on what she was going to do, she breathed deeply enough to charge her lungs without drawing the attention of the men beside her. Then she threw a backfist toward the man on her right. As she expected, he was prepared for the attack and caught her arm. However, he wasn’t prepared for her to shift and slam her forehead into his face as an immediate follow-up. She repeated the move and heard the man’s nose crunch under her assault.
He cried out once, then lapsed into unconsciousness.
As the other man tried to bring his pistol into play, Annja fell into the lap of the unconscious man, lifted her left leg and thrust her foot into her second attacker’s face.
The kick slammed the man against the window and shattered the glass. His pistol fell to the floor. Annja kept her foot pressed against his jaw to hold him in place. He struggled weakly, obviously dazed from the impact.
The man in the front passenger seat swung quickly and threw his gun arm across the seat. Annja didn’t wait to see if he was going to threaten her before he opened fire. She reached up and seized his wrist, then yanked down hard and snapped his elbow.
The man screamed hoarsely and dropped the pistol.
Committed now, aware that her life was possibly measured in heartbeats, Annja opened the passenger door, pushed off the guy she had trapped against the broken window and rolled onto the street. She got to her feet at once, cognizant that the conscious men inside the car were clawing for their weapons. Even the man with the broken arm was determined to get his pistol, or maybe he had another.
Annja vaulted to the back of the car and headed for the roof. Bullets ripped through the back windshield, blowing out chunks of glass, and punched calderas in the car’s roof. She never broke stride as she ran across the hood of the car and leaped onto the next stopped vehicle.
Jumping, vaulting and changing directions like a fleet-footed deer, Annja crossed the stalled traffic and reached the sidewalk just as the light turned green. She kept running as car horns, shouts and pistol shots made a huge cacophony behind her.
At the corner of the nearest building, she risked a quick glance back. Bullets tore into the bricks and threw dust in her face. She ducked out of sight, then dared another look. Two of the men had started after her, but their hearts weren’t in it and they’d retreated to their vehicle. Annja resumed running.
* * *
SEVERAL BLOCKS LATER, ANNJA slowed to a walk. Thankfully London stayed busy nearly twenty-four hours. She called Edmund Beswick’s cell several times but didn’t get an answer.
She also debated calling the Metro police, but decided against that until she knew more of what was going on. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox was going to have a lot of questions, and she didn’t have any answers.
Doug Morrell called again and this time she picked up.
“Hey,” he whispered irritably.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Me? I was calling you.”
Annja would’ve smiled at that, but she was too worried about Edmund Beswick. “Still need the favor, Doug.”
“Fine. What did you find out from the police?”
“What?” For a moment Annja was thrown for a loop.
“I saw the pictures on Twitter. You and Detective Scarecrow.”
Annja couldn’t believe it. Then she checked herself. Doug Morrell lived for Facebook and Twitter. It only made sense that he’d be trailing any mentions of her or Chasing History’s Monsters. “His name’s Westcox.”
“Whatever. Man looks like an advance warning for a famine.”
“He’s not that thin.”
“Your perspective is skewed because you’re always looking at mummies and skeletons. Skinny living guys must look obese to you.”
Annja shook her head. “Let’s talk about the favor.”
“Let’s talk about Detective Scarecrow.”
“Westcox. Get his name right. The lawyer will need to know it.”
“Lawyer?” Doug’s tone changed immediately from irritated to anxious. “Did you do something?”
“No,
He cried out once, then lapsed into unconsciousness.
As the other man tried to bring his pistol into play, Annja fell into the lap of the unconscious man, lifted her left leg and thrust her foot into her second attacker’s face.
The kick slammed the man against the window and shattered the glass. His pistol fell to the floor. Annja kept her foot pressed against his jaw to hold him in place. He struggled weakly, obviously dazed from the impact.
The man in the front passenger seat swung quickly and threw his gun arm across the seat. Annja didn’t wait to see if he was going to threaten her before he opened fire. She reached up and seized his wrist, then yanked down hard and snapped his elbow.
The man screamed hoarsely and dropped the pistol.
Committed now, aware that her life was possibly measured in heartbeats, Annja opened the passenger door, pushed off the guy she had trapped against the broken window and rolled onto the street. She got to her feet at once, cognizant that the conscious men inside the car were clawing for their weapons. Even the man with the broken arm was determined to get his pistol, or maybe he had another.
Annja vaulted to the back of the car and headed for the roof. Bullets ripped through the back windshield, blowing out chunks of glass, and punched calderas in the car’s roof. She never broke stride as she ran across the hood of the car and leaped onto the next stopped vehicle.
Jumping, vaulting and changing directions like a fleet-footed deer, Annja crossed the stalled traffic and reached the sidewalk just as the light turned green. She kept running as car horns, shouts and pistol shots made a huge cacophony behind her.
At the corner of the nearest building, she risked a quick glance back. Bullets tore into the bricks and threw dust in her face. She ducked out of sight, then dared another look. Two of the men had started after her, but their hearts weren’t in it and they’d retreated to their vehicle. Annja resumed running.
* * *
SEVERAL BLOCKS LATER, ANNJA slowed to a walk. Thankfully London stayed busy nearly twenty-four hours. She called Edmund Beswick’s cell several times but didn’t get an answer.
She also debated calling the Metro police, but decided against that until she knew more of what was going on. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox was going to have a lot of questions, and she didn’t have any answers.
Doug Morrell called again and this time she picked up.
“Hey,” he whispered irritably.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Me? I was calling you.”
Annja would’ve smiled at that, but she was too worried about Edmund Beswick. “Still need the favor, Doug.”
“Fine. What did you find out from the police?”
“What?” For a moment Annja was thrown for a loop.
“I saw the pictures on Twitter. You and Detective Scarecrow.”
Annja couldn’t believe it. Then she checked herself. Doug Morrell lived for Facebook and Twitter. It only made sense that he’d be trailing any mentions of her or Chasing History’s Monsters. “His name’s Westcox.”
“Whatever. Man looks like an advance warning for a famine.”
“He’s not that thin.”
“Your perspective is skewed because you’re always looking at mummies and skeletons. Skinny living guys must look obese to you.”
Annja shook her head. “Let’s talk about the favor.”
“Let’s talk about Detective Scarecrow.”
“Westcox. Get his name right. The lawyer will need to know it.”
“Lawyer?” Doug’s tone changed immediately from irritated to anxious. “Did you do something?”
“No,
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