Annja thought. "Kind of divided loyalties, though," Jason said. "The sororities watch you." He shrugged. "Well, most of them do. The frat guys like to watch the show for Kristie."Okay, I really didn't need to hear that, Annja thought. Kristie Chatham, the other hostess of Chasing History's Monsters, wasn't a rival. At least, Annja didn't see Kristie as such. Kristie wasn't an archaeologist and didn't care about history. Or even about getting the facts straight.When Kristie put her stories together, they were strictly for shock value. As a result, Kristie's stories tended to center on werewolves, vampires, serial killers and escaped lab experiments."You can't go into a frat house without finding her new poster," Jason went on."That's good to know," Annja said, then realized that maybe she'd responded a little more coldly than she'd intended."Hey." Jason held his hands up in defense and almost dropped his newly acquired skull. He bobbled it and managed to hang on to it. "I didn't mean anything by that.""No problem," Annja said."I don't know why you don't do a poster," Jason said. "You're beautiful." Maybe if the comment hadn't come from a geeky male in his early twenties who was five years her junior and had a skull under his arm, if she hadn't been covered in dirt from the sacrificial pit and perspiring heavily from the gathering storm's humidity, Annja might have taken solace in that compliment.Dressed in khaki cargo shorts, hiking boots and a gray pullover, she stood five feet ten inches tall and had a full figure instead of the anorexic look favored by so many modeling agencies. She wore her chestnut-brown hair pulled back under a New York Yankees baseball cap. Her startling amber-green eyes never failed to capture attention."I don't do a poster because I don't want to end up on the walls of frat houses," Annja said."Or ceilings," Jason said. "A lot of guys put Kristie's posters on the ceiling."Lightning flashed in the leaden sky and highlighted the dark clouds. Shortly afterward, peals of thunder slammed into the beach.Jason looked up. "Man, this is gonna suck. I hate getting wet.""That's part of the job," Annja told him. "The other part is being too hot, too tired, too claustrophobic and a thousand other discomforts I could name.""I know. But that's only if I stay with fieldwork. I'd rather get a job at a museum. Or in a crime lab working forensics."Annja was disappointed to hear that. Jason Kim was a good student. He was going to be a good forensic anthropologist. She couldn't understand why anyone would choose to stay indoors in a job that could take them anywhere in the world.Lightning flashed again. The wind shifted and swept into the pit where Annja stood. The humidity increased and felt like an impossible burden."I'm gonna go clean this up," Jason said. "Maybe after we batten down the hatches, you can tell me more about who Shakti was."Annja nodded and turned her attention back to the burial site. The storm was coming and there was no time to waste.WITH CAREFUL DELIBERATION, Annja checked the scale representation of the burial pit she'd drawn. So far everything was going easily, but she suspected it was the calm before the storm.The drawing looked good. She'd also backed up the sketch with several captured digital images using her camera. In the old days, archaeologists only had a pad and paper to record data and findings. She liked working that way. It felt as if it kept her in touch with the roots of her chosen field.She stared at the body she'd exhumed. From the flared hips, she felt certain that the bones had been a woman. She resolved to have Jason make the final call on that, though.Lightning flickered and thunder pealed almost immediately after. The storm was drawing closer."Annja."Glancing up, Annja spotted the elfin figure of Professor Lochata Rai, the dig's supervisor. Lochata was only five feet tall and weighed about ninety pounds. She was in her early sixties, but still spry and driven. She wore khakis and looked ready for a trek across the Gobi Desert."It is time for you to rise up out of there. The rain is coming," the professor said.Annja looked past the woman at the scudding clouds that filled the sky. Irritation flared through her at the time she was losing."We must cover this excavation pit," Lochata said."Perhaps it will not rain too hard and we won't lose anything.""I know. This really stinks because we just got down far enough to take a good look at what's here,"Annja said.Lochata squatted at the edge of the pit. She held her pith helmet in her tiny hands over her knees. "You're too impatient.You have your whole life ahead of you, and history isn't going anywhere. This site will be here tomorrow.""I keep telling myself that. But I also keep telling myself that once I finish this I can move on to something else." Annja stowed her gear in her backpack.Lochata shook her head. "You expect to find something exciting and different?""I hope to." Annja pulled her backpack over her shoulder and climbed the narrow wooden ladder out of the pit. "I always hope to.""I do not." Lochata offered her hand as Annja neared the top. "Finding something you did not expect means you didn't do your research properly. It also means extra work and possibly having to call someone else in to verify what you have found."Annja understood that, but she also liked the idea of the new, the undiscovered and the unexpected. Lately, her life had been filled with that. She thought she was growing addicted to it.Once on the ground outside the pit, Annja stood with her arms out from her sides as if she were going to take flight. The wind blew almost hard enough to move her. Perspiration had soaked her clothing."Drink." Lochata held out a water bottle and smiled."Hydrate or die."Annja smiled back and accepted the water. The rule was a basic one for anyone who challenged the elements. She opened the bottle and drank deeply.The dig site was in the jungle fringe that bordered the Indian Ocean. Kanyakumari lay as far south on the Indian con...
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Rogue Angel #12
Rogue Angel #12
The Soul Stealer
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.She was being followed.Again.Annja Creed sighed with an almost nonchalant grin as she felt the familiar feeling wash over her. As many times and as many places as she'd been, she could tell—without even turning around to confirm it—that someone was taking more than a passing interest in her.Even here, she thought. Even in this remote industrial complex where the concrete was as gray as the cold sky overhead, she hadn't managed to escape the eyes and ears of the locals.The question, as always, was who was following her? Since arriving in Moscow and then taking the Siberian railroad to the northeast reaches of the former Soviet Union, Annja had kept what she thought was a low profile. She'd paid cash for her transactions. She'd used her new fake passport and booked her travels under a fake name. She'd even tossed her schedule out the window and lingered in several stops for far too long.But it hadn't worked.She ran down the list of people in her head who might wish her harm and then frowned. The list was long and growing longer. Every new adventure seemed to add dozens of names to the roster of folks who thought the world would be a better place if perhaps Annja Creed wasn't inhaling any more of its oxygen.She passed the plate-glass windows of a department store advertising fashions so outdated that Annja wondered if anyone actually came in and requested them. She paused, however, and used the reflecting surface to look behind her.Nothing.She kept moving rather than give away the idea that she suspected she was being followed. No sense altering the hunters.Annja knew that professionals never allowed themselves to be seen when they followed you. So the fact that she hadn't spotted anyone in the shop window might mean she wasn't dealing with amateurs.On one level, that was good. Amateurs in this part of the world tended to be thugs and rapists who would brutalize you and then sell you off into