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“You think I can do this?” Annja asked.

Vic laughed. “Well, you know, you’ve got a pretty strong motivational factor going for you.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, if you don’t hold your own, I’ll leave you behind. These woods are about to turn ugly on me as well. The people I annoyed last night will be out in force looking for yours truly. I’m not hanging around any longer than I have to.”

“You’d leave me behind?” Annja asked.

“In a heartbeat, sister. I’ve got my own agenda to play to. Sorry to break your heart and all.”

Annja frowned. “You’re not breaking my heart,” she said.

Vic smiled. “Let’s get moving.”

Annja stood and rubbed on some more mosquito repellent. Vic hefted his rifle and then stopped. “Here,” he said, holding out a small-caliber pistol. “You know how to use one?”

Annja took the gun, dropped the magazine and racked the slide. As the bullet in the chamber spun out, she caught it in her hand. Then she topped off the magazine, rammed it home and racked the slide again.

“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” she said.

Vic nodded and grinned. “You’re not exactly a damsel in distress, are you?”

Titles in this series:

Destiny

Solomon’s Jar

The Spider Stone

The Chosen

Forbidden City

The Lost Scrolls

God of Thunder

Secret of the Slaves

Warrior Spirit

Serpent’s Kiss

Provenance

The Soul Stealer

Gabriel’s Horn

The Golden Elephant

Swordsman’s Legacy

Polar Quest

Eternal Journey

Sacrifice

Rogue Angel_•

Sacrifice
Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Merz for his contribution to this work.

T HE L EGEND

…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

1

The air was so thick, Annja Creed felt she could use her sword to slice it open. But doing so wouldn’t affect the extreme humidity that seemed to surround her every second of the day. Even when the blistering sun didn’t penetrate the thick canopy of the jungle, she could still feel the heat of its merciless rays burning down. Something as simple as taking a breath felt as if she was swallowing thick porridge.

She’d already resolved herself to the one simple fact about being in the jungle—she would never be dry. Her clothes clung to her, accentuating every curve of her body. They were soaked through with sweat and the twice-daily rains that haunted her new home.

It wasn’t a home she wanted to live in. But, for the moment, she had no choice.

She worked her hands behind her back, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her wrists. The handcuffs didn’t help matters.

She stretched to get her hands under her, hoping she’d eventually be able to slide them under her legs so her hands ended up in front of her rather than behind her. A stream of sweat ran down her face for her efforts.

Annja took a deep breath and sighed. How do they stand it here? she wondered. She’d been in the Philippines for less than a week and she still hadn’t acclimated to the tropical environment.

Of course, she hadn’t come here thinking she would end up as a prisoner of the dreaded Abu Sayyaf, the notorious terrorist group with links to al Qaeda. Annja was supposed to be researching a new story for Chasing History’s Monsters. But a contact hadn’t turned out to be who he said he was. Instead, Annja found herself looking down three gun barrels, and when the small Toyota van had rolled to a stop in front of her, the wisest move was to get inside.

She smirked. If she was being totally honest with herself, part of her wanted to see where things led. She was getting used to unexpected adventures and the truth was she usually enjoyed them. She was pretty good at getting herself out of tight spots.

Her smile faded. I should have considered all the options beforehand, she thought. Before she was forced to endure a bumpy flight away from Manila, and then a riverboat ride to some desolate part of the country.

And there was also the fact that she had no idea where on earth she was. The Philippines comprised over seven thousand islands. Annja could be on any of them.

With no real way home.

She racked her brain. What do I know about Abu Sayyaf? Not much. Just what had made it to the news. She knew they were notorious for their cruelty. They hadn’t pulled off much in the way of actual terrorist attacks—a stray bombing here and there. But what they lacked in a track record, they made up for in terms of their lucrative side business—kidnapping.

Abu Sayyaf operatives had resorted to kidnapping over the past ten years to help finance their various other operations. Normally, the kidnappings took place at expensive resorts frequented by wealthy Europeans. But in the past few years, Annja knew that Abu Sayyaf had also kidnapped several missionaries. The results weren’t always positive. If the ransoms were paid, by and large most of the victims were released. In the case of one missionary, however, he was beheaded.

Annja wondered what they hoped to achieve by kidnapping her.

She looked around the makeshift camp. There were several huts built a foot off the ground on stilts. Their rooftops had been painted and thatched over to help conceal them among the other plants of the jungle canopy, probably to discourage them from being seen from the air by the military units that hunted the terrorists.

She wondered if it was true that U.S. special-operations troops were involved in the hunt for Abu Sayyaf. She supposed they could be, and the thought of them attacking the camp cheered her.

The reality of it seemed unlikely, though. Annja hadn’t heard any type of aircraft in the area since she’d been here.

The jungle, she knew, could be utterly impenetrable. Walk in any direction and within ten yards, you’d be totally lost unless you knew exactly where you were going and how you were going to get there.

She heard a chicken clucking off in the distance. They were one of the few animals that Abu Sayyaf members seemed to keep around the camp. She was grateful they at least fed her well enough. Last night she’d had a chicken-and-rice dish that had filled her stomach and set her at ease for the first time in a few days.

