Chapter 1
There’s something about the fall, Annja Creed thought as she sat on the stoop of her building, watching leaves skitter across the pavement of the basketball courts on the other side of the street. A brilliant crystal-blue sky illuminated the day, and she breathed in the crisp air, filling her lungs and letting go a sigh. It felt good to be back home after months on the go.
I don’t do this nearly enough, she thought. Chasing relics across the globe, fighting off the rogues and ne’er-do-wells that seemed to be reaching epidemic proportions… She nodded to herself after a sip of her mocha latte.
I need more downtime.
And that was the truth. As a breeze slinked its way under the T-shirt she wore with her jeans, Annja recognized that she actually hadn’t stopped in a very long time.
The sword that only she could use—that of Joan of Arc—had opened her life to so much, she barely had time to appreciate any of it. The bad, the good and the bizarre.
But at the moment, all she wanted to do was watch the rest of the world go by, sip her latte and give thanks for such a gorgeous autumn day.
Maybe I’ll take a nap later. She smiled. A week’s vacation and absolutely nothing scheduled.
There was that new exhibit at the MOMA she could take in. And after that, maybe some well-deserved bookstore browsing in the Village.
“Annja Creed?”
She frowned and turned to study the man who’d addressed her. He was well built, in his mid-thirties and had about two days’ worth of growth on his face. But he didn’t look all that bad, she decided.
“Yes.”
He smiled. “I was wondering if we could talk for a moment?”
Annja’s frown deepened. Despite his disarming manner, she sensed something dark in him. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”
He sat on the step below hers. He was careful, making sure she noticed that he was giving her the strategic advantage of the higher ground on the stoop. But why?
She took another sip of her mocha latte, but it didn’t give her the same sense of soothing calm it had before.
“Damn.”
He looked at her. “Something wrong?”
“I think it’s entirely possible you just ruined my latte.”
He raised a shoulder. “I apologize for intruding. It did indeed look as though you were having a moment.”
“A moment?”
“Relaxing in this lovely weather.”
It wasn’t quite cool enough for a jacket, yet the man seated below her wore a navy windbreaker. There was something about him that seemed familiar. Not the man himself, but rather his manner.
Military?
Government spook?
Or just one of the countless enemies she’d come across during her travels?
“So, what can I do for you, Mr….?”
He held out his hand. “Jackson. Mike Jackson.”
“Mr. Jackson.” Annja nodded. “Okay. So what’s up? And how did you know where to find me?”
The smile he flashed told her that he knew plenty about her already. “It wasn’t that difficult. I don’t really think anyone’s privacy is assured these days. Do you?”
“I do my damnedest to try,” Annja said. “But apparently I’m not having all that much luck.”
“If it’s any consolation, you were tougher to run down than some of the other people I’ve been tasked with finding.”
“And why would you be tasked with finding me, Jackson?”
“My client wishes to speak with you.”
“Client.”
He nodded, glancing around the neighborhood.
“Skip tracer?”
“I’m not a private investigator, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Annja considered the latte again, giving it one final chance to woo her back. Forget it. “You’re an information broker. Hired to get what clients need.”
“That’s more accurate.”
“And who wanted you to find me?”
Jackson glanced at her. “The same people who would now like to have a word with you.”
“They can make an appointment if it’s that important. I’m on vacation, Jackson. If they want a meeting next week, then I’ll be happy to talk to them. Until then, I’m not doing anything unless I distinctly feel like it.”
Jackson took a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah, see, that’s going to be sort of a problem.”
“Not my problem,” Annja said. “I don’t need to see anyone.”
“The truth of the matter is, they don’t have all that much time to wait for you, Miss Creed. They’re in something of a hurry.”
“Look, Jackson—Mike, right?—I don’t go a long way on passive-aggressive behavior. And I don’t like being bullied, either.”
Jackson seemed momentarily taken aback, but then cracked a grin. “If you don’t agree to come with me, the people I work for are going to kill someone.”
“Who?”
“Reginald Fairclough.”
Annja shrugged. “Don’t know him.”
“But he apparently knows you. He’s made his cooperation with my clients conditional on meeting with you.”
“And where is he? In Manhattan?”
“Western Massachusetts.”
Annja looked closely at Jackson. “Did you just hear me say not a minute ago that I am on vacation?”
“I did hear that, yes.”
Annja stood. “I think this meeting is now at an end, Mr. Jackson. When I come back down, I don’t want to see you on my stoop or I’m going to get angry.” She leaned over him. “I’m not sure how much you know about me, but you don’t want to see me get angry.”
Jackson stared at her. Annja finally turned and walked inside, taking the stairs up to her loft. She dumped the remains of the latte in the sink and let the faucet run for a few seconds to wash it down the drain.
Western Massachusetts. She shook her head. Like that was going to happen anytime soon.
“Miss Creed.”
Annja turned. Jackson stood in her living room, with two other men behind him. If Jackson had a slight military bearing, Annja’s instincts told her these two were total danger.
“I thought I told you I don’t like being bullied.”
Jackson nodded over his shoulder. “I apologize, but my clients are quite insistent.”
One of the men stepped out from