The Spirit Banner

The rebel leader had been backed into a corner. He could either surrender to a woman, something his masculine pride objected to strongly, or he could try and fight his way out of his current predicament.

Annja had little doubt which option he was going to choose.

When he made his move, she was ready for him. He snapped his arm up toward her as he turned to the side, hoping to present a smaller target for her to shoot at while giving him enough time to kill her and thereby save himself.

Anticipating just such a move, Annja put two bullets into his upper chest before he could complete his turn.

An expression of surprise crossed his face and then he fell to the ground, dead on impact.

Silence covered the scene in its heavy embrace and then her companions were shouting her name and cheering. She dropped her weapon and moved to their sides, untying them and then directing those who were free to do the same for the rest.

Under Annja’s supervision, the rebels were rounded up by the archaeologists and other camp staff, the hands and feet of those soldiers who were still alive tied securely with the ropes that they’d just taken off their own wrists. They were placed under the lights by the mess tent, where they could be watched until help could arrive. The dead were brought over, as well. Annja caught more than one of her dig mates watching her when they thought she wasn’t looking—after they saw what had been done to the soldiers. Annja didn’t care. She’d done what she’d had to given the circumstances. She’d spared lives when she’d been able to and so her conscience was clear.

When they were finished, everyone gathered in front of the mess tent, arguing about what they should do next. Annja had just managed to get everyone settled down so they could discuss things rationally when Evans, the cook, pointed back over Annja’s shoulder and shouted, “Look!”

Annja turned to see multiple sets of headlights coming down the narrow dirt track that served as the only entrance to the camp. They were moving rapidly and it only took a few minutes before they were close enough to see the vehicles were American-made military Humvees painted in green camouflage.

As the trucks braked to a stop, armed soldiers in blue jumpsuits, black flack vests and helmets poured out and took up defensive positions around the camp while Annja stared openmouthed in surprise.

A short, muscular man in an officer’s uniform climbed down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, looked at the rebel soldiers, all carefully bound and gagged, and then marched over to where Annja stood. He stared at her for a moment, his expression grim, and then said, “Who is in charge, please?” in heavily accented English.

Annja had no idea who these men were, what they were doing here, or even if they might be allied in some way with the rebels that she’d just defeated. Her hand curled ready to summon her sword, but she didn’t draw it. Not until, at least. Not till she knew who they were or what they wanted.

Deciding her friends and teammates had had enough for one night, Annja bit the bullet and answered his question. “I am,” she replied.

His grim expression broke into a toothy smile. “Then my compliments to you, señorita . You and your people have saved me considerable time and energy in tracking down and detaining these dogs.”

As he explained, the officer in question was Major Enrique Hernandez, of La Policia Mexicana, and he and his squad had been tracking this particular group of rebel soldiers for the past several days. Unfortunately they had lost them a few miles to the south of their present position. Hernandez had been trying to pick up the rebels’ trail again when they had intercepted an emergency radio signal from the camp indicating it was under attack. The major explained that it had probably been just bad luck that the rebels had stumbled onto the excavation site, but their leaders weren’t fools and the chance to add any artifacts that could draw good money on the black market had likely been too good to pass up.

Surprisingly, Hernandez didn’t ask many questions about what had happened to the rebels or how a few archaeologists and graduate students had managed to overpower six soldiers armed with heavy weaponry. He seemed happy just to have the problem dealt with and in so final a manner. Perhaps he felt he was better off not knowing.

Either way, Annja wasn’t going to complain. The last thing she wanted was more attention from the law enforcement community, in this country or any other. She’d certainly had her fair share of that lately.

As the major began ordering his men to secure the weapons and pick up the bodies, Annja excused herself and went looking for a hose. She could stand the stench of the muck she was covered in for only so long.

5

“They say that you single-handedly defeated the rebels. Is that true?”

The voice was male, with a clipped British accent, and decidedly unfamiliar to her.

Annja used one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the floodlights and looked toward the speaker.

The newcomer was tall and good-looking, with dark curly hair and a five-o’clock shadow that somehow made him look more carefully groomed than if he had been simply clean shaven. His white shirt and tan suit had yet to pick up any of the telltale streaks of red dust that quickly covered anyone who had been on location more than a few minutes, which meant that he’d just arrived.

He stood in a relaxed, easygoing manner, but something about him still set her radar to tingling.