They kept her well hydrated, too. Of course, they had to. In this heat, even just being leashed to the wooden pole a few feet away, Annja could dehydrate fast. Someone stopped by about once an hour and forced her to drink water.

The dark skin of her Filipino hosts suggested they were indigenous to this area, rather than city transplants. She knew that Abu Sayyaf, like many terrorist groups, preferred the disenfranchised lower classes to the middle class or wealthy. It was easier to recruit them, easier to get them to commit to suicide missions if they believed their families were going to be taken care of after they were gone.

From her vantage point in the camp, Annja had seen a total of twelve men and four women. Each one of them was dressed in camouflage fatigues. And even Annja was wearing fatigues. Her own clothes had been unceremoniously stripped off when she’d first arrived. Annja wondered if her nakedness might have aroused any of her guards, but they merely looked away while she put on the new clothes, which smelled of mothballs.

She heard the tramping of feet and looked up. One of the guards, a guy she’d named Big Nose because of the bulbous snout he had, approached with her hourly ration of water.

“Drink.”

Annja tilted her head back and opened her mouth. The water was cool. Annja wondered if they had a refrigerator somewhere, and if so, what sort of power it was running on. A generator out here would be too noisy and would require a supply of gasoline to run. She didn’t think they would opt to trade their concealment for a creature comfort. But who knew?

She swallowed some water, pausing to take a breath before finishing off the water off. She felt a few drops run down her chin and smiled at the guard. “Thank you.”

He frowned and walked away.

So much for making a friend, she thought. I don’t think I can count on him as an ally.

She continued the struggle to get her hands around to her front, but couldn’t make it work. She slumped forward, straining to stretch her back muscles. She’d already worked on keeping her legs flexible, but her arms had pretty much gone numb.

She sighed and took another deep breath. Now what? Annja closed her eyes and looked inside of herself. The sword she’d somehow inherited from Joan of Arc hung in its ready position. All she had to do was reach in and take it.

But how could she do that when her hands were cuffed?

She was still learning about the powers of the sword and what she could and couldn’t do with it. Maybe I don’t need my hands free in this plane to do it in that plane, she thought. Perhaps she could reach into the otherwhere and then, when she opened her eyes, the cuffs would be gone. All she had to do was see it so.

Annja saw her hands as free as she reached toward the sword.

She felt the hilt and wrapped her hands around it.

She opened her eyes.

Her hands were still cuffed behind her. The sword was nowhere to be seen.

Annja frowned. So much for that.

She knew she had to get her cuffs off before she tried to do anything at all that might spring her from this place.

The problem, she realized, was that even if she did escape, where would she go? She had no idea where she was. They’d blindfolded her until she arrived in the camp. And stumbling through the jungle wasn’t the smartest thing she could do.

There had to be another way. But what?

Annja looked up. Somewhere in the camp, there seemed to be some sort of commotion. She heard more voices. They spoke loudly. Was it an argument? Annja strained to listen, but her knowledge of Tagalog was minute. And there was no way of knowing what particular dialect these terrorists were using.

The voices seemed to be getting closer. Annja sat back, trying to feign disinterest.

The guard with the big nose came into view. The AK-47 assault rifle he wore dangled from its strap on his shoulder. The gun looked large in his smallish hands, but he kept it fixed on Annja.

She wanted to smile. Like I’m any type of threat right now, she wanted to say. But she kept her mouth closed.

Big Nose knelt behind her and untied the leash binding her to the tree. He stood and gestured to Annja with his gun. “You will come with me,” he said.

Annja nodded and the guard motioned back the way he’d come. Annja took a few stumbling steps, waiting for the blood to flow back down her legs. She tried flexing her arms, but the cuffs really restricted her movement.

The man led her to a large hut. As Annja walked toward it, she saw other members of the terrorist cell peering at her intently. Did they know who she was? Was this why they’d kidnapped her? Did they even get Chasing History’s Monsters out here? And if they did, Annja would still be surprised they might know who she was. Since she didn’t make a habit out of wearing skimpy clothes, her fan base was significantly smaller than her buxom cohost’s.

The guard walked her up the steps of the hut. Annja’s feet felt the rough-hewed wood flooring under her. It felt good to be standing again after sitting for so long. She ducked under a palm frond opening and walked inside the hut.

It was much darker inside. But a small fire kept it just shy of total darkness. The heat was worse in here and Annja instantly felt herself sweating even more than she had outside.

“What is your name?”

The voice wasn’t one she’d heard before. It sounded quite cosmopolitan.

“Annja Creed,” she said, looking for the source of the voice.

“Where are you from, Annja Creed?”

“Brooklyn.”

Annja strained to make out any details, but she could only see that he had close-cropped hair. There was also a vague tinge of some sort of cheap cologne on the air. He’d obviously showered recently. Or maybe he’d rolled around in the cologne sample inserts that they stocked magazines with these days.

“What brings you to our country?”

“I work for a television show. One of the story ideas brought me here,” she replied.

