Restless Soul - Alex Archer [90]
“Don’t…want…to…ruin…anything,” she told him through clenched teeth.
“Priceless antiques, all of these things,” he returned as he took a step back and wiped blood off his lip with the back of his free hand.
Not all of them, she observed. Some didn’t look all that old. Still, the lighting wasn’t good enough for her to make an appraiser’s judgment.
“Worth a fortune, all of them, New York City spy.” His breath wasn’t labored, evidence of what good shape he was in.
As she maneuvered around him and the closest high shelf, he drove at her again, using a series of lightning-fast low kicks, two of which connected with her shin. He had no way of knowing she’d been shot in that leg and that it was still sore.
Annja cried out, and he grinned, thinking it was his kicks that had hurt her.
“All of these things more valuable than you, New York City spy.” He held the sword up high, the tip of the blade touching a dangling light fixture and disturbing a spiderweb that clung to it. He brought it down hard, the veins bulging along the sides of his neck, reminding Annja of the ropy roots of an acacia tree just beneath the soil.
She hooked her blade up at the last minute, the edges of the two weapons meeting with a shrill, scraping sound. In the back of her mind she saw the shards of silver arcing away from the fire that burned Joan of Arc, and she worried that the sword would again shatter and be forced to find a new wielder to make it whole.
But her sword withstood the blow, and instead Kim’s snapped. He howled angrily.
“A fortune!” He tossed the broken blade behind him and clenched his fists, veins standing out on the backs of his hands, knuckles white. “A katana from the Muromachi period. Nearly seven hundred years old, that sword you ruined!”
“I believe you’re the one who ruined it,” she countered, turning her blade so the flat of it would strike him when he presented an opening. “My sword isn’t quite that old. But it’s getting there.”
She performed a foot drop, fan kick and spinning kick, striking him soundly across the center of his chest with the sword as she danced around him and the edge of a tall, narrow case of antique hairpins and brooches.
Kim retaliated with an eagle claw and an overleap kick, still not tiring. A part of Annja reveled in the fight, the exertion blotting out the pain in her cheek from where he’d punched her repeatedly and the ache in her ankles and wrists from being tied so tight with the cord. Her breathing was deep and even, and she was aware of everything around her—the closeness of the antiques, which she tried so hard to avoid; Kim, who feinted and punched as she weaved through the shelves and matched him maneuver for maneuver; and the men in the back room, one of whom was moaning and stirring.
Annja would have to finish this soon before the odds worsened. She’d left the nephew’s gun in that room.
“So you know who I am and where I am from. Give me the same luxury. Who are you?” It was a simple enough question, and Annja enjoyed banter during a fight, particularly one well matched like this.
“Kim Pham.”
“Where are you from, Kim Pham?”
He smiled, showing off-colored teeth. Another smoker from the stains, though probably not a heavy one given his agility and stamina. “Bac Ninh Province.”
Annja had no idea where that was. “In Northern Thailand?”
He shook his head as he took the praying-mantis stance. “Vietnam. Why is this so important? Why does a dead woman want to know about me? A soon to be very dead woman.”
The last comment tipped her off. She glanced to the back of the shop, where Kim’s nephew leaned against the door frame, one hand cradling the side of his head, the other holding the gun he’d retrieved.
Annja dipped down and reversed her grip on the sword, pommel facing out as she rammed it with all her strength into Kim’s stomach. He was a big man, but it wasn’t fat she connected with. The muscles were thick, and she’d hit him just hard enough to rattle him a little. Fortunately, she