Authors: Alex Archer

Tags: #Fantasy, #Action & Adventure, #Contemporary, #Fiction

Labyrinth

Each step, each test, each twist and turn leads closer to death

A book dealer lies imprisoned in a Boston mansion, an IV tube dripping a lethal narcotic cocktail into his veins. In thirty-six hours, he’ll be dead. His final request is to receive a visit from one woman….

It wasn’t the most hospitable invitation she’d ever received. Archaeologist Annja Creed is being rushed to Massachussetts, abducted by a famous environmental terrorist—a zealot willing to kill anyone who gets in his or the planet’s way. He has taken the book dealer hostage in order to steal a rare and very valuable treatise called the Tome of Prossos. Annja is the key to retrieving the ancient manuscript hidden somewhere deep within the mansion. But the book is well-protected. In order to find it, she must survive the rigors of an elaborate maze. She has only twelve hours to decipher the labyrinth’s sinister secret…a secret that could ensure she never emerges.

“There’s no exit.”

In answer, Kessel’s eyes blazed. He was perfectly able to communicate his understanding, even without the benefit of having a tongue.

Annja studied the only thing in the room: a table with a book on it. “Somewhere here there’s got to be a clue how we’re supposed to get out of this place. I mean, we could take the crawl space and go backward through the maze—”

She heard a rumble and a cloud of dust poured into the room. The crawl space had caved in. Annja sighed. “All right, the only way out of here is to figure out a way forward.”

There seemed nothing special about the table. And as far as she could tell, the book was a hardcover edition of the King James Bible. Overhead, a single light burned in the ceiling. It didn’t appear as if some type of guillotine would drop on them if she picked the book up.

Before Annja could stop him, Kessel flipped open the cover. Nothing happened. But there was nothing written on the pages, either.

Annja tried to pick the book up, but it didn’t budge. Flipping through it where it was, she found a small button at the back. Annja glanced at Kessel. “What do you think?”

He shook his head.

But Annja’s finger was poised over it. “What have we got to lose?”

She pressed the button.

The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. Annja heard a sudden movement and a grunt.

“Kessel?”

And then there was nothing but silence.

Titles in this series:

Tear of the Gods
The Oracle’s Message
Cradle of Solitude
Labyrinth
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
Seeker’s Curse
Footprints
Paradox
The Spirit Banner
Sacred Ground
The Bone Conjurer
Tribal Ways
The Dragon’s Mark
Phantom Prospect
Restless Soul
False Horizon
The Other Crowd

Alex Archer

Rogue Angel: Labyrinth

The Legend

…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

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 behind Jackson. “My name is Scott Greene. Have you ever heard of me?”

There was something familiar about that name. Annja racked her memory and then the face clicked. Greene was an environmentalist. But on the lunatic fringe.

Wonderful, she thought. What did he want with her?

“You’re a militant environmentalist,” Annja said. “You here to police my apartment and tell me how I’m destroying the planet?”

Greene sniffed. “I could spend hours yelling at you for using those crummy old-fashioned lightbulbs instead of CFLs.”

Annja nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t had much time lately to reduce my carbon footprint. Speaking of which, if you don’t leave my place immediately, I’m giving serious thought to reducing yours—to nothing.”

Greene didn’t move. “Hear me out.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Greene. This is me giving you one last chance to get the hell out of my place.”

Greene looked at the third, yet unnamed man and nodded. The guy took out a silenced pistol and leveled it on Jackson’s right temple. As Jackson’s mouth dropped open, Greene said to Annja, “Cooperate, or I can have my associate blow a nice hole in the side of the good Mr. Jackson there.”

Annja shrugged. “He works for you. I just met him. I don’t care if you kill him or not.”

Jackson’s eyes bulged but he didn’t move a muscle.

Greene smirked. “Ah, nice try, Annja. But we’ve done some research on you. And I know for a fact that seeing an innocent man killed—in your apartment, no less—would drive you insane.”

Annja’s heartbeat raced. She could draw the sword and be done with these three idiots before they could even react. She wondered how the cops would view it. Could she argue home invasion? That she’d felt threatened? They did have a silenced pistol, after all. And there were three of them.

But what if they didn’t believe her?

Annja leaned against the sink. “Jackson already told me something about a Reginald Fairclough. I don’t know the name.”

“He’s an antique book dealer. Quite a famous one,” Greene said. “His collection of works is without peer.”

“So, what’s he want with me?”

Greene shook his head. “Old Reggie has something I want—quite badly—and in order to retrieve it, I must first get you to his house. He wants to talk with you.”

“About what?”

Greene looked pained. “I don’t know.”

Annja shrugged. “Listen, I can’t help you. I’m dead tired. You tell Reggie to call me. That’s about the best I’m going to be able to do for you.”

“That’s not good enough, Annja.”

Before Annja could react, she heard the small pop, and Jackson crumpled to the floor beside her love seat.

Greene hadn’t even hesitated. And Jackson was dead.

Annja watched a thin trail of smoke issue from the end of the suppressor on the pistol Greene had whipped out from his holster, beating his colleague to the punch.