some sexual-slavery den.At least the professionals just killed you and got it done with.She smirked at the thought. How my life has changed, she mused.She turned a corner and strolled up a narrow street. Ahead of her, she could make out an outdoor market area filled with a smattering of produce, imported electronics goods and bootleg DVDs. Annja knew the mafiya controlled these impromptu bazaars. But she hoped she could use them to lose her tail.Unless, of course, he worked for the very same gangsters who ran the marketplace. She pondered that for a moment. But she couldn't worry about that for long. Not when she had a pressing appointment to keep with Robert Gulliver, known to his friends as Biker Bob and to the rest of the world as the cycling archaeologist.Gulliver liked riding across the world on his favorite all-terrain bike. It was how he had scouted so many famous dig sites. Before he went in to any place with loads of equipment, he would casually assess the environment from the comfort of his bicycle. So far, Gulliver had crisscrossed the globe numerous times, although this was his first outing in Siberia.Gulliver had sent Annja an e-mail from a cybercafé in a town just outside Minsk, asking if she would join him on a scouting mission. Annja, bored with her self-imposed exile back in Brooklyn, had jumped at the opportunity.But even she was somewhat disgruntled by the location. So far, the dour city of Magadan had failed to impress her. The entire city was formed of cookie-cutter buildings set into neat rows. The streets were all evenly paved with ancient cars zooming down them at breakneck speeds, unconcerned if they hit pedestrians. In contrast, she occasionally spotted a sleek new Lincoln Town Car that proclaimed its driver as belonging to organized crime. Poverty was rampant, and Annja had already doled out some of her money to several children who looked closer to being scarecrows than human beings.Gulliver had promised her a spectacular adventure, but Annja couldn't see it. Not in a city so utterly drab and awash in human misery.Still, the fact that she had someone following her at least meant that there might be a little excitement before the day was done.She ducked under the low awning and entered the marketplace. Immediately, her ears were accosted by the sounds of techno music infused with Russian street rap. Annja spoke a smattering of Russian, but she knew better than to try to translate the music lyrics that blasted out of the nearby speakers.And she wasn't there to listen to music, anyway. Ahead of her, the narrow corridor seemed to twist and turn. Elderly shoppers, their heads wrapped in heavy hats and scarves to ward off the first taste of winter in the air, pushed past her, intent on finding something valuable in the midst of chaos.One of the vendors called out to her and held up an iPod. Annja smiled but shook her head no. She knew they made the cheap knockoffs in China and shipped them north through Mongolia before they ended up here. Besides, Annja had her own iPod back at the hotel. She frowned. Unless someone had broken in and stolen it, she thought. She glanced back at the iPod hawker but he was already gone.Her unpredictable turn had prompted a man thirty feet back to stop awkwardly and turn his head.Annja smiled.First mistake. Maybe she wasn't dealing with professionals after all.She hurried on, aware of a pungent stench of rotting fish assailing her nostrils. Three stalls of dead fish bedded on ice bracketed the next turn. Annja glanced at them. Even the fish were gray.She had a decision to make. She could allow her tail to continue his surveillance, or she could turn the tables on him and find out who he was. The first choice was annoying because it meant she'd never be alone. The second choice was the more dangerous of the two. Confronting a tail was always a risk. He might be following her because he wanted to harm her. Possibly, he might even kill her.Annja closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, confirming that Joan of Arc's sword—her sword— was accessible. She could see it in her mind's eye, hovering as it always seemed to. All she had to do was reach out and grab it.She ducked under a low-hanging portal filled with cheap polyester tapestries done up in gaudy golds and bright reds. She could see the fraying edges and knew that the quality of the material only looked good to those who knew no better and had never had anything better in their lives. To some in this remote outback of Russia, polyester was the fabric of dreams.She risked a glance back and saw the man clearly. He had no interest in any of the wares being hawked by the vendors. His face was as dour as the rest of the city. But Annja could see the deep lines etched in his face and knew that he had a past—probably that of a hired killer. She knew finding one in this part of the world was easy. And they were always competent.If they weren't, they simply didn't survive. Annja made her decision. She rushed ahead and instantly heard the yells behind her as her pursuer bumped into one of the fish stalls. Ice slid everywhere and the dead fish followed, causing several shoppers to fall.Annja ran.More voices joined the fray. If her pursuer was with the mafiya, most likely he'd be able to enlist some help. But if he wasn't, then he was risking their wrath by upsetting one of the chief places they made their protection money.Annja spotted an exit and took it. Fresh air smacked into her face and she saw the narrow alley ahead of her. Grateful that she'd worn her hiking boots instead of her sneakers, Annja raced down the asphalt street.Behind her, footsteps pounded the pavement. He was close.Annja skidded into the alley and saw that it was filled with trash. The smell of urine hung heavy in the air. She could smell cheap vodka and the aroma of body odor. Makeshift corrugated-cardboard-box homes dotted the edges of the alley. Annja had entered a town of sorts for homeless people.She pressed on, dodging the clotheslines that hung between two buildings. Bits of spattered cloth, remnants of winter coats and shirts hung from the lines. Steam from several grates issued forth with a sharp hiss.The entire alley seemed eerily quiet. Behind her, at the entrance of the alley, the footsteps stopped.This was where it would get hairy.Annja ducked low, aware that her vision was being compromised by the crowded nature of the alley. The steam, trapped by the many laundry lines and the clothes they held, seemed to hug closer to the ground, making the alley feel more like a moor drowning in early-morning fog.Her pursuer would have moved into the alley by now. But he'd move slowly, aware that any one of the boxes might conceal his prey. He might walk right past her. Or she might ambush him.Annja glanced ahead. Bricks. She frowned. A dead end.Her heart hammered in her chest. She closed her eyes and tried to reach for the sword. But when she opened her eyes, it wasn't in her hands. She tried again and then it hit her.The alley was too narrow to swing a sword.She almost yelped when the disembodied hand grabbed her around the ankle. She yanked her leg away and shot a kick into the hand. Someone on the ground grunted and she saw the hand retreat.This was not a place she wanted to stay any longer than necessary.The air around her grew heavy. Annja could feel his presence now, looming and drawing down the distance between them. She ducked down by the closest cardboard box and waited.The steam played tricks with her eyes. She thought she could see his body parting the mist like some ship on the sea. And then she saw his feet.Without even thinking about it, Annja launched herself at him, screaming as she did so. She collided with him, knocking him to the ground. He grunted and Annja felt a breath of air come out of his mouth as the wind was knocked out of him.She winced. Judging by the smell, he was a fan of onion bagels.He brought his hands up and twisted, trying to push her off him. She could see his left hand reaching for something in his coat. Annja chopped down with her fist onto his forea...
