Alex Archer - Magic Lantern

“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”

The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.

“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”

“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to work.”

“And I would?”

“You’re not going to get hurt. You have Igor. Besides, you’re only there tonight to shoot a little mood footage. Igor also tells me the fog is going to have to be enhanced. Says it’s really weak.”

Annja looked back over her shoulder at the lumbering shadow that trailed her. Igor carried a portable video camera in one giant paw. “You’re talking to him?”

“Texting. I’m talking to you.”

“Great. So you’re distracting my bodyguard.”

“He’d probably be more focused on you if you weren’t overdressed.”

Turning her attention back to the alley ahead of her, Annja shook her head. Sometimes—most of the time—Doug had a one-track mind. “About the Mr. Hyde thing.”

“You said you loved the Mr. Hyde thing,” Doug said, instantly wary. “You said the Mr. Hyde thing was awesome. You couldn’t wait to do the Mr. Hyde thing.”

Annja had said that. But that had been when she’d thought her schedule wasn’t going to be so tight. She’d hoped to get out to Hadrian’s Wall. That had been the site of her first dig, and the place still held a special spot in her heart.

Then, when she’d seen those poor women in those police photographs, she realized that the “investigation” bordered on sensationalism. That the women were going to be fodder for the conspiracy mill Chasing History’s Monsters routinely set into motion didn’t sit well with her.

“You do realize Mr. Hyde isn’t real.”

“When you meet Mr. Hyde, tell him that. Either we’ve got one of London’s oldest and eeriest monsters returned from over a hundred years of being missing, or we’ve got someone who rediscovered Dr. Jekyll’s secret potion. I don’t care which it is. It’s a great story.”

“That’s what it is—a story. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was a novella written by Robert Louis Stevenson. An allegory some say was based on Victorian views of sex.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You told me that already. And I agreed that you could put that stuff in there. As long as there’s not too much of it. Which is why we’re picking up the tab on your date with Professor Beeswax.”

“Professor Beswick. And it’s not a date. He’s an expert on film, literature and myth.”

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt that Professor Beeswax is good-looking, though. I ran a Google search on him. I see what you saw.”

“Really? You thought Professor Beswick was attractive?”

Doug nearly choked. “No! That’s not what I said. Are you recording this?” He cursed. “Now I’ve got Diet Coke up my nose. Don’t do that.”

Annja chuckled. Doug was easy to set off.

“As for this Mr. Hyde thing, I got a very convincing email stating that the Dr. Jekyll formula had been discovered on the internet and someone had re-created it.”

“Who was the email from?”

“An anonymous source.”

“Doug, it’s me and you. You can tell me.”

“I can’t. That’s how the writer tagged the email.”

“And you bought into this based on that.” Annja couldn’t believe it, then reminded herself she’d been in the same situation with Doug dozens of times before.

“Sure. There are the three murders. Mr. Hyde claims to have done them.”

Annja bit her tongue. She was looking forward to her stay in London and dinner tomorrow with Professor Beswick appeared promising.

Ahead, one of the doors suddenly banged open and four figures spilled out into the alley. Three of them were young Asian males dressed in dark clothing backing out of a restaurant. One of them held a young woman trapped with an arm across her neck. Her eyes rolled fearfully and she hung on to the man’s arm to keep her balance.

The woman was dressed in black pants and a white shirt, the typical server’s uniform for a lot of restaurants. Light shined from the open doorway and revealed tattoos on the necks of two of the men. All of them carried pistols. A handful of pound notes drifted from the cloth bag one of the guys fisted.

“Doug, I’m going to have to talk to you later.” She unclipped the Bluetooth earpiece and shoved it into her pocket. Annja was calm as she surveyed the scene. Her heart went out to the frightened young woman.

An older man in a suit raced through the back door and quickly stopped when he saw the gunmen. “Laurel.”

“Get back, old man.” One of the youths took a step forward and pointed the gun at the businessman.

“Please. You have the money. Don’t take my daughter.”

The youth opened fire. Annja didn’t know if he was trying to hit the man or not, but one of the bullets chewed into the door and the other went through the doorway.

The man dropped to the ground, covered his head with his arms and screamed for his daughter.

“Papa!” The young woman cried out in fear and tried to free herself. One of the men not holding her backhanded her across the face.

“Hey!” Igor’s loud voice thundered in the alley. “You blokes want to put the guns down before you get hurt?”

Glancing back, Annja saw that Igor had a gun in his own hand instead of the camera now. He stood holding the revolver like he knew what to do. Unfortunately, so did the three Asians. Two of them opened fire while the third hung on to their hostage.

Annja pressed herself flat against a building.

The bullets drove Igor back into cover. He rose up just long enough to fire two rounds. Both bullets went wild, and one of them came dangerously close to Annja.

In the next moment, a car roared into the alley behind Igor. The bright lights pinned him for a moment as he threw up a hand in front of his eyes. He stepped aside, but the driver opened the door and hit the bodyguard hard enough to bounce him off a brick wall. Igor rolled and dropped as the car roared by.

The driver brought the car to a rocking halt only a few feet from the three men. They opened the doors on the passenger’s side and started to get in with their captive.

Annja sprang for the driver, shoved a hand into the car and caught the man by the jacket front. She yanked hard and the man’s head cracked against the window’s edge. The driver’s eyes rolled up and showed white just before he slumped across the steering wheel. His foot pressed against the accelerator and the car sped forward before the others could climb in.

Reaching into the otherwhere that contained her sword, Annja drew the blade into the physical world. Moonlight glinted along the three-foot-plus polished steel blade. The hilt was plain, unadorned, wrapped in leather strips, and it felt completely at home in Annja’s hand. The sword had been forged for Joan of Arc and only the one destined to take up Joan’s crusade could wield it.

Annja shot forward as the car passed, and she knew she was moving too fast for the men to track. To them it would have looked like she’d appeared out of nowhere. She drove a double-fisted blow into the face of the man on the right. Propelled by the great strength she had when she wielded the sword, the man sailed backward and thudded against crates of trash. Rotted vegetables and refuse tumbled over him. Rats scattered and ran.

Whirling, Annja lashed out with the sword as the man holding the money took aim at her. Beyond him, the out-of-control car rammed into a streetlight, shuddered and died with an explosive release of steam. Her blade caught the man’s pistol as he lifted it, and drove it from his grip. She took two quick side steps forward, then raised her right leg and drove her foot into his face.