“You’re a reporter?” he asked.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not with the news. It’s more of a history show. Like documentaries.”

“You don’t have a camera crew with you?”

Annja shook her head. “I came over first to see if the story was legitimate. Only then would the camera guys come over so we could film it.”

“I see.”

Annja heard the rustle of papers. “We have your passport here.”

“They took it from me when I was kidnapped,” she said.

“Yes, and it’s a shame they didn’t bother to look at it. Otherwise it might have saved us both from the embarrassing situation that now confronts us.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Yes. You see, my colleagues are sometimes a bit, shall we say, overzealous in their work? It’s a stressful thing—I’m sure you can appreciate it. There are all sorts of logistical elements to planning a proper kidnapping. Emotions run high. People make mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Annja wondered where this was going.

“Yes. You were not our intended target, Annja Creed.”

“You didn’t mean to kidnap me?”

“No.”

Annja smiled. “Oh well, that’s cool.”

“It is not…cool. It is a bad mistake,” the man said calmly.

There was movement behind Annja. A guard pushed another man through the doorway. His hands were bound behind him and he was gagged. But Annja recognized him as the terrorist who had kidnapped her.

Annja looked back into the darkness. “Well, like you said, everyone makes mistakes.”

“Mistakes are not tolerated in our organization. It would set a bad precedent if I allowed such behavior to fester within our ranks.”

The gunshot sounded like an explosion and Annja jumped. She looked behind her and saw her kidnapper facedown on the floor, a pool of blood rapidly pooling around his head.

Annja turned back. “So, we’re all through here, then? I’m free to go?” she said quickly.

“Unfortunately, no. You’ve seen too many things here.”

Annja shook her head. “I didn’t see a thing. I was blindfolded until I got here.”

“Even still…”

Annja shook her head. “I have no issue with what you do or who you do it, to. You said this was a mistake. So let’s correct it. Let me go,” she spoke confidently, hoping she was persuasive enough.

“No. I think you’ll be able to help us out, after all,” the voice said.

“Oh?”

“Indeed. But it will, most unfortunately, mean your death.”

2

The guard with the big nose steered Annja out of the cloistered environment of the thatch hut and back down onto the muddy ground. He deliberately pushed her fast enough so that Annja’s legs had trouble keeping up with the momentum, causing her to stumble and trip most of the way down. At last he shoved her and Annja had to turn her head at the very last minute before she crashed to the ground.

She sat up and spit out some dirt. “Thanks for the help, jerk,” she muttered.

The guard grinned and took his pistol out. Annja frowned. This was not good. The guard thumbed the hammer back.

“Stop.”

The guard and Annja both turned toward the veranda of the hut she’d just left. The man standing there lit a cigarette. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the dense jungle air and regarded Annja.

“Are you scared about dying?” he asked her.

Annja got to her knees and stared at him. “I’ve faced death before.”

The man nodded. “I can tell. You have that look about you. My friend here doesn’t intimidate you much, does he?”

Annja smiled. “Who are you?”

“My name is Agamemnon.”

“You’re joking, right?” Annja said.

Agamemnon grinned. “My parents. What can you do? They grew up with this fixation on Mount Olympus. They named us all after the gods and goddesses of mythology. My brother was named Midas.”

“Was?” Annja asked.

“Government troops killed him while he slept. Him and his young bride. They were but twenty years old.”

Annja flexed her wrists. The cuffs still held her tight. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Is this really necessary?” Annja asked, hoping she could talk her way out of her predicament.

Agamemnon shrugged. “Is anything we do ever really necessary?”

“You tell me—you’re the one in control right now.”

“Yes.” Agamemnon nodded. “I am indeed. And unfortunately, your death will help to convince the government we are truly serious.”

“Since when have you had trouble with the government thinking you aren’t serious?” Annja asked.

Agamemnon came down the steps. Annja could see he looked to be in his late thirties. His close-cropped hair was still jet-black. His eyebrows hung over his dark eyes like heavy velvet drapes. The way he walked reminded Annja of some of the more ferocious fighters she’d met in her lifetime. Agamemnon was thin, but he resonated with strength and cunning.

He stopped just short of coming into range if Annja had decided to try to kick him. “Ever since the American troops started hunting us, the government has considered us a has-been organization,” he explained.

“I didn’t realize the U.S. forces had done so much damage to your organization,” she said.

Agamemnon stepped on his cigarette butt and ground it under his foot. “They hunt us when they can find us. Their special-operations troops are quite skilled at navigating the jungle. Even though we know it like the back of our hand, they are quick to adapt and learn our tactics. I have lost many soldiers since they started combing the islands for us.”

“And so now you’ve taken to kidnapping?”

Agamemnon shrugged. “We kidnap high-profile targets in the hope that our cause gets publicity, drives more recruits to us, and that the ransoms get paid. That money helps fund our operations in Manila and other places.”

“I see.” Annja saw that several other members of the impromptu village had come out of their huts. Agamemnon certainly seemed to hold sway over them; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.