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Rogue Angel #13
Gabriel's Horn
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.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 was a new experience for Annja, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. Getting the job on the movie had been as unexpected as it was welcome. She'd done a bit of work with props before, but never on a motion picture of this magnitude. Kill Me Deadly was a new spy romp that was part James Bond and part Jason Bourne. The hero even carried the same J.B. initials—Jet Bard.Annja hadn't quite understood the plot because a lot of the details were still under wraps. She was of the impression some of them were still being worked out, which was causing extra stress on the set. Three cars occupied the middle of the street. Two of them were overturned. All of them were black from where they'd been burned. The stuntman was supposed to hit the upright car, catch on fire and turn into a human comet streaking across the sky. When Annja had heard about the stunt and had received an invitation from Barney to attend, she'd thought about gracefully declining. Then she'd found she couldn't stay away. Now her stomach knotted in anticipation. She'd gotten to know the young daredevil who was about to become a human fireball. He was a nice guy and she didn't like the idea that something bad might happen to him. "Okay," Barney said as he stepped back to rejoin her. His gaze remained on the street while he adjusted his headset. "I'm going to need you to stay quiet for a moment, Annja." "Sure." Annja gazed down the street anxiously. Camera operators lined the street from various points of view. All of them remained out of each other's line of sight. The crews had worked on the setup for hours. Before that, they'd measured and mapped the distances on a model of the street and the cars. According to the computer programs Barney and the other stunt people had run, everything would go fine. To Annja, it was a lot like exploring a dig site she'd read about. Even though she knew the background and the general layout, there were far too many surprises involved to guarantee everything was safe. Some of the early Egyptian-tomb explorers had quickly discovered that. "On your go," Barney said softly. He held up an electronic control box in both hands. "I'm with you." He flicked a switch. Immediately a half-dozen fires flamed to life within the pile of wrecked cars. They burned cheerily and black smoke twisted on the breeze. "We've got fire in the hole, Roy," Barney declared. The throb of the motorcycle's engine rumbled into Annja's ears. She watched with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Roy Fein was one of the top stuntmen in the game. Barney had said that a number of times over the past few days. She didn't know if he'd been trying to reassure her or himself. "Steady," Barney said. "Okay, you're on track. Now increase your speed to seventy-eight miles per hour." The exact speed had been a big concern, Annja knew. Too much and the impact angle would be wrong and the motorcycle might flip end over end. Too little and Roy would fall short of the air bag that waited at the other end of the jump. The motorcycle roared into view. Roy Fein, dressed in dark blue racing leathers and a matching helmet, had raced around the corner. A car followed only inches behind him. "You're on," Barney said. "Hit the Volkswagen and I'm going to light you up." At that moment, the pursuit car slowed and slewed sideways. Actors inside the vehicle leaned out the windows and fired weapons."I got you, kid. I got you." Barney's voice was soft and reassuring. "Get that fire-suppression unit ready." The motorcycle rider popped a slight wheelie just before he hit the Volkswagen. Effortlessly, the motorcycle climbed the specially altered vehicle. "Now," Barney said. His finger flipped one of the switches on the electronics box. Immediately, the motorcycle and rider were enveloped in flames. But something was wrong. Instead of arcing gracefully across the distance, the motorcycle went awry. "Kick loose, kid!" Barney yelled. "Lose the bike!" He dropped the electronics box and ran toward the street. Roy pushed free of the motorcycle and spread-eagled in the air like Superman. But he wasn't flying—he was falling. Flames twisted and whipped around his body. He threw his arms out and tried to adjust his fall as gravity took over and brought him back toward the pavement. Annja ran after Barney, though she didn't know what she was going to do. There was no way she could help Roy. But she couldn't just stand there, either. The motorcycle spun crazily, nowhere near the trajectory it was supposed to maintain to get near the air bag designed to break Roy's fall. Then it blew up. The force slammed Annja to the ground. She tucked into a roll and came to her feet instinctively. Slightly disoriented, she glanced up to see where the flaming pieces of the motorcycle were coming down. She saw Barney was on his side. His face was twisted in agony as he reached toward a bloody gash soaking his shirt. Annja went toward him. She yelled for help, but couldn't hear her own voice. She tried again. Her ears felt numb, then she realized she was deaf. She dropped beside Barney and surveyed the wound. An irregular furrow ran along his ribs. She tried to tell him that he was going to be all right but knew that he couldn't hear her, either. She yanked his shirt from his pants and rolled the tails up to his wound, then leaned on the folds to put pressure on the wound in his side. One of the other stunt coordinators joined Annja and dropped to his knees. His mouth was moving. She knew he was shouting something. He was young, tall and gangly, and he was in shock. Annja grabbed one of his hands and directed him to take hold of the makeshift pressure bandage she'd created. For a moment he froze. With authority, Annja caught his face in her palms. She met his eyes with hers and struggled to remember his name. "Tony," she said. "It's Tony, right?" She couldn't hear herself. "I can't hear you," he said. Annja read his lips. "It's okay," she told him. "Your hearing will come back." She hoped that was true. Sirens, muted and faraway sounding, reached her and gave her hope that her hearing hadn't been permanently destroyed. Tony nodded, but he didn't look any less scared. "He's hurt," Annja told Tony. "Hold the pressure on the wound. Like this." She guided his hands. "Okay," he sa...
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Rogue Angel #14
The Golden Elephant
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Tomb of the Mad Emperor "Oops," Annja Creed said as she felt something give beneath the cleated heel of her Red Wing walking shoe. The floor of the passageway was caked inches thick in dust. Annja couldn't see the trigger. She had sensed more than heard something like a twig snapping. Already in motion, Annja dived for the floor. She heard a grind, a rumble, a rusty creaking. Then with a hefty metallic sound something shot from the stone walls above her. Catching herself on her hands, Annja looked around by the light of her bulky hand lantern, which lay several feet ahead of her. She spotted three bronze spears spanning the two-yard-wide corridor a yard above the floor. They were meant to impale any unwary intruder. That included her. Annja shook her head. "Emperor Lu may or may not have been crazy," she muttered. "But he sure was paranoid." The echoes of her words chased each other down the slanting corridor, deep into the earth's dark recesses. Cautiously Annja wiggled forward. As her weight came off the hidden floor plate the spears began to retract into the walls. By the time she reached her lantern they had vanished. The stone plates that covered the ports through which the spears had thrust out swung back into place. Coughing on the dust she had stirred up doing her snake act, Annja sat up and shone her light on the walls. She could see no sign of where the spears had come from. The walls had been painted with some kind of murals, perhaps once quite colorful. They had faded to mere swirls and suggestions of faint color. They worked to camouflage the trap, though. She shook her head and picked herself up. "Got to move," she told herself softly as she dusted off the front of her tan shirt and khaki cargo pants. This would be her only shot. With the construction of a giant dam nearby, the floodwaters were rising. By tomorrow they would make the subterranean tunnels unsafe. With redoubled caution she made her way deeper into the lost emperor's tomb. The corridor walls were hewed from a yellow limestone. Tests showed it had been quarried in some hills several miles away. The passageway air was cool and dry. It smelled of stone and earth. Some indeterminate distance down, as Annja began to feel the weight, not just of years, but of millions of tons of earth pressing upon her, the corridor leveled. It had taken several bends and a couple of doglegs, and had plateaued briefly, as well. Annja wasn't sure whether the zigs and zags had some ritual significance, were meant to additionally befuddle an interloper or were simply to prevent a cart full of spoil from running all the way back down to the bottom during the digging of the corridor. She suspected it was all of the above. Far down the hallway, in which she could just stand upright, Annja saw that something was blocking the way. Could that be the door to Lu's actual tomb? she wondered. Her heart beat quickened. According to the ground-penetrating radar scans, it could be. The