Ever since coming into possession of the magically restored sword that had once belonged to Joan of Arc, her life had been full of dangerous situations and even deadlier enemies. She’d been forced to fight for her life in more than a dozen places around the world, from the jungles of the Amazon to the sands of New Mexico, from the snows of Siberia to the waters of Indochina. She’d quickly learned to recognize the wolves moving among the sheep, and the man standing before her was definitely not one of the latter.

Given the close relationship between Mexico and the U.S., Annja pegged him for some kind of government adviser who had come in with the troops. Probably CIA or Department of Defense. It had to be something like that. His complete indifference to the police troops moving about the camp was a dead giveaway.

Having sized him up, she turned away, no longer interested.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she said dismissively, as she continued to hose herself down in an effort to get the blood and muck off her clothing. When she straightened back up, she found him still standing there, watching her, in turn.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked, with more than a bit of frustrated exasperation in her voice. The last thing she needed was some government flunky ogling her.

“That would depend. Are you, by chance, Annja Creed?”

Annja frowned. Aside from her producer, Doug Morrell, she hadn’t told anyone where she was going when she’d left Brooklyn three weeks before. And while it wasn’t unusual for fans of the television show she worked for— Chasing History’s Monsters —to recognize her in public, it was strange to find a fan in the middle of the Mexican jungle at a dig site that only a handful of people were even aware of.

She used his words back at him. “That would depend. Who’s asking?”

He chuckled. “Touché, Ms. Creed. Touché. Forgive me. My name is Mason Jones, though my friends call me Mason. I’m here with an invitation from my employer, John Davenport.”

Annja wasn’t certain if she’d heard him correctly.

“John Davenport?”

“Yes.”

“ The John Davenport?”

Jones cocked his head to one side and looked at her as if he were examining some fascinating new species of insect. “Is there some other John Davenport I should be aware of?”

“No. No, of course not,” Annja said quickly, caught more than a little off balance by the way the situation was unfolding. So much for the government adviser theory. And Jones was right. There was only one John Davenport worth talking about. Davenport was to Britain what Gates was to America or Murdoch to Australia. All three were incredibly wealthy, but only Davenport had an active interest in ancient cultures and used his immense wealth to regularly sponsor major archaeological expeditions to all kinds of unusual locales.

Of course, none of them had the kind of wealth her mentor, Roux, or even his former protégé, Garin Braden, had acquired during their long existence, but that was neither here nor there. It wasn’t actually a fair comparison for one thing. Both Roux and Garin were tied to the mysticism surrounding the sword of Joan of Arc, just as she was. She had met them both during that fateful excursion in the mountains of France, when she had been hunting the Beast of Gevaudan. She’d found the beast, but she also found something else—the final missing piece of Joan’s sword, shattered by her English captors before they burned her at the stake. It was only later, after the sword had mysteriously reforged itself as if by magic, that she had discovered both men had been contemporaries of Joan. Roux had been one of Joan’s protectors. Garin, in turn, had been his squire. Something mystical had happened when Joan’s sword was shattered, something that had kept them from aging or dying for hundreds of years. Comparing Davenport’s wealth, obtained over a single lifetime, to theirs was like comparing apples and watermelons. Still, the fact that Davenport even knew she existed was frankly astounding to Annja, never mind that he had sent someone to find her in the middle of nowhere.

With nothing else looming on the horizon, she had gladly accepted when the dig’s director had come calling. Several weeks in the jungle unearthing the treasures of the past had sounded like just the thing to escape the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn and the pop culture version of archaeology she was often forced to serve up in the name of ratings or Chasing History’s Monsters .

Now, it seemed, the world had come looking for her again.

“What can I do for Mr. Davenport?” Annja asked. She was suddenly acutely aware of how she must look—her hair still full of the muck from the bottom of the cenote and her T-shirt and pants now wet from the hose.

Jones reached inside his suit jacket and came out with a cream-colored envelope. He handed it to her. The envelope was sealed with a dollop of red wax, in the middle of which had been pressed the Davenport company logo. The seal was unbroken, but Annja didn’t leave it that way for long. Inside was a note on a small white card. It was handwritten in a smooth, flowing script that spoke of the confidence inherent in the man who’d penned it.

Dear Ms. Creed,

It would please me greatly if you would accept my invitation to dinner this evening at my home outside Mexico City in order to discuss a particular business proposal. Mason is authorized to provide anything you require, including transportation to and from the estate, and I am willing to pay you a consulting fee of $5,000 just to hear me out, no strings attached. At the very least, you can be assured of having an excellent meal.

Sincerely,

John Davenport

Annja looked up from the note to find Mason waiting patiently for her answer.

She thought about it for less than a minute and then shrugged, “Sure. Why not?” she said.