Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

“We’ll see if I have a spare moment. I’d love to learn to fly-fish.”

Daniel’s attention averted sharply. “What the bloody—?”

The Jeep squealed to a stop and Eric groaned. The kid was juggling camera equipment to save it from breaking. He wore a sheen of dust from their near-miss with the truck, but it managed to give his face some color.

“A fight?” Daniel shoved open the driver’s door.

Annja pinpointed the scuffle fifty yards ahead, just outside a staked canvas tent. It wasn’t a friendly disagreement with shaken fingers and vitriolic words. Fists were flying.

Daniel leaped out from behind the wheel and raced across the muddy grounds.

“Is he going to join in?” Eric said with so much disbelief Annja had to smile. “Appears so.”

“Cool.” Aiming his video camera at the scuffle, Eric began filming. “What could they possibly be fighting over on a dig? I mean, this place is boring central. People poking about in the dirt with dental picks?”

They did use dental picks for the finer, detail work. And what was so wrong with that? Annja wondered.

Turning the other cheek to the boy’s ignorance, Annja stepped out from the Jeep. “I’m going to check it out. Stay out of everyone’s way, but…keep filming.”

Much as she didn’t approve of the macho posturing, if there was tension between the two camps, as a reporter, she was interested. As an archaeologist, she never overlooked the details. If people were disappearing into thin air, then exposing the differences and arguments between the two camps could be key in learning the truth behind it all.

A crew of six men dressed in cargo pants and T-shirts—standard dig gear—surrounded two struggling men. A tall, sun-bronzed dark-haired man with dusty khakis and no shirt delivered a punch that sent the other black-haired bruiser sprawling into Daniel’s arms.

Daniel shoved the fallen man aside and went at the dark-haired one full force. He wasn’t necessarily trying to stop the violence. In fact, he assumed the other’s position and now pummeled the shirtless one in the gut. The man’s abs were well defined, and he took the punches with a grinning challenge and gestured with his fingers to deliver more punishment.

“Boys,” Annja muttered, and then smiled despite herself.

The one who’d been shoved aside snorted blood and spat as he assumed a bouncing, fighting stance. He wore black khakis and military boots. His black hair was shaved to stubble. Swinging, he lunged for the pair and rejoined the scuffle. All three went down in the wet soil that had once been grassy, but now was being shaved bare by kicking, sliding boots. None seemed to have the upper hand, and if they did, it was quickly lost to another.

The men standing around watching the fight pumped their fists and urged on their man. A few women in T-shirts and shorts, and scarves to tie back their hair, lingered away from the fight near the marked dig. Their interest was more worried than keen.

Hands to hips, Annja wondered how long they’d go at it before someone got seriously hurt. Could be a means to blow off some steam after a long day spent hunched over and digging for nothing more than worthless pot shards. But this was no way to act on a dig. Archaeologists enjoyed a good workout and were not slouches. But they preferred to use their brains not their fists. At least, the ones Annja had worked with followed such moral compasses.

Did she need to whip out her sword and show them who was boss?

Annja crossed her arms firmly, biting her lip. Wouldn’t go over too well, and she realized the fight was probably more a means to let off aggression, and if denied that, the men would stew and simmer—over what she intended to find out.

She was surprised at Daniel’s eagerness to join the fray. He’d come off as laidback and good-natured. Though he had shouted at the truck that had almost run them off the road. But who wouldn’t have?

Could the stereotypical belief about the Irish temper hold truth? It was looking pretty plausible.

Someone must have found something valuable. That was Annja’s only guess as to the source of their rage. If one camp found something of value, who then did it ultimately belong to?

Then again, she didn’t notice any find tables or black rubber buckets with bits and shards of pottery. Must be inside the canvas tent.

The dig was flat and bare and surprisingly clean of spoil dirt. The turf had been cleared away from a forty-by-forty-foot section beside the tent. The second camp was about two hundred yards to the north just over a ridge that was too high to be one of the infamous potato ridges still remarkable from the nineteenth century. It was far enough away so one couldn’t shout back and actually hear what had been said, but close enough for curiosity.

Beyond the ridge she spied a truck, similar to the vehicle that had almost driven them off the road. It looked like a delivery truck, though. She figured it must contain supplies or could even function as a mobile office for the dig director.

The situation was odd. Digs didn’t split up like this unless they were large and initial investigation proved a major feature had been uncovered like an entire castle wall or even a village.

If they’d only uncovered a spearhead, Annja couldn’t imagine why the split. Unless artifacts had been sighted in both locations. Still, it would be difficult to get permission from the county for such a large operation.

A jawbone cracked. A male groan was followed by a litany of Irish oaths and promises to do something nasty to the other guy’s mother.

“All right, boys.” Annja stepped close enough to feel the wind of one of their punches. “Fun and games is done. Time to get back to work.”

“You heard the lady,” Daniel growled from his position, bent over one man and clasping him about the waist, while the other twisted his leg to topple the threesome. “Feck!”

The dark-haired man was the first to pop up from the tangle. Hopping from foot to foot, his fists ready for a defensive swing, he smiled a million-dollar blast of white that made Annja do a double take. Relinquishing his fight stance, he smoothed a palm over his muddied abs and gave her the once-over. A preening look. She straightened her shoulders.

The man was not ugly at all. Sometimes her assignments really were easy on the eyes. And she hadn’t bothered to check the mirror after arriving at the airport. Her face must be coated with road dirt like Eric’s.

“A lady stepping up to the fight?” he volleyed at her. “Fancy a tussle with the boys, then?”

“That was a tussle?” She lifted a brow, noting the scrape on his shoulder. “Was the bloodshed worth it? What were you fighting about?”

The other guy, whose lip was cracked and bleeding, struggled from Daniel’s grip, shook himself off and puffed up his chest. He wore a dark blue muscle shirt streaked with dirt. “Ma’am.”

He’d apparently taken a clue from the dark-haired man and didn’t want to be shown up in manners. Annja discreetly rubbed a hand along her cheek. A fine sheen of dirt smudged her fingers.

“It’s Annja,” she offered, holding out a hand to shake, and receiving a slap of mud-caked sweaty palm. “Annja Creed.”

“Annja’s here to do a shoot for her television program,” Daniel offered with a swipe of his palm across his sweaty hair. Retrieving his hat from the mud, he placed it on his head and gave it a pat. A chunk of dirt landed his shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” the militant one spat out.

“Cool your jets, Slater,” the brunette said. “Let’s offer Miss Creed our nicest welcome before you start slinging mud at her.”

“If I’d known the welcoming committee was going to get rough, I’d have worn my armor,” Annja joked.