“These are my people,” he said spreading his arms as if about to hug them all. “I’ve led them through some harrowing incidents. They trust me completely and I do believe they would follow me straight into the depths of hell itself if need be.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Annja said. “And I have no doubt they trust you completely. But I still don’t see why you need to kill me.”

“Because our intended target was not picked up. The plan cannot be canceled just because of that one simple flaw,” he said.

“I won’t get you any type of respect. I’m a nobody,” Annja said.

Agamemnon shook his head. “Nonsense. You said it yourself—you’re a television personality. I’m sure a woman as lovely as yourself has thousands of devoted fans.”

“I don’t think the number’s that high. It’s just an offbeat history show on cable.”

Agamemnon frowned. “I don’t follow.”

Annja shook her head. “The show is a bit of a joke. No one takes it seriously,” she said.

“We will videotape your beheading and then broadcast it all over the world. Your death will help us reestablish ties to our friends in other regions. It will also serve as a call for others to join us and help overthrow the government.”

“Beheading?” Annja asked, horrified.

Agamemnon unsheathed a large knife hanging at his side. “Unfortunately, the world has grown desensitized to shootings. People see thousands of them on TV and in the movies. Simply shooting someone has no impact. But decapitation, well, that is something else again.”

Annja swallowed hard. Having her head sliced off wasn’t what she’d imagined coming to the Philippines would entail. And the thought of that knife cutting into her neck sent adrenaline flooding into her veins.

I have to get out of here, she thought. She closed her eyes and saw the sword hanging where it always did when not in use. If she could just get it and get free of her cuffs, she could cut these butchers down and then disappear into the jungle.

But where would she go?

She frowned. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than staying here and waiting for her head to be lopped off.

“Annja?”

She opened her eyes. Agamemnon was staring at her intently. Annja coughed and cleared her throat. “I wasn’t expecting to be killed in that fashion. You don’t strike me as being that barbaric,” she said angrily.

Agamemnon laughed. “Oh, but I am. Trust me.”

Annja flexed her wrists. There was no give in the cuffs. If she didn’t get them off, she was as good as dead. And by the sound of it, beheading wasn’t exactly a quick and painless event unless done by guillotine. Being hacked off with a knife sounded extremely painful and messy.

“I need to pray,” she blurted.

Agamemnon frowned. “What?”

Annja looked at him. “I need to pray. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me a final chance to make amends with my god before you kill me?”

Agamemnon lit a fresh cigarette. “Forgive me for saying so, Miss Creed, but you don’t exactly strike me as the religious type. I’ve killed missionaries before. They walked with much more an air of God than you do.”

“And you’ve never heard of people finding religion right before they die?” Annja said.

“I have.”

“Then you should have enough respect for me—if only for what my death will represent to your cause—to grant me a few final moments of inner peace.”

Agamemnon sighed. “Very well. I will give you five minutes to pray. I suggest you use it well.”

Annja turned herself slightly. “I need the cuffs removed, please.”

“Why?”

“My religion dictates that my hands be free when I pray. In order to make the proper signs of my god, I must have both hands free.”

“What religion is this? I’ve never heard of such a need before.”

“I’m not exactly orthodox in my religion,” Annja said. “I belong to a new church that incorporates the teachings of many religions into its values,” she said.

Agamemnon took a deep drag on his cigarette. He gestured to the guard. “All right, you may have your hands free. But I warn you not to try anything. My friend there will have his gun trained on you at all times. And he will shoot you if need be.”

Annja bowed her head. “Thank you for the consideration.”

The guard knelt behind her and Annja heard the key slip into the lock. In another moment, the pressure on her wrists vanished. Annja took a deep breath and rubbed them, trying to flush some blood and feeling back into them.

“All right. Your time starts now,” Agamemnon said.

Annja brought her hands together in front of her. I have to make this look good, she thought. They’ll expect me to make a move immediately if I’m going to try anything at all. So let’s give them a show when they least expect it.

Annja raised her hands overhead and opened her mouth. She called out in an imaginary dialect and mixed it with a bit of Swahili slang she knew. As she did so, she moved her hands around her, gesturing first to the sky and the sun and then to the ground and the trees.

She let her head loll around as if she was possessed. She got off her knees and squatted, drawing a circle on the ground and then dancing in the center of it.

Her words grew louder. Annja felt her body responding to the sense of freedom for the first time in days. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She felt energized and alive.

With her eyes closed, she saw the sword.

She reached for it with her hands.

Felt the hilt of the sword slide into her hands.

She instantly dropped to the ground and pivoted, slicing as she opened her eyes.

A gunshot rang out, but Annja knew that the guard would have fired above her head. She heard the bullet ricochet but then felt her sword cut into something even as she continued to spin.

The guard grunted as the blade bit into his midsection, slicing him open.

Annja yanked her sword free and rushed toward Agamemnon. He looked utterly unfazed by the sudden appearance of the sword in Annja’s hands.

She was just thirty feet from the hut. Agamemnon disappeared inside.

A volley of gunfire exploded across the camp. Annja felt hot lead zipping past her head. She ducked and zigzagged across the compound. Agamemnon’s people must have had their weapons closer than she realized.

I have to get out of here!