last Chinese team to come down here had intended to open the bronze door to the burial chamber proper. She had no idea whether they had or not. The Beijing University officials who had hired Annja suggested that they felt the last team had indeed made some major discoveries and had then departed by some currently unknown entrance to the great mound before vanishing. There was nothing intrinsically unlikely about that. Such huge structures often had multiple entrances. But she was being asked to play archaeology cop—to find out if the tomb had been plundered and, if possible, to trace the thieves. She was certainly willing enough. Like any real archaeologist she had an unremitting hatred of tomb robbers. "Of course that assumes a lot of ifs," Annja said aloud. Her voice, echoing down the chamber, reassured her. Something about the place bothered her. She flashed her light down the corridor. She thought she saw a hint of green from the obstruction. She knew that was consistent with bronze doors. The copper in the alloy turned green as it oxidized. Otherwise bronze wasn't prone to corrosion, as iron and steel were. I wonder if I should have looked more closely for bloodstains around those spear traps, she thought. The two expeditions that had returned had warned about various booby traps. But she wasn't here to do forensic work. Time pressed. So did the billions of tons of water that would soon be rushing to engulf the mound. As she moved forward toward the door she became aware of a strange smell. A bad smell, and all too familiar—the stench of death. It grew stronger as she approached the door.And then she fell right into another of Emperor Lu's little surprises. The floor tipped abruptly beneath her. The right side pivoted up. She dropped straight down. Without thought she formed her right hand into a fist. Obedient to her call, the hilt of the legendary blade of Joan of Arc filled her hand. Falling, she thrust the sword to her left and drove it eight inches into the pit's wall. It was enough. Grabbing the hilt with her left hand, as well, she clung desperately and looked down. The hint of scent had become a foul cloud that enveloped her. She choked and gagged. The floor trap was hinged longitudinally along the center. The pit was twenty feet long and sank at least twelve feet deep. Bronze spearheads jutted up from the floor like snaggled green teeth. Entangled and impaled among them, almost directly below her, lay a number of bodies. She couldn't tell exactly how many; they had become tangled together as they fell onto the spears. The glare of her lantern, which lay tilted fortuitously up and angled in a corner, turned them into something from a nightmare. One man hung alone to one side, bent backward. His mouth was wide open in a final scream at the spearhead that jutted two feet upward from his belly. The remnants of what looked like a stretcher of sorts, possibly improvised out of backpack-frames, lay beneath him. At the shadow-clotted base of the pit she could just make out the dome of a skull or the multiple arch of a rib cage protruding from ages of drifted dust. The missing Chinese archaeology team were not the first victims. She looked up. She had fallen only a couple of yards below the pit's lip. The sword had entered the wall blade-vertical. It flexed only slightly under her weight. She knew it could break—the English had done it, when they burned its former holder at the stake—but it didn't seem strained at the moment. Unwilling to test it any longer than she had to, she swung back and forth experimentally, gaining momentum. Then she launched her legs back and up and let go. Whatever kind of graceful landing she was hoping for didn't happen. Her legs and hips flopped up onto the floor. Her head and upper torso swung over empty space—and the waiting bronze spearheads. As her body started to topple forward she got her hands on the rim of the pit and halted herself. Her hair escaped from the clip holding it to hang about her face like a curtain. With something like revulsion she threw herself backward. She sprawled on her butt and elbows, scraping the latter. Then she just lay like that awhile and breathed deeply. The sword had vanished into the otherwhere. One thing her life had taught her since she had come, unwittingly and quite unwillingly, into possession of Joan of Arc's Sword was to bounce back from the most outlandish occurrences as if they were no more significant or unusual than spilling a cup of coffee. "That got the old heart rate going," she said. She slowly got to her feet. The trapdoor swung over and began to settle back to the appearance of a normal, innocuous stretch of floor. As it eclipsed the beam of her lost lamp, shining up from the pit like hellfire, she reached up to switch on her headlamp. Its reassuring yellow glow sprang out as the glare was cut off. It wasn't very powerful. The darkness seemed to flood around the narrow beam, with a palpable weight and presence. "It'll be enough," she muttered. "It has to be." Putting her back to the left-hand wall, she edged down the corridor. The dust, which had settled in the past few weeks, hiding the doomed expedition's footsteps, had been dumped into the pit, except for a certain quantity that still swirled in the air and rasped her lungs like sandpaper. The clean patch of floor, limned by the white light shining from below, made its end obvious. Cautiously she moved the rest of the way down the corridor toward the green door. No more traps tried to grab her. As she'd suspected, the door was verdigrised bronze. It had a stylized dragon embossed on it—the ancient symbol of imperial might. She hesitated. She saw no obvious knob or handle. Reaching into her pocket for a tissue to cover her hand, she pushed on the door. It swung inward creakily. She had to put her weight behind it before it opened fully. A great wash of cool air swept over her. Surprisingly, it lacked the staleness she would have expected from a tomb sealed for two and a half millennia. Bending low, she stepped inside. The tomb of Mad Emperor Lu was almost anticlimactic. It was a simple domed space, twenty yards in diameter, rising to ten at the apex, through which a hole about a yard wide opened through smooth-polished stone. Annja wondered if had been intended to allow the emperor's spirit to depart the burial chamber. Dust covered the floor, a good four inches deep, so that it swamped Annja's shoes. In the midst of the dust pond stood a catafalque, four feet high and wide, eight feet long. On it lay an effigy in what appeared to be moldering robes, long cobwebbed and gone the color of the dust that had mounded over it, half obscuring it. A second mound rose suggestively by the feet. Annja dug her digital camera from her pack. She snapped several photos. The built-in flash would have to do. Feeling time and the approaching floodwaters pressing down, Annja moved forward as cautiously as she could through the dust. Her archaeologist's reflex was to disturb things as little as possible. But that wasn't the reason for...
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Rogue Angel #15
Swordsman's Legacy
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.France, present dayAscher Vallois unlocked the trunk of his car. The hydraulics squeaked as the trunk yawned open. He was ready for a new car, but given the finances, the ten-year-old Renault Clio would have to serve.He set a practice épée and mask onto the trunk bed. Tearing the Velcro shoulder seams open on his jacket, he then tugged that off.Wednesday afternoons demanded he wear the leather-fronted plastron. The teenage students he taught were overly confident about their lunges. Actually, they thought themselves indestructible. They didn't give consideration to their teacher's destructibility. That was why he also wore a full mask. The scar on his jaw had been a lesson to ensure he wore complete protection around kids at all times.Tomorrow he planned to bring his collection of instructional videos to the studio. The students could learn the importance of a well-designed weapon from watching a master forge a blade. As well, there was much to be gained from watching fencing masters in competition.Ultimately, he wanted to have a camera set up in the studio so he could record students, and then play back their practice matches for them to study. The best way to learn was by observing your own bad habits and then correcting them.All things in good time, he told himself. And if his latest expedition proved successful, the aluminum fencing piste he'd been dreaming about could become reality. It was wireless, which would be more practical for movement and scorekeep-ing, considering he hadn't the cash to hire an assistant.He slammed the trunk shut. It was well past sunset, yet a rosy ambiance painted the horizon, reminding him of a woman's blush. An autumn breeze tickled the perspiration at the back of his neck, drying his sweaty hair.The noise of traffic from the main shopping stretch had settled. Sens had relaxed and let out its belt. The citizens of the French city were inside restaurants chattering over roasted fowl and a bottle of wine, or at home watching the nightly news or shouting at the quiz shows.Shoving a hand in his pants pocket, Ascher mined for his keys, but paused. A tilt of his head focused his hearing behind him and to the left.He was not alone.Swinging a peripheral scan, he paused only a quarter of the way through his surroundings.Standing at the front left corner of the Clio, a tall thin man with choppy brown-and-blond hair rapped his knuckles