Sacrifice

“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.”