Restless Soul - Alex Archer [63]
He hollered in pain and shouted a string of words she couldn’t comprehend. Then she brought the sword around again, striking his arm a second time. Annja hadn’t wanted to maim another one of them, but she needed to take this one out of commission so she could deal with whoever was still below with the machine gun. She stepped to the side so she could keep an eye on the hole and the rope ladder.
“Down!” she barked at the injured man. He bent forward, cradling his sliced arm, blood flowing over his hand and his face etched with an expression of pain. “I…said…down!” She gestured with her free hand and he got the idea, gingerly getting to his knees. The rope ladder moved, and Annja clocked the wounded man on the side of his head with an elbow to knock him out.
Moving fast, she dismissed the sword so she could have both hands free, ran back to the hole and pulled at the ladder, ducking back just as more bullets came from below. Someone was climbing up it, but they backed off and she yanked the ladder up, stranding them.
“You can stay down there!” she shouted. Annja doubted they could leave the cavern via the way she’d come into it yesterday. All the rain would have thoroughly flooded the passageways, and there hadn’t been time for the water to recede. She knelt and tried to get a good look into the cavern. “Trapped like the rats you more than certainly are.” She allowed a rare smugness to creep into her voice.
An idea formed in her head; she could use the rope from the ladder to tie up the three unconscious men. Then she would wait for whatever authorities would be arriving. She’d use one of the dropped pistols, if necessary, to keep the men in the cavern under control.
“Oh, Luartaro, I hope you’ve contacted someone by now. I don’t want to sit up here all day. I hope—”
“Annja Creed. Put your hands to your sides and stand up.” The voice sounded brittle and hard, like ice shattering.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing another black-clad man holding a machine gun pointed at her. He must have been in the back of the truck, hidden by the shadows, or maybe off to the side of the trail attending to something personal. Her lost backpack was slung over his shoulder.
“You took that from Zakkarat.” She pointed at the bag.
“I only took back what is mine. I assure you that I am a good shot, Annja Creed. And if you do not surrender now, I will kill you.”
Annja had no choice but to comply.
17
“You wonder how I know your name,” the man said.
Vietnamese or Laotian, Annja placed him in his early forties. He had a cruel look about him, with fleshy pock-marked cheeks, as if he’d suffered a disease in earlier years. He had intense, unblinking eyes that were hard like river stones.
“No,” she said. “I do not wonder. You tortured Zakkarat. He gave you my name.”
A thin smile cracked his face. “Zakkarat Tak-sin did not deal well with pain. He called you ‘Annjacreed,’ a name that meant nothing to me until he said you and your companion, Lou Ardo, were archaeologists who wanted to explore some caves. He had a handful of baht in his pocket that you’d given him. He said you wanted to bring a film crew back with you later and put the caves on television. I deduced that you must be the Annja Creed, the famous archaeologist who chases history’s monsters.” His laugh was forced. “Even in my country your silly, worthless program airs.”
“And what country is that?”
“Actually, I have two. America and Vietnam. Educated in the first, I have embraced the latter. Vietnam is home now. I have no use for Americans.”
It was Annja’s turn to smile, having gained a measure of information. It explained why he was so fluent in English, and his accent sounded far more East Coast than Vietnamese. Boston, perhaps?
“Is Lou Ardo with you? Hiding in the bushes?” He stared into the foliage. “Come out, Lou Ardo, or I will kill