once upon the rusted hood of the vehicle. A silver ring glinted, catching the subtle glow from an ornamental streetlight up the street. Small bold eyes smiled before the man's mouth did.Ascher felt the salute in that look. A call to duel. The foil had been raised with a mere look. He stood in line of attack.From where had the man come? This narrow street was normally quiet, save for the business owners who parked in the reserved spaces where Ascher now stood.Suddenly aware that others had moved in behind him, Ascher stiffened his shoulders but kept his arms loose, ready. He jangled his keys. A tilt of his head, left then right, loosened his tensing muscles.The air felt menacing, heavy, as if he could take a bite out of it.The smiling man offered a casual "Bonsoir."Wary, yet not so foolish as to leap into a fight—this may be nothing more than a man asking directions—Ascher offered a lift of his chin in acknowledgment."Mr. Vallois, I am a friend," the man offered.His French accent wasn't native, and he looked more Anglo than European, Ascher thought. A dark gray suit fit impeccably upon a sinewy frame. Probably British, he assumed from the slim silhouette of the man's clothing.He knew his name? Caution could be a fencer's downfall. Confidence and awareness must remain at the fore."I have many friends," Ascher said forcefully, lifting his shoulders. "I know them all upon sight. I do not know you."Sensing the potential threat level without moving his head to look, Ascher decided there were two men behind him. Bodyguards for the man standing before him?Ascher eyed the practice épée through the window of the Clio. "Are these gentlemen behind me my friends, as well?""You amuse me, Mr. Vallois. And yes, if you wish it, they can be your very best friends. More preferable than enemies, wouldn't you say?"What the hell was going on? He'd been keeping his nose clean. In fact, the past few years Ascher had gone out of his way to remain inconspicuous. There was nothing like a run-in with the East Indian mafia over rights to claimed treasure to cool a man's jets."Jacques Lambert." The man thrust out a thin hand to shake—an advance that put him to lunge distance—but Ascher did not take the bait. This guy was not British. An American using a French name perhaps? "My business card claims me CEO of BHDC, a genetic-research lab in Paris. You have not heard of us."No need to verify that one. Ascher's interests covered anything athletic, sporting or adventurous. Science? Not his bag. "Genetic research? I don't understand," Ascher said."It is a difficult field to get a mental grasp on," Lambert replied. "But the beauty of it is that you don't have to understand. Simple acceptance is required.""Sorry, I gave at the office.""I'm not on the shill, Vallois. In fact, I have an interest in financing your current dig."The dig? But he'd only that morning gathered a small crew of fellow archaeologists online. They weren't set to convene in Chalon-sur-Saône for another two weeks.Who had brought in this fellow without consulting him?Ascher trusted the two men he had chosen to assist on the dig. Jay and Peyton Nash had accompanied him before. They were his age, far more knowledgeable in archaeology than him, and also enjoyed a challenging mountain bike course, like the one they'd conquered in Scotland's Tweed Valley.Although… he'd recruited another. A woman. He did not know her beyond what he'd learned while chatting with her online. And admittedly, knowledge of her character had been not so important as her figure and those bewitching amber-green eyes."I'm sorry, Mr. Lambert, if you have been led to believe—"The sudden heat of breath hissing down the back of his neck did not disturb Ascher so much as piss him off. He stood tall, not about to back down or cringe from the bully behind him.If the trunk were still open…but it was not. The only weapon he had to hand was his ring of three keys and a rudimentary grasp of martial arts. He slipped the ignition key between his forefinger and middle finger, point out."I have been following your research online for months," Lambert said. "Fascinating how you tracked the Fouquet journals in the Bibliothèque Nationale."Ascher thought about the days spent in the huge Paris library that he had genuinely enjoyed. "I haven't posted that information publicly," he said."Yes, I know. You made it very difficult, but once I tracked your conversations with the Nash brothers, I continued to follow them."So his friends hadn't invited this man. Yet they had inadvertently lured an outsider."I've hired all the men required for the dig, I'm afraid.""You misunderstand, Vallois." Lambert made eye contact with the thugs over Ascher's shoulder. He went for the riposte, slipping something out of his suit coat's inner pocket. It unrolled with a shake. Lambert then slid one hand into the surgical glove. "I—" he gave the glove a crisp snap "—have a keen interest in the sword."Ascher's intuition screamed this was not the place he should be at this moment. Sometimes it was better to run, and risk injury, than to stick around and risk death. Fencing skills aside, now was the time to employ street smarts.Ascher jabbed an elbow backward, catching one of the thugs in the ribs.A meaty arm snaked about Ascher's neck. A vicious squeeze choked off his cry of surprise. Levering his foot against the door of his car, he tried to push off the man, but his attacker leaned into the force, making escape impossible."No, no, mustn't struggle," Lambert said calmly, as if directing a child afraid of the dentist's drill. He tugged the fingertip of one glove, snapping it smartly into place. "This is not what you might suspect.""I suspect everything," Ascher hissed. "I know I do not like you—"Chokehold released, Ascher's arms were wrenched behind him and upward. His shoulder muscles were forced beyond their limit, and his deltoids stretched painfully. Bent forward, he intended to kick backward, but Lambert's next move stopped him.Further utilizing the dread calm of a looming dentist, Lambert withdrew a vial from inside his suit coat."The musketeer's sword has been tops on my list of plunder for quite some time. I believe you have discovered the only possible resting place for the sword, Mr. Vallois." Lambert tapped the finger-size vial against his wrist. There was something inside, white, stick-like. "Surprising, the conclusions you made about the location, but when I thought about it awhile, very believable. I wish you great success.""The sword is not for sale," Ascher said."When one acquires plunder, sir, one does not pay for it. But I am willing to put forth something for your efforts. You will require cash to finance your dig.""Already taken care of.""Your check bounced at the bank. My guess? You should start seeing the overdrafts immediately. I know you are two months behind on rent for that little fencing salon around the corner. Pity. The children will be deprived of your witty yet charming teaching manner," Lambert said.Ascher grunted against the increasing force straining his muscles."As for that cottage you call a mansion out of town, I've made it my business to know your electricity will be shut off two days from now." He bent close to Ascher's face. "Allow me to ease your financial strain.""There is no amount you can offer for the sword."Ascher twisted. Two meaty hands held firmly. It was quite embarrassing how easily he'd been wrangled. As long as his aggressor held his arms back at such a painful angle, he could not escape."That sword is somet...
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Rogue Angel #16
Polar Quest
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The LC-130 Hercules turboprop plane jumped and dropped as the turbulence buffeted it about the sky. Annja Creed, dressed in extreme-cold-weather gear issued to her by the U.S. military, clutched at the armrests on her seat. She felt as if her stomach were on a roller-coaster ride and had forgotten to inform her.She swallowed the rising bile in her throat and felt the plane lurch again. "This is getting ridiculous," she said. She unclasped her seat belt and tried to stand, bumping her head against the interior bulkhead in the process."Damn."If the plane was going to crash, she at least wanted to see it coming rather than sit trapped in her seat. Annja clawed her way forward toward the cockpit.She passed one of the crew on her way. "Is it always like this?"He grinned. "Yup. This time of year, it's always stormy down in these parts. You get used to it after a few trips.""Wonderful," she said, not feeling any better about the turbulence.She made her way to the flight deck. "Hi."The pilot turned. "You're supposed to be strapped in, Miss Creed. It's not exactly safe for you to be roaming around."Annja smiled. "I got the distinct impression that it wasn't safe sitting in my seat, either.""We're totally fine," the pilot said. "This is run-of-the-mill updrafts, turbulence and assorted atmospheric anomalies.""Anomalies?" Annja asked.He shrugged. "We don't really know what to call them. But they come with the territory of flying near the bottom of the world."The copilot glanced at her. "You're in no danger."Annja smirked. "Guess I figured if the end was coming, I wanted to see it rather than hide from it."The pilot nodded. "Understandable sentiment. I'd be the same way. If you want to, you can stay as we make our approach.""How much longer?" she asked."Maybe fifteen minutes. We come in low and fast, so make sure you hold on to something when we hit.""Hit? You guys sure do have a great way of putting things.""Well, we