Annja took a hard right and ran between two huts, the sword leading the way. A young man stepped in her path and aimed his AK-47 at her. Annja leaped into the air and screamed as she came down, swinging the sword.

The man dropped dead and Annja ran on.

Ahead of her, she could see the thick jungle. She ran for the twisted vines and warped tree trunks as if the devil himself was on her tail.

She entered the foliage.

Under the dense canopy, the air grew even thicker. Annja didn’t think the terrorists behind her would stop. She needed to put some real distance between them.

Annja pressed on, using the sword to cut a swath through the dense jungle.

Suddenly she stopped. They’ll track me if I keep doing this, she thought.

She sighed. As much as she hated doing it, she closed her eyes and returned the sword to the otherwhere.

Annja opened her eyes again and took a deep breath. From here on out, it gets tough, she thought. I’ll have to take my time and creep through this jungle if I have any hope of getting out of here alive. The more I fight it, the quicker it will win.

Annja parted a blanket of vines in front of her, carefully moving them out of the way just enough for her to get past. Once she did so, she turned and slid them back into position.

She hoped her pursuers would think she had magically disappeared.

Annja looked overhead and all around. The color was the same anywhere she turned. Green.

How in the world am I going to get out of this mess?

3

Agamemnon watched as his men scampered about the camp collecting themselves and their weapons. The carcass of his man lay in the dirt, staining the ground with dark blood and gore. The air stunk of his death and it only made the rage growing in Agamemnon’s chest swell even further. Already hundreds of tiny flies and mosquitoes fed upon the corpse.

One of his men noticed the sudden invasion of bugs and came over. “Shall we dispose of Jojo’s body?”

Agamemnon watched as the flies seemed to form one undulating mass as they crawled over Jojo’s body, eagerly feeding. He watched for another full minute and then finally shook his head.

“Leave it.”

“Sir?”

Agamemnon faced him. “I want him left where he died. Let the bugs eat him for all I care. His death is an object lesson to you all. You can never, ever let your guard down. Not for one instant. If you do, the same will happen to you.”

His man blanched. “I understand, sir.”

“Do you think that is cruel of me?”

The man’s eyes never met Agamemnon’s. He was far too scared to look his boss in the eyes. “I understand your intentions, sir.”

“Further,” Agamemnon continued, “if your search parties do not come back with the woman, then all who failed will meet the same fate as Jojo. Am I making myself perfectly clear? I will not tolerate failure.”

“Yes, sir.” The man jerked his hand up in salute and then excused himself.

Agamemnon watched him run away, corralling the other men who would assist him in the search. He could hear the hushed tones they used as they discussed the urgency of the mission before them. Of course, Agamemnon wouldn’t kill them all. That would be foolish of him. There was little sense killing his own troops. But with the image of Jojo’s body still so fresh in their heads, he knew the threat of another death would make his men work harder. It would drive them to turn the jungle upside down.

And then they would find Annja Creed and bring her back to the camp, where Agamemnon could dispose of her properly. After all, her death would play a key role in the events that were about to unfold in Manila.

Agamemnon smiled and turned away from the corpse. He wandered over to his hut. At the steps leading inside, he paused and watched the various search parties fanning out to enter the jungle.

Good luck, he thought to himself.

Inside, he sat down at the small radio console and opened up the channel. A screech of static punctured the humid air, and then he heard the voice he wanted on the other end.

“Yes, sir?”

Agamemnon leaned into the microphone. “Is everything ready, Luis?”

“The package has been delivered as promised. We are in the final stages of preparing it for delivery now.”

“Excellent. And how long do you anticipate it taking?”

“Perhaps the rest of the night. If all goes well, we will leave with it tomorrow morning and have it in position the following day.”

Agamemnon smiled. Luis was his most trusted man. If he set a task before him, he knew Luis would always get it done. Unlike Jojo, Luis would not have let himself be taken so easily.

He leaned back and took a breath. Who would have ever expected that the son of a beggar could have risen so far as Agamemnon had? Certainly not the worthless souls who called themselves his family. They’d forsaken him years ago when he’d revealed his plans to them. The idiots—they were content to stay in the slums he’d grown up in, scavenging a meager existence while the wealthy aristocrats and new entrepreneurs drove past them, oblivious to the children running barefoot in the late night traffic hoping to beg a few coins off of them.

The inequity of the classes had drawn Agamemnon to the promise of change that a revolution offered. And Abu Sayyaf seemed just the organization to grant this chance at making things better.

The problem, as it always seemed to be, was that no one in the upper class would listen to rhetoric. All the protests and words would never make them open their eyes and see the hell that the majority of the population lived in on a daily basis.

Something bigger had to be done. And Abu Sayyaf made the people listen with its bombings and violence. A body count guaranteed news coverage. And it made the people in power pay attention.

Now Agamemnon stood poised on the brink of his biggest accomplishment to date. There was just one final little bump to deal with—the American woman.

Once that was done, everything else would fall right in line and Abu Sayyaf would bring the government of the Philippines to its knees. When it was over, a new power paradigm would rule in its place.

