Restless Soul - Alex Archer [87]
“She had our card, Uncle. See?” He pointed to the cards on the floor. “She had all of them.”
“What are you, Annja Creed?” Kim’s eyes were hot black coals burning into hers. “Are you a thief? Did you come here to steal from thieves, Annja Creed from New York City?” His command of English was excellent, but it was thick with an Asian accent and she had to struggle to understand some of his words. He grabbed at her arm and felt her muscles. “Are you security? Were you hired to recover some relic that had found its way into my shop?”
A piece of information she’d just gained. The man Kim was the owner of this antiques store, maybe of all the stores she’d had cards for.
“You are not police, Annja Creed. The police were here an hour ago and left us alone. What…are…you?”
When she didn’t answer, he struck her face again and again. She tasted blood in her mouth and felt it spill over her lower lip. He’d loosened at least one of her teeth. Her tongue felt thick and swollen.
“What are you?” This time he hit her in the stomach.
“An archaeologist,” she managed. “I am an archaeologist.” She’d give him that much.
He made a rumbling sound and took a step back. Behind him, the men at the desk picked through her wallet and looked at her broken camera. She’d kept it rather than toss it, putting the memory card back in, thinking the camera shell would protect the card.
“I am an archaeologist,” she insisted. “I was in the caves looking for the teak coffins.” It was the truth, and her voice was steady in telling it. “On vacation, I went to the caves to see the coffins. That I found your…treasure…was an accident.”
“Pfah! You expect us to believe that?” He balled both of his hands and swung at the air with so much strength she felt a breeze in front of her face. “What are you, Annja Creed? A special agent of some government?”
“The business cards were Dak’s, Uncle. I recognize his handwriting. She must have taken the cards from Dak after she killed him.”
Kim hit her in the stomach again. “I want to know just what you have learned about our…business, Annja Creed. I want—”
“She is trained, Uncle,” the younger man cut in. “I saw her dance like Bruce Lee. She had a sword and—”
A cell phone buzzed, and Kim turned away from Annja and walked into the shop. He spoke quickly in Vietnamese, and then switched to English as if he was now talking to someone else.
“The police were here, Sandman, but I convinced them nothing was wrong. I am merely an antiques dealer who struggles to pay his rent. They came in the front and looked through the shop. They did not see the Jeep and the crates in it.” He paused, obviously listening to the individual on the other end of the call. “I have a spy here,” he continued. “One that I am making less pretty by the moment. One who discovered our operation.”
Annja had to strain to hear him over the quiet discussion of the two other men. They were futilely trying to get her camera to work so they could call up the pictures she’d taken. A large fly buzzed around the older man’s head.
“A woman, this spy. My nephew Nang says she was at the cave and killed Soon and Dak with a sword. Pfah! Nang said there were two other men with her, one dead. I will find out where the last one is, and then I will kill her. No loose ends, Sandman. I will take care of her, my old friend, and I will see you soon. Tell my father I will bring him that case of Singha lager he asked for, and—”
Annja didn’t need to see her reflection to know that her face was bruising and swelling. Her legs throbbed and her feet were numb, the cord around her ankles tied too tight. She thrust the noises of the shop—Kim’s conversation…he was on his second call now, and the snarls of the two men cursing over her broken digital camera—all to the back of her mind. Out on the street a car honked repeatedly, and she ignored that, too.
Instead, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her sword.
She reached out and felt the pommel form against her numb hands that were