don't so much land as we skip and slide to an eventual stop. Those skis underneath our wheels are there for a reason," the copilot said.Annja nodded. When they'd taken off from the Air National Guard base in New York, she'd noticed the long skis on the underside of the plane. Without the benefit of a proper runway, aircraft going to Antarctica sometimes had to land on skis.It was the first time Annja had ever done this and she wasn't quite sure what to expect.The flight to New Zealand had been a long one with three in-flight aerial refuelings supplied by KC-130 supertankers. Annja had watched the experienced crew guide the plane to within a quarter mile of the flying gas station, take on a full tank of gas and then continue on its way.She looked out of the cockpit glass and could see snow falling. The pilot pointed to the instrument console. "Wipers, please.""Wipers." The copilot switched them on and they flicked the flakes from the glass.The plane felt as if it was starting to descend. Annja could hear flaps grinding in the cold blasts of air outside. The pilot kept the throttle up. Suddenly, Annja felt very much out of place.Best just to let these guys get done what they need to get done, she thought. She turned and headed back to her seat.She passed more crew members. One of them was drinking a tumbler of coffee. "Can I get you some?" he asked.Annja shook her head. "No, thanks. Not sure my stomach will let it settle right now."He grinned. "We'll be down in about ten minutes. You can have all you want then."Annja sat down and secured her seat belt. As she glanced around the dimly lit interior of the plane, she thought back to the letter she'd received in her mailbox shortly after returning from her latest dig. The letter had been sent from a colleague she'd once worked with: Zachary Guilfoyle. Zach had always been obsessed with prehistory on the planet, and his quest for the strange had made him something of an untouchable among other members of the more conservative scientific community.But Annja had loved hanging out with him. Zach, while a sucker for any bit of the mythical, was also a mean card shark and could spin a tale that often left you wondering what was truth and what was fantasy.His letter had asked Annja to come down to the research station in Antarctica. He was currently there, studying something that he would only describe as "very interesting."Annja had put the letter away intrigued but with no real thought toward going. She had reports to file for Chasing History's Monsters, after all. And she had some very overdue bills to pay.She was all set to send Zach an e-mail telling him she couldn't go when a pair of men in dark suits, bad haircuts and disposable sunglasses had shown up outside her loft one afternoon as she returned from a jog."Are you Annja Creed?" one of the strangers asked.She glanced at them, knowing immediately they were with the government. "You're telling me that with all the technology you guys have at your disposal these days, you really have to ask if I'm who you're looking for? What is that, some sort of leftover ritual you still follow from the Cold War?" she said.It got a smirk out of one of them. "Well, you were out jogging.""Ah, so it's more a comment on how crappy I look right now. Well, as long as I know," she said, wondering what she was in trouble for now.Annja started up the steps. "What can I do for you?"The Fed leaned against the railing. "You got a letter recently from a Mr. Guilfoyle.""Are you asking me or telling me?" Annja said.He looked over the top of his glasses at her. Annja smiled. "Right, of course. Yes, I got the letter from Zach. So what?""He's requested your presence at the research center in Antarctica."Annja sighed. "If you already know about the letter, I'm assuming you know all about the contents of the letter. So how about we don't waste any more of each other's time— me being the sweaty, stinky creature in need of a shower— and you guys tell me exactly what it is you want and then go back to scaring little kids with those costumes. Okay?""We need you to go to Antarctica," the man said."Why?" Annja asked."Because Guilfoyle needs your help. He says you're the only one he can trust. The only one he'll work with."Annja felt the sweat rolling down her back. It tickled a bit whenever it did that and she really wanted that shower. "What's the big deal in Antarctica?" she asked."It's classified.""Of course. All that snow and ice. No wonder you guys want to keep a lid on it."The Feds said nothing, but just looked at her.Annja cleared her throat. "You guys aren't leaving until I agree to go—is that what I'm seeing here?""Something like that.""Right." Annja took a breath and sighed. "All right. I'll need a day or so to get my things in order and let my boss know that I won't be in to do that work on the reports I'm supposed to be filing," Annja said, stalling for time to figure out what was going on."That's already been taken care of," one of the men said.Annja frowned. "Excuse me?""Your boss. He's already been called. He knows not to expect you for about ten days.""Ten days?"One of the Feds shrugged. "Well, it's not like they run daily flights into the research station. Especially this time of year. Weather's a lot worse than usual.""Oh. Great.""We need to get you to New Zealand, Miss Creed.""New Zealand?""And then on to Antarctica."Annja nodded. "Did you guys already take a shower for me, as well?""Not quite."Annja started up the steps. "Good. In that case, I'm going to soak my tired muscles. I'd invite you guys up, but I know what habitual snoops you are. There's no telling what kind of trouble you'd get into up there."The lead Fed grinned. "That's okay. We've already seen the place."Annja started to laugh, but something about the way he said it told her he wasn't joking. The slimy bastards had been into her place.She stalked into the building and slammed the door shut behind her. What the hell had Guilfoyle gotten himself mixed up with this time?The plane jerked again and seemed to turn slightly. Annja felt as if she'd just been jarred awake.They must be starting to come in now, she realized.One of the crew members moved past her. "Won't be long now. Sit tight. We'll be on the ground shortly.""Thanks," she said.He moved off and Annja closed her eyes. The propellers seemed to be groaning now. She could hear them straining against the Antarctic gales. It sounded like frozen pellets of snow pummeling the plane outside.She could imagine the pilot and copilot going through their loading routine. They'd lower the flaps, decrease the throttle and line up the nose of the plane with the point on the ground where they'd be landing the plane.Did they have runway lights strung out down here? Annja didn't know what to expect. All she knew was that two days ago she'd been standing on her front stoop back in Brooklyn sweating profusely while two Feds spoke to her. She'd gone upstairs, showered, tossed a few items into a bag and then been whisked off to the 109th Airlift Wing of the New York Air National Guard based outside Sche-nectady. From there, she'd been hustled aboard a big military plane and then flown across the world to Christchurch, New Zealand.In Christchurch, the weather was seventy degrees and pleasant. She could have lounged there in jeans and a T-shirt. Instead, the flight crew made her clamber into thermal underwear and extreme-cold-weather survival gear."In case we go down, you have to be clothed already in survival gear," the loadmaster told her matter-of-factly."You ever go down?" Annja asked nervously.He grinned. "Once we pass the boomerang, we either land or crash.""The boomerang?""The point at which we can't come back here." He zipped up her parka. "But I wouldn't worry about it. It's only bad if we have a whiteout landing.""I don't think I want to know about that," Annja said. By that point, the two Feds who'd flown down with her from New York City had maneuvered her onto the plane and then waved goodbye to h...
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Rogue Angel #18
Sacrifice
Alex Archer
On assignment in the Philippines, archaeologist Annja Creed meets with a contact to verify some information. Easy enough. But when the man doesn't turn out to be whom he said he was, Annja finds herself handcuffed, blindfolded and kidnapped. And to make matters worse, she's a prisoner of the dreaded Abu Sayyaf, a notorious terrorist group.
Desperate to escape, Annja is able to flee after slaying one of her captors. But she soon gets lost in the hostile jungle, which is rumored to be haunted by the spirits of Moro warriors who fought off conquistadors with their blades. As she tries to stay a step ahead of the terrorists and not-so-dead spirits with a taste for human flesh, Annja's not sure she'll leave the jungle alive....
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Rogue Angel #20
Footprints
Alex Archer
When her longtime friend claims to have evidence of Big Foot's existence, archaeologist Annja Creed can't resist checking it out for herself—she's been debating the subject for years. Annja's curiosity leads her deep into the woods of the Pacific Northwest, to meet Jenny where the supposed trail has been left by the one and only Sasquatch.
But when Annja arrives at the destination, a group of armed thugs warn her to leave the area, and her friend is nowhere to be found. Now the search for Sasquatch turns into a rescue mission, and Annja has only her instincts to guide her in a forest full of predators, scavengers and spirits. And someone, or something, does not want her there….
