Alex Archer - City Of Swords

The tunnels had been covered on television before, sometimes from a historical perspective or a military one; German soldiers had used a chamber during World War II as a bunker, she knew. Programs had aired about the reported ghosts, disembodied voices and shadows that followed tourists. Annja’s assignment had been to find something fresh, and so she’d interviewed tour guides, as well as several workers who’d hauled away rubble from some of the collapsed areas. The floating, hazy orbs they’d recently spotted seemed to be the fresh take she was looking for.

As always, she found the place fascinating. A skilled archaeologist, she had an affinity for ruins. But she also believed the tunnels had been done to death. She hadn’t wanted to come to France, anyway—it was a place of nightmares for her.

Joan of Arc had been lashed to a pillar in the Vieux-Marché in Rouen and burned at the stake in 1431. After her horrible death, her body was burned a second time and then a third, the ashes scattered into the Seine. Annja was somehow connected to the holy martyr, and her sleep on occasion was cut through with fiery images.

But while France held nightmares for her, it was also a paycheck. At least this week. She’d finished her work shortly before five today, showered, dressed in the only couture outfit she’d brought to the city and took her cameraman to Pierre Gagnaire’s in the eighth district for fish terrine. She was certain her little dance here had worked off the calories from the rich and expensive dessert. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

Her opponent took a few steps back and cocked his head, listening. She listened, too. There were the muted sounds of the city: cars trundling past on the main strip, the clacking departure of an aging train, the soft strains of a Thierry Cham zouk R & B tune that dissipated to nothingness, and a syncopated slapping that grew louder and announced the return of the hood’s companions. They’d brought help. Altogether there were seven of them.

“Chamelle vérolée!” the one she’d been fighting shouted. He grinned widely, revealing his crooked teeth and a stud through his tongue.

Annja felt for the sword in her mind, but waited. She delivered a roundhouse kick to her dancing partner, her pointed heel jabbing his stomach. His breath knocked out of him, he doubled over and dropped the switchblade. Without pause she kicked him once more, angling higher and pounding her foot against his chest. He slumped to his knees, cursing. To make sure he wouldn’t be entering the fray again, she administered a quick neck chop, which rendered him unconscious.

Then she devoted her attention to the remaining six.

“You will die for that,” the tallest said in English, his Romany accent apparent. He brandished a gun and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 3

The bullet came close, passing where Annja’s head had been a heartbeat before. There must have been a silencer on the gun; its spitting sound was barely audible. On reflex she’d ducked just as he’d reached into his jacket pocket, and she rolled forward, losing her shoes on purpose and coming up in a crouch.

Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, they said. Or in her case, a sword. Still, in her mind she touched the blade, seeking its reassuring presence. One glance at the gang, then she slipped to where the shadows were thickest along the wall.

The patchy fog and the darkness made the men seem even more menacing. The tallest was well over six feet, thin but with broad shoulders. Like a dagger that had been jammed tip first into the street. He was in the front, two each to his right and left, back a few feet. So the guy she’d fought moments ago hadn’t been the gang leader, she decided. The others were all of similar build to the tall one with the gun, and all with the oddly cropped and spiky hair their unconscious fellow sported. A sixth held back. He also had a gun with a silencer, but she couldn’t tell its make for certain. Maybe an old French-made MAB PA-15. The guy up front had a sleek SIG Sauer. That they had guns, particularly a SIG Sauer—with silencers—marked them as a notch above a common gang. Probably stolen.

They were close enough that she could smell them; they had the pong of the streets. They talked softly in Romany as they scanned the area, taking in the guy she’d knocked out.

Well, she’d craved an adrenaline rush. Selfish.

One of the men moved his arms to his sides, showing that he had a length of chain for a weapon. The other three produced switchblades, one in each hand.

“Girl, girl, girl,” the tall one in the lead said. “Come out where we can get a better look at you.” He held his free hand high. “We won’t hurt you.”

“Much,” said the one with the chain.

Annja felt their eyes on her—they knew exactly where she was. She also sensed other eyes on her. Another gang member?

“Come out, girl.” The tall one again. “Girl, girl, girl. Come out. Come out.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Annja whispered as she did just that. In a blur of taupe taffeta, chiffon and sequins, she sprinted forward, surprising both gunmen, who couldn’t draw a bead. She slammed into the lead one, striking his throat with her elbow and grabbing at his gun with her other hand. She threw the SIG Sauer behind her, listening to it clatter on the street. She pulled her second elbow jab to avoid killing him and stepped back as he dropped, crouching below the chain that cut through the air.

Five left standing.

Four after she shot toward one of the switchblade wielders, kicking him in the groin, then following through with a punch to his jaw that sent a few teeth and a spray of blood flying. Almost too easy.

“Scroafă!” the other man with the gun hollered. He was considerably older than the others, maybe thirty, with a short beard and a dead eye. He fired, missing her again as she dived, the bullet striking the pavement behind her. “Scroafă!”

Annja didn’t know the word. He fired again, and this time the bullet grazed her arm, feeling as if an open flame had been put to her skin. She slipped by the three men surrounding her and raced toward the one-eyed gunman, darting left when he brought the gun up again. The sword was in her hand; she hadn’t realized that she’d reached for it. The pommel felt good against her palm; its presence cut some of the burning sensation from the graze. She turned the blade vertical to the street and then brought it around like a batter would swing at an incoming ball. The flat of the sword connected with the man’s hand and caused the gun to fly from his grip.

“Bisturiu!” one of the men behind her shouted. “Spada!”

“Yes, it’s a sword,” Annja said. It had taken the wound to her arm to make her realize how stupid she’d been, looking for a fight just to get in some physical activity. Annja had been thrust into more than enough fights through the past few years. She didn’t need to go trolling for them.

“Idiot!” She cursed herself as she spun on the ball of her bare foot, a painful sensation on the rough pavement, and brought the flat of the blade around again, striking him in the arm. At the same time she kicked at his knee, hearing a discomfiting pop.

“Scroafă!” The one-eyed man repeated it like a chant before Annja cuffed him on the neck and rendered him unconscious. She turned to face the remaining three just as the one with the chain lashed her chest.

The air rushed from her lungs and she doubled over, still managing to point the sword at him. Determined, he whipped the chain at her again, as if it was a weightless thing in his hands. It caught the blade, but only for a moment.

“Infern!” the chain wielder gasped.

Annja took advantage of his momentary surprise to slice down with the sword. She pulled her punch, using just enough force to wound him, but not cut off his arm. The pain made him drop the chain. Some of it landed on her bare feet, adding to her aches.