And Agamemnon would be the grand architect of the entire operation.

“You’re a good man, Luis. I know we will enjoy success soon,” he said.

“Inshallah.”

God willing indeed. Agamemnon smiled. In order to gain influence over the men of Abu Sayyaf, Agamemnon had, of course, played on their religious fervor. He knew how it remained one of the most potent methods for controlling the masses. Men stirred into a religious zealotry would do anything if they thought their god demanded it. And radical Islamic fundamentalism seemed a perfect way to accomplish his goals. There were already plenty of examples throughout the Middle East that helped Agamemnon justify certain violent tendencies.

And while he knew true Islam was a religion of peace, Agamemnon had found that any religion could be twisted to the machinations of a man in charge. After all, born-again Christians and fundamentalist Baptists were given to extremes as horrifying as anything al Qaeda had engaged in.

Agamemnon took a breath and then keyed the microphone again. “I have just sent half of my force into the jungle.”

“What for?” Luis asked.

“We had an escape.”

“The American girl?”

“Yes. She was something more than we expected. Jojo is dead.”

There was a pause over the air. Luis had always viewed Jojo as something of a student to be mentored. Agamemnon worried he might take his death hard.

“How?”

“She cut him in half with a sword.”

“A sword?”

“I have no idea where she was able to obtain it. One minute she was praying, and the next, she’d cut Jojo in half,” Agamemnon said.

“I don’t understand where she could have gotten a sword.”

“I don’t, either. But rest assured when we find her—and the men will find her—I will make her tell me everything.”

The radio squawked again. “Agamemnon?”

“Yes?”

“When it is time to kill her, I want to be the one to do it,” Luis said.

Agamemnon smiled. Revenge was something that Luis always took as a matter of personal pride. He keyed the microphone. “She will be yours, my friend.”

“Excellent. I will inform my men to post additional sentries around our camp, in the event that she happens to wander right into our welcoming arms.”

The other camp was situated ten miles away from Agamemnon’s location. By splitting their resources and locations, they believed it afforded them better security. And with the American military now actively engaged in hunting down Abu Sayyaf camps, such precautions ruled the day.

“Be careful with your preparations, Luis. Any misstep—”

He heard Luis chuckle through the static. “If there are any mistakes, I think it will be readily evident to you, Agamemnon. You won’t need me to call you on the radio, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose not.”

“I must go now. There’s much to be done before we launch this upon the godless infidels.”

Agamemnon keyed the microphone a final time. “Good luck to you, Luis. And to the men you choose to go with you.”

“I need only the grace of God to help us find our way. Then we will deal them all a blow from which they will never recover.”

Agamemnon turned off the radio and leaned back in his chair. Luis would accomplish his mission, no doubt. But there would be casualties when they launched their mission. Such losses were to be expected. In this fight, there was no such thing as a bloodless battle.

The only thing that still bothered him about the operation was the loose thread of Annja Creed. He hadn’t had time to think about it until he’d mentioned it to Luis, but where on earth had she gotten the sword?

It was as if the thing had appeared magically in her hands.

Agamemnon frowned. It was my fault for agreeing to uncuff her. I should have had Jojo kill her instead of granting her a moment to be with her god. Then again, not granting her the freedom to pray one final time might have been misconstrued by his people that he saw religion as frivolous.

No, he had done what he had to do. Unfortunately, Jojo paid the price for it.

No bloodless battles, he thought.

One thing was certain, however—when he recaptured Annja Creed, Luis would make sure that all the magic in the world wouldn’t be enough to help her. Agamemnon had, after all, witnessed Luis’s savagery. It was one of the things that had attracted him to the young man in the first place. Luis had a killer’s cold, calculating capacity for extreme violence combined with a reasonably sharp intellect.

He wasn’t as smart as Agamemnon, but then, that was the point.

Agamemnon didn’t need someone smarter than him around. That would have been foolhardy on his part. He needed men with courage and the ability to kill without regret. He needed women who cared little for the pleas of their victims as they detonated bombs and sprayed bullets in crowded shopping malls.

So far, Agamemnon had been fortunate enough to attract the people he needed.

But losing Jojo would be a blow to morale around the camp.

He sighed. Later on, when the search teams returned with the American woman, Agamemnon would see to it that everyone was properly rewarded. A party of sorts would be in order.

He nodded. He would send some of the women to the nearby village to secure some pigs for roasting. There was nothing like a feast to make his people forget a tragedy.

Combined with the success of their planned operation, Agamemnon felt certain that any lingering sadness over Jojo’s death would evaporate in the joyous triumph they would all experience.

Perhaps he would have Luis bring his men over to the party. Luis had a young girl in his camp that Agamemnon hadn’t yet taken the time to properly indoctrinate into the more delicate ways of being a revolutionary. After all, the sweet thing would need to understand how the needs of her leader always had to be met in order for the revolution to grow stronger.

He grinned. The island girls were always so much easier to deflower than their counterparts in the big cities. They could be readily persuaded with a bit of extra food and wine.

He felt a swelling in his pants and smiled. Rank, it was very true, had some very distinct privileges.