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Rogue Angel #25
Tribal Ways
Alex Archer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.It was all over the flat-screen TVs hung from the rafters and tuned to CNN when Annja entered the airport terminal. Five dead and one gravely injured in an inexplicable attack on an archaeological dig in western Oklahoma.It's so tragic about those other poor people, she thought as she headed to the baggage claim. Does it make me a bad person that I feel glad that Paul's the one who survived?She hadn't been coming to rekindle any old embers. It had been good with Paul while it lasted. And when it was done, it was over. He was still a sweet guy, if a little bit of a player, and a good archaeologist on the tenure track at the university.Now she just hoped he was still on any track at all.She collected her single black bag. And I thought I was due for a little relaxation here, she thought as she walked briskly through the crowds toward the car rental desk.Because of the severity of his injuries, Paul had been taken by helicopter from the site west of Lawton to the trauma unit in Norman, right outside Oklahoma City.Finding the trauma center wasn't hard. Once inside amid the bright lights and muted sounds and quietly purposeful traffic of the hospital, things got a little dicier. The staff initially tried to keep Annja from seeing Paul in intensive care.It seemed to be a well-run facility, so Annja didn't even try playing her journalist-cum-TV-personality card. It was never her first choice in any event. But Paul's family had yet to arrive, given that the crime had actually occurred while she was in transit from New York to Houston. His next of kin, it seemed, would only arrive late that evening. Though the nurses wouldn't say so, Annja got the sickening impression they didn't expect him to live long enough to see them.In the meantime, Paul was asking incessantly for Annja Creed so his doctors and the police officer in charge of the case agreed to let her in.Sunlight streamed through the window. The early online weather reports had showed clouds over western Oklahoma, but they'd dissipated by the time her flight touched down.Paul was all tubes and bandages and taped-on wires. Half his face was obscured by a bandage. But his good brown eye was open. It turned toward her as she walked in the door."Annja," he said. His voice was a croak. He tried to sit up."Paul." She stopped in the doorway, momentarily overcome.The nurse who had escorted Annja to the room—a short, wide woman—moved past Annja. Though a head shorter she was heavy enough to push Annja aside as if she were a child. Annja frowned, but held her temper. She's doing her job, she told herself."Now, Paul, calm down," the nurse said. She turned and glared back with narrowed blue eyes. "Ms. Creed, I'm afraid you're going to have to cut short your visit, after all.""No," Paul said. Alarms shrilled as his heart rate spiked. "Please, Roslee. Please! I have to talk to her. I have to tell her."The nurse gave Annja a speculative scowl. The businesslike amiability with which she had initially greeted Annja was long gone."Okay," she said. "He seems to really need to get something off his chest. It may be good for him to have company. I'll give you five minutes. And I do not want you stressing my patient. Please tell me you understand."Annja took no offense at the woman's words or her tone. A good nurse had the same outlook on anyone or anything that might prove detrimental to her patients as a mother grizzly bear toward potential threats to her cubs."I understand," Annja said. And she did. Perfectly. Herself a chronic defender of innocence, she could only approve of the nurse's protectiveness.The nurse looked at her a beat longer. Then she nodded. "All right. Call me if any changes happen. I'll be right outside."The nurse left. Annja sidestepped to give her plenty of clearance. Then she moved forward and took Paul's unbandaged hand."Paul, what happened?"The torn lips quirked into a painful smile. "Something right up your alley, Annja.""What's that, Paul?"Suddenly his fingers clenched hers in a death grip. "A monster," he said.For a mad moment she thought he was making a joke well beyond good taste. But his lone visible eye showed white all around, and a tear rose in the corner of it and rolled down his cheek. His whole body seemed to tense."Paul," she said, trying to keep her own voice low and steady. "Please calm down.""No! There's no time. There's something out there, Annja. Something awful. It killed them.""What did?"His fingers dug into her hand. "I told you. That— creature.""Paul, please. Settle down. You're getting upset and not making any sense.""Annja! I saw it. It was a wolf, but it wasn't. Sometimes it seemed like a man, sometimes like an animal. And it killed and killed.""That's just in the movies," Annja said."No! It looked like a wolf but didn't move like one."He shook his head from side to side so violently Annja was afraid he'd pull something loose. "No! No! It was terrible. Oh, God. It killed them. It was so fast. So strong. Not anything natural—""Why would a wolf attack such a large group of people?" she asked. It made no sense to her that a solitary member of a pack-hunting species would attack multiple human beings. It totally reversed the whole mathematics of wolf predation."It wasn't natural, I tell you. Wasn't an animal!" His eye rolled. "Annja, listen. It wasn't an animal. It wasn't. And it's hunting me!"He sat up and grabbed her arm with his good hand. Alarms began to shrill."It was a skinwalker! A Navajo wolf! I saw his eyes—those glowing—"The frantic cry ended.Paul seemed to shrink, then fell back onto the bed. His one visible eye stared at the ceiling.The keening of the flatline alarms was barely audible through the roaring in Annja's ears."What's your interest in this poor deceased fella, Ms. Creed?"Lieutenant Tom Ten Bears of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol sat down behind the plain wooden desk in his office. He had the unmistakable look of an officer who'd spent many years with the force. Not a tall man, he was built strong and low to the ground, short in the legs, wide around the middle, suggesting still both strength and a certain agility.Annja sat across from him in a not very comfortable wooden chair. It reminded her way too much of being called before the Mother Superior back at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. She suspected the visiting-the-prin-cipal effect wasn't entirely accidental."We're friends, Lieutenant," she said. "Uh, were friends."The highway patrol officer's round, pockmarked face, beneath a salt-and-pepper military cut, was set in lines and contours of grave compassion. He probably gets a lot of practice with that look in his line of work, she realized. It also didn't mean he didn't feel it.The office walls were wood paneling. An Oklahoma state flag hung behind him, along with a plaque in the arrowhead shape of the OHP patch, certificates of completion from training courses and numerous citations, including a commendation from the Comanche Nation. From his features and body type, which would have been burly and bearlike even if he hadn't been carrying a certain excess above the belt, Annja suspected he was a member of the Nation himself. She gathered they hadn't named this Comanche County for nothing."My condolences," he told her. "I know that don't help much. All the times I've offered condolences over the years, I never yet figured out a way that actually does a body any good. I keep trying.""I appreciate it, Lieutenant. Really.""It was unusual for them to let you in to see him. But the ICU staff tell me he kept asking for you so insistently they figured it was better for him to let him see you.""Maybe that was a mistake," she said, faltering.He shook his head. "No point second-guessing something like that, Ms. Creed. That poor boy was pretty torn up. I don't reckon he could've lasted long regardless of anything you did or didn't do.""Thanks," Annja said.She drew in a deep breath and tried to ignore the stinging in her eyes. "I was coming out to visit him," she said. "He was also kind enough to want to consult with me on the dig, even though pre-Columbian North American archaeology is way outside my area of study.""You're doin' me a favor, Ms. Creed, by comin' out here to see me," he said. "I was needing to interview you, anyway."He put on a pair of heavy-framed reading glasses and moved his mouse around on the pad, peering at a flat-screen monitor set at an angle so as not to intrude between him and a visitor. Aside from an in-box stacked with papers, the only other objects on his desk were a picture of a grinning young and handsome Indian man wearing an Army uniform, a much younger girl, maybe twelve, with pigtails, both built along much more aerodynamic lines than the lieutenant, and another picture of a young man in BDUs and combat gear with a bullet-pocked adobe wall for a backdrop. The soldier held a CAR-4 assault carbine decked out with the usual array of sights and lights. He looked like the same person as the grinning kid in the other photo, only older. Not so much in years, maybe, but still much older, Annja thought."So you work for a television show," he said."Yes. I'm kind of the resident skeptic—the token voice of reason. I suspect Paul's superiors hoped that by inviting me out they might put their department in the way of some free publicity.""The anthro department at OU wanted to get on something called Chasing History's Monsters?"She shrugged. "The hope of getting on TV can have a strange effect on people. Even intelligent, well-educated ones."He made a face, took off the glasses and looked at her. "Maybe the monster thing's actually app...
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Rogue Angel #36
Magic Lantern
Alex Archer
The theatrics of an illusionist conceal a sinister truth... In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumph - unveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit world - he is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom.... On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery...the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact...risking everything for the treasures it promises. But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy....
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Rogue Angel #41
Staff of Judea
Alex Archer
The Staff of Aaron...the sword of Joan of Arc. After decoding an ancient scroll-one that purports to pinpont the treasure of the Jewish Temple, lost for two thousand years-archaeologist Annja Creed agrees to lead the party to recover the find in Judea. It's a perilous desert journey through sandstorms and bandits, and complicated by mysterious sabotage within the group, to arrive at a long-forgotten fortress deep beneath a mountain. Only then does Annja discover that this archaeological expedition is really one man's quest for the mystical Staff of Aaron, one of the Bible's holiest and most powerful relics-a weapon they say can do incalculable harm in the hands of the wrong individual. She must try everything humanly possible to prevent the staff from being used for selfish purposes. Even if it puts her in the mightiest battle yet-sword against staff.
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Rogue Angel #45
Sunken Pyramid
Alex Archer
At the bottom of a lake lies an ancient cache worth killing for. The note from her friend and colleague had read -I have quite the monster for you to chase, dear Annja. And then before she could speak to him, he'd been found dead in the hotel's stairwell. It didn't seemed possible. Annja Creed had been looking forward to three days of geeking out at the archaeology conference in Madison, Wisconsin, and then this tragedy strikes. And his is only the first death over the long weekend. Determined to investigate her friend's death - and find out why another colleague she trusts is arrested as the prime suspect - Annja starts gathering the pieces of a cryptic puzzle. A small collection of Mayan gold medallions. The death of a potter. The violent appearance of a teenaged girl with a strange green knife. And at the center of the puzzle, an ancient mound pyramid purportedly hidden at the bottom of a Wisconsin lake. That's a discovery that could completely rewrite Mesoamerican history. With each puzzle piece Annja Creed discovers, the mystery grows more dangerous. And what she knows can - and probably will - kill her.