All I need is for tomorrow to go off well. And for my men to find Annja Creed.

Agamemnon stood and walked out of the hut. Daylight was already starting to fade. Night would soon blanket the camp.

He waved over one of the few men left in camp. “See to it that Jojo’s body is prepared for burial. If we leave it too long, he will only attract predators.”

The man saluted and ran to find help. Agamemnon watched the flies buzz away from the carcass as a woman approached, waving a broom at the body.

His people, he knew, had learned the lesson.

All around him, people came out of their huts and approached Jojo’s body with a degree of reverence. They would see to it that he was buried in the ground beyond the camp.

Later, when the American woman was dragged back into the camp, Agamemnon would allow them to vent their frustrations on her.

Then, and only then, would he allow Luis to kill her.

4

A special-operations commando had once told Annja that the biggest problem in the jungle was disorientation. She now understood why. It was entirely possible to have no sense of direction. Looking out five yards in front of her, Annja couldn’t see much. The green-tinged semidarkness surrounded her, giving her a vague sense of claustrophobia.

Already, under the canopy, she felt the jungle’s shadowy onslaught starting. Small bugs nibbled at the exposed bits of her skin. The humidity must have soared to over ninety percent. Her clothes were all wet and clung to her like a second skin.

She took a deep breath. Somewhere behind her, she could hear people shouting.

They were looking for her.

Annja knew the direction she’d run into the jungle. She picked out a landmark in front of her roughly fifty feet away. A tall tree arcing up toward the inevitably green sky. Annja maneuvered her way to the tree and stopped when she got there.

She was desperately out of breath, not necessarily due to the exertion. After all, Annja was in excellent shape. But stalking through the dense undergrowth while breathing air that seemed more like soup than anything else taxed her like nothing she’d done before.

At the tree, Annja picked out another landmark to aim for and then started off toward the clump of vines that stretched high into the treetops.

Behind her, she could hear more noises. The telltale clang as a machete cleaved its way through the greenery.

I need to find a place to hide, Annja thought. And then I need water. Lots of water.

Already she could feel the beginning stages of dehydration coming over her. In the jungle, with her body temperature rising and sweat dripping off of her, she would need a constant supply of water to replace what she was losing. Otherwise, her vision would fade and her body would start to shut down. It already felt as if her skin temperature was higher than the air temperature. Worse, her sweat wasn’t evaporating.

She knew she was on a steep downward spiral.

Annja spotted what looked like a red buttress tree farther off in the distance and struck out for that. Scores of thick vines wrapped their way up the trunk like giant snakes. Annja grabbed the vines and pulled herself up the trunk. If she could get off the jungle floor and into the tree, she might be able to wait out her pursuers. With luck, they might walk right past her.

Annja scrambled up the trunk, feeling her feet dig into the vines. Bits of leaves and bark broke off and flittered to the jungle floor beneath her. She hoped it wasn’t enough of a sign to indicate to a tracker where she was.

She finally managed to get herself into the nook of the tree where its lower branches forked off in a variety of directions. She found a pile of reasonably dry leaves nestled in the hollow and settled herself down against them, sucking in air.

I need water, she thought.

Annja looked at the round vines wrapping their way up the tree and wondered if they might be tube vines. They were round rather than ribbon flat. That was a good sign.

She closed her eyes and reached for her sword. When she opened her eyes, the blade was in her hands and Annja reached farther up the trunk and cut one of the vines.

Here goes nothing, she thought.

She held the cut vine over her mouth and almost instantly, a stream of water flowed out of the vine. Annja took a mouthful and despite the mossy taste, she thought it was delicious.

She gulped as much as she could. The effect seemed instantaneous. Her vision cleared and she felt better. She took as much water as she could and then slumped back into the hollow.

The sounds of her pursuers grew closer.

She could hear them now, their Tagalog dialect unfamiliar to her, but she could tell by the tone that they meant business. They sounded furious that she had escaped.

Annja risked looking out of her improvised shelter and down on the ground. Several batches of leaves obscured her view, which made her feel somewhat more secure. If she had a hard time seeing them, they would have a hard time seeing her.

Two men in green fatigues and backpacks scoured the ground. A third held back. All three were armed with AK-47s and pistols.

They seemed to be stopping every few feet, checking the ground and then continuing along.

They’re looking for ground sign, Annja thought. If she hadn’t been careful enough, they would see where she’d left the ground and climbed into the trees. She found herself praying that they weren’t used to this jungle any more than she was.

She heard another clang as the lead scout moved away from her tree, hacking into a fresh batch of jungle. The two other men followed, still chattering away to themselves.

Annja sighed. She was safe.

At least for the time being.

But where was Agamemnon? He didn’t seem the type to give up so easily. And Annja knew that he was probably insulted that she had managed to escape. She wasn’t sure if Filipino men were like Latin men, who took such things as an affront to their masculinity. They’d pursue Annja even if every bit of reason demanded otherwise.

Annja licked her lips.

More bugs buzzed in her ears. The mosquitoes would be terrible tonight unless she figured out how to ward them off. She wasn’t exactly prepared with a good medical kit full of antimalarial medicine.

She scampered around her tree and tried to look off into the distance. If she could get a bearing for some area that was clear and out of the jungle, she’d be on her way back to civilization.

She looked off in all directions, but could see utterly nothing.

Damn.

Annja slumped back into her hiding spot and took stock of her situation. Soon enough, it would be night. She’d need a shelter. In the jungle, there are always two rains a day and she was overdue.

Combined with the heat and the bugs, Annja knew she was in for a rough night if she couldn’t find a way to make herself more comfortable.

A fire would keep the bugs away, but it would also alert her pursuers to her presence. She couldn’t take a chance that they would track her. If they brought Annja back to the camp, she had no doubt that Agamemnon would give her no quarter. She’d be killed immediately.

Annja made her way out of the nook in the tree and slid down the vines to the jungle floor. She summoned her sword and cut two more lengths of vines, this time letting one of them pour its water into the ground, making it muddy.

Then she knelt and kneaded the dirt into a pasty black mud that she used to smear all over her skin. She started with her face and neck and hair, caking on the dirt until she felt sure she’d covered herself well.

Annja worked her way up and down her arms and legs, smearing any part of her exposed skin and working the mud into any areas that might come uncovered. Then she worked the mud all over her clothes.

When she was done, Annja found a fresh patch of ground covered in leafy debris. She lay down and rolled back and forth several times, working all manner of dead leaves, bits of vines and twigs into her makeshift camouflage.

Annja stood back up and tried to imagine how she looked. Most likely she probably resembled some bizarre swamp creature. But if she was going to get out of this situation alive, she had to ignore her desire to be clean. She had to give herself over to her primal self, rely on her instincts and keep one step ahead of her pursuers.

She knelt back by the buttress tree and cut more vines. Annja drank down as much water as she could. She’d move on quickly, so she wasn’t particularly concerned about leaving signs. Anyone with half a brain would be able to see that someone had been active in this immediate area. A few more cut vines wouldn’t compromise her any more than her camouflaging activity would.

But now where?

Annja stayed low to the ground. She could follow the men chasing her; they were leaving enough of a trail to do so. But if she did that, there was a chance she would walk into an ambush.

Her better option was to strike out on her own, in a direction that took her away from the terrorist camp and away from her pursuers.

Left or right? she wondered.

Annja closed her eyes and checked each direction against her gut instinct. She opened her eyes and frowned. Neither direction had produced the sense of relief that normally told her she was on the right track.

It was going to have to be a pure guess.

Right it is, she decided.

She moved off, keeping herself in a stealthy crouch that she knew would tax her quadriceps but would keep her profile low. The last thing she wanted was to present an easy target someone could take a shot at if she was heard.

With her sword stowed safely away, Annja took her time moving vines and branches out of the way. She ran into scores of thick spiderwebs, each with a very annoyed owner. Annja hadn’t read up enough on the tropical varieties of spiders, but didn’t want to start thinking about how many poisonous creatures scampered all around her.

Just keep moving, she told herself. Eventually, she would find her way out.

She hoped.

A sudden burst of high-pitched, purring bleeps surrounded her. For a moment, Annja froze, halfway to closing her eyes and calling the sword back out.

Then she smiled with recognition. Her friend from England had called them “basher-out beetles.” It was the jungle’s way of announcing that it would be nighttime soon enough.

She heard a rumble overhead.

A steady deluge erupted and streamed down through the canopy, soaking her and causing a good deal of her camouflage to drip off. Annja opened her mouth and caught a few mouthfuls of rainwater.

The good thing was that at least her pursuers would have to endure the jungle just as much as she did.

Annja found her way to another tree and maneuvered her way up into the thick branches. As the rain continued to drum down from the heavens, she cut a few vines and sucked them dry. Then she tried weaving them into a makeshift cover for herself.

When she was done, she positioned it over her head.

It wasn’t great, she decided, but it did keep some of the rain off her.

Annja nestled herself into the trunk and leaned her head against the wet bark. She could smell more things than she’d ever smelled before. It was as if someone had cranked up her olfactory sense to eleven. She could smell the leaves, the trees, the dirt and the bugs; virtually everything around her had a scent that was at once peculiar and familiar.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, like someone turning off a faucet.

Already twilight was giving way to pitch darkness.

Annja felt relieved that she was at least off of the ground. Her friend in British special forces had once told her that staying off the floor in the jungle was paramount to surviving. At night, the jungle floor became a superhighway for every insect, rodent, reptile and creature that made its home in the jungle.

If Annja stayed on the ground, she would be bitten by thousands of things that she’d be better off avoiding.

The best shelter she could take was up in the trees.

She wondered if there were pumas in the jungles of the Philippines. She didn’t think so. Or, at least, she hoped there weren’t.

But what about snakes?

Annja worked her way around until her back was settled comfortably in the crook of the tree. I can’t think about that now, she decided. I just have to try to endure this for as long as it takes for me to get out of here alive.

And when she did, she’d make it her business to tell everyone about Agamemnon and his merry band of terrorist scumbags.