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Rogue Angel #46
Treasure of Lima
Alex Archer
White beaches and coral reefs should be adventure-proof... For archaeologist and TV show host Annja Creed, a restful vacation in Costa Rica is as elusive as a rare artifact. Days into her sojourn, Annjas peace is interrupted by a woman with a mysterious - and enticing - tale. Weeks earlier, her husband led an expedition into the rain forest, in search of the lost treasure of Lima, and hadnt returned. The priceless hoard was smuggled out of Peru during the countrys nineteenth-century revolt against Spain. But it disappeared when a ship captain went mad with greed. Twenty-six expeditions have gone after the treasure. And twenty-six expeditions have vanished. Sympathetic to the womans distress, Annja agrees to head up a rescue party for her missing husband. And Annja cant deny her own interest in the lost hoard. Now the fates of two expeditions are at stake, along with a fortune in gold, silver and jewels rumoured to be exquisite. But the dense jungle of Cocos Island guards its primitive secrets well. Danger lurks beneath the ancient green canopy. And this time, Annja doesnt see it coming....
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Rogue Angel #47
River of Nightmares
Alex Archer
The secrets of the dead inspire the deadly intent of the living on the banks of the Amazon. Deep in the Amazon jungle, a tribe holds the key to the truest form of dreaming - where the human spirit walks the petal-thin line between life and death. In an elaborate ceremony, the dreamer ingests a toxic brew, then submerges herself in an herbal bath that turns human skin a vivid shade of midnight-blue. And the experience changes the dreamer forever.[unknown-8230] Archaeologist Annja Creed has a full crew in tow as her TV show, Chasing Historys Monsters, prepares for an in-depth exploration of the rain forests most guarded secrets - including a magical child and a slothlike beast with two mouths and a single eye. But an opportunity to tread off the beaten path proves too tempting to ignore, and Annja leads her crew into an uncharted world thats both alien and dangerous - a world that attracts the morally corrupt with promises of wealth and power. A world that will steal the one thing Annja needs to survive: herself.
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Rogue Angel #48
Grendel's Curse
Alex Archer
A sword of legend in the hands of an extremist... Skalunda Barrow, Sweden, has long been rumored to be the final resting place of the legendary Nordic hero Beowulf. And there's something of Beowulf's that charismatic and zealous right-wing politician Karl Thorssen wants very badly. Intent on getting his hands on the mythical swords Hrunting and Nægling, Sweden's golden-boy politico puts together a team to excavate the barrow. A team that American archaeologist Annja Creed manages to finagle her way onto. She wouldn't miss this possible discovery for anything. With Nægling at his side, Thorssen could be invincible - a Nordic King Arthur. What his followers don't know - and Annja is beginning to suspect - is just how far Thorssen will go to achieve his rabid amibitions. When Thorssen marks Annja for death, she quickly realizes that this is much more than a political game. And the only way to survive is to match Thorssen's sword with her own.
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Rogue Angel #49
The Devil's Chord
Alex Archer
Da Vinci’s greatest and most dangerous legacy In the midst of a lovers’ quarrel on a Venetian bridge, a pair of art thieves loses a priceless, stolen Lorraine cross to the canal’s murky waters. Suspecting a connection between the cross, Joan of Arc and da Vinci, Annja Creed’s former mentor, Roux, sends the archaeologist to oversee the search for the missing artifact. But someone else knows about the cross knows enough to kill for it. Despite several vicious attacks during their underwater expedition, Annja and Roux’s hired diver recovers the cross. But when the diver’s loyalties are called into question and he disappears - along with the treasure - Annja is certain there’s more to the ancient object than Roux is letting on. She soon discovers the cross is only one piece in an intricate enigma - a key that, when combined with a series of musical notes, may unlock one of Leonardo da Vinci’s most fantastical inventions. But the price Annja must pay to stop this key from falling into the wrong hands may be her life.
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Rogue Angel #51
The Pretender's Gambit
Alex Archer
With one small chess piece, the game begins. For archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed, a late-night phone call from the NYPD means one thing: there’s been a murder and the police need her expertise. The only link between a dead body and the killer is a small elephant of white jade. An artifact that’s gone missing. Once belonging to Catherine the Great of Russia, the elephant was key in a risky political gambit all those years ago. But there is another story attached to the artifact - a rumor of an ancient hidden treasure. And for a cruelly ambitious media mogul with a penchant for tomb-raiding, the elephant is nothing short of priceless. Annja must make her move quickly, traveling across several continents with only the assistance of her extraordinary sword - purportedly the same sword wielded by Joan of Arc - and a mysterious temple monk. It’s a deadly battle of wits, and one wrong move could mean game over.
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Rogue Angel #52
Death Mask
Alex Archer
The face of evil. And the face of greed… The video showed a nearly naked man bloodied and beaten. Even as archaeologist and TV presenter Annja Creed watched, the clock on his suicide vest ticked down, and precious seconds were lost. But this was no stranger. Garin was her friend. Their fates had been bound by the secrets of Joan of Arc’s sword. And Annja had less than twenty-four hours to save his life…. The price for Garin’s life was the lost mask of Torquemada, rumored to have been cast by the Grand Inquisitor himself, five hundred years ago during the Spanish Inquisition. Abandoned crypts, lost palaces and a cruel and ancient brotherhood: all clues to the mask’s complicated and deadly mystery that Annja, and her mentor, Roux—using all of their considerable resources and cunning—must solve before Garin runs out of time. Annja Creed is facing her greatest trial. And not even the holy sword of Joan of Arc can spare her from the final judgment.
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Rogue Angel #53
Bathed in Blood
Alex Archer
The quest for youth only leads to death… The Blood Countess—Elizabeth Bathory, a true monster of history—is one of the most infamous serial killers. Said to have murdered 650 young women for their blood, she believed bathing in it would preserve her vitality and beauty. It’s a story that has always fascinated archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed. Something so fantastic could only be a story. So what is Annja to make of the girl she finds dying on the side of the road…from blood loss? There’s something eerie in this small Slovakian town, where rumors of vampirism hang unspoken in the air. Yet, out of fear, the locals say nothing. Shut out by the police, Annja only digs deeper into the strange death, uncovering troubling scraps of evidence—and cover-ups. Her one lead is an enigmatic retired police officer who has been investigating the disappearance of more than twenty women. All of them young. All of them beautiful. The only way Annja can see to uncover the truth is by becoming the Blood Countess’s next victim….
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Rogue Angel #54
Day of Atonement
Alex Archer
VOLATILE RELATIONS A new era of friendship between the Syrian and US governments is threatened when American high-tech weapons go missing en route overseas. Determined to destroy the stolen arms before they can be used, Mack Bolan discovers nothing is what it seems between the Syrian regime and the loyalists–including the beautiful double agent working with him. Getting to the weapons alive is only one of Bolan’s problems. Tracking down the enemy behind the theft–without starting a war–will put his years of experience to the test. But discretion is of the utmost importance, and the lives of millions are at stake, which makes the Executioner the only man for this mission.
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Rogue Angel #55
Beneath Still Waters
Alex Archer
All it took was one phone call and TV show host and archaeologist Annja Creed is in mortal danger. Her producer Doug Morrell has been abducted by a greedy treasure hunter whos seeking the lost raubgold, or looted gold of Nazi Germany. The terms are simple: retrieve the bounty and Doug lives. Fail, and he dies
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