Rogue Angel - Restless Soul Part 11

"This has been one crazy vacation," she heard Luartaro mutter. "Why did I ever talk you into going to that spirit cave, Annja? Why couldn't I have settled for an elephant ride or visiting the long-necked women? Or why didn't we just stay in?"

She smiled in spite of their dire situation and forced their pace faster still.

Questions continued to dance in her mind. If the men were Vietnamese or Laotian, how did they get into Thailand with all of those weapons? Help from the locals? Through a place where there were no border posts? She also wondered what all the treasure was about, and at what lengths the gunmen would go to find her and her companions to keep word of the treasure silenced. And why put it there, in a cavern in the northern Thailand mountains?

Why put the treasure there?

She would never have discovered it if she hadn't wanted to pursue the voice in her head, if Luartaro hadn't first suggested going to a spirit cave and if she hadn't met him while filming in Argentina and on a whim decided to travel halfway around the world on a vacation with him. If she- Annja caught sight of a trail to the south, doing a double take to make sure that's what it was. Then she cut a path toward it, pulling at vines and bending branches to squeeze through here and there, and looking over her shoulder to make sure Luartaro and Zakkarat were reasonably close behind. She'd not heard any gunshots in the past few minutes, but she wasn't allowing herself to relax. Annja would not let her guard down until she was certain her companions were safe and she had notified the authorities about all of this.

And get a film crew, she thought.

The trail was narrow and well traveled, as evidenced by the utter lack of vegetation on it. But it was also slick with mud, and the still-pounding rain had created a gully stretching roughly down the center of it. The depression was caused by a vehicle, she decided after a quick look, most likely a motorcycle-and that meant the possibility of fast transportation. With a fifty-fifty chance on picking the right direction, Annja chose to follow the trail east, away from the main river and the gunmen. The insects were thick and formed a cloud around her head; she gave up on batting them away.

If the gunmen found this trail, they would also see her tracks, as she had little choice but to slog through the mud if she wanted to follow it. The trees and bushes that grew along the sides were too thick to walk through, and so it was either the trail or look for another route entirely. She hoped that if the gunmen did find this trail, they would be so many minutes behind her that it would not matter, that she and Zakkarat and Luartaro would be safely ensconced in a village.

Annja looked at her watch, curious how much time they'd spent in the mountain. But the crystal had cracked and it was water filled. It had stopped at 11:10 a.m. She paused and turned to ask Luartaro if his watch had fared better, instead deciding that just like the lyrics to an old Chicago song, it didn't really matter what time it was. She knew it wasn't yet evening; despite the dark gray clouds, there was too much light for that.

"You all right, Annja?"

"Fine, Lu," she answered after a moment, and resumed her slogging trek, straddling the gulley as she went. She was fine, but she was also tired and her muscles burned from the day's ordeal, and so she knew her companions were not faring any better. "I'm fine."

It didn't take them long to reach the end of the trail, which opened onto a small village. The trio breathed a collective sigh of relief. The village consisted mostly of bamboo and thatch-woven buildings, with a few made of sheet-metal panels. Most of them were small with open doorways. But two of the structures were long and shaped like shoe boxes, as if they might serve as a community meeting house and a school. These two had several windows, all with shutters closed against the still-driving rain.

Benches and stools stretched along the outer walls and near some of the muddy paths that wound around the buildings and rain-battered flower and herb gardens. There were no signs of modern amenities, such as power lines or electric lights or-to Annja's dismay-vehicles. Still, to Annja's eyes the village seemed beautiful-primitive and peaceful, almost magical, as if such a village might have looked just like this a thousand years ago. It was as if time had stood still in this part of the Thailand jungle, and the residents had happily allowed the world to advance elsewhere.

She wished she had come here under different circ.u.mstances so she could enjoy it.

She saw several villagers crowded on a bench beneath the awning of one of the large buildings. Under another overhang, children played with a small white dog. She watched as a few youths darted out into the rain in a game of tag. Near them, a boy floated a wooden toy boat in a big puddle.

The people wore simple clothes-sleeveless s.h.i.+rts and straight pants without pockets. The colors were mostly green and pink pastels, with a smattering of khaki. The children were dressed mostly in robin's-egg blue, a few of them with bright red shorts that stood out.

Annja tugged her s.h.i.+rt out of her waistband and covered the gun stuck there. As she brushed aside a large fern leaf and edged into the village, the people saw her and came out from under their shelters to meet them, a dozen voices chattering all at once, not a single word of which she could make out.

"We need help for Zakkarat," Annja said, hoping someone understood English. From the expression on the villagers' faces, there was no comprehension. She gestured behind her to Luartaro, who was still propping up Zakkarat, and she repeated the statement in French, then Spanish. Still nothing. Zakkarat tried, too.

After a moment two men moved forward, one of them waving to the closest long building and taking Zakkarat's other side and nudging him in that direction. If they hadn't understood the words, they understood from Zakkarat's appearance that he was hurt.

Inside, it was dry and cozy-and loud, with rain pelting the roof mixed with the chatter of villagers who had followed them. A few windows were opened to let in a little light, though most of the place remained in shadows. Annja did not see any lamps or candles to improve the situation. She slipped off her backpack and sat it inside the doorway and contemplated taking off her soggy boots to give her feet a chance to dry. She decided not to allow herself that luxury-at least not yet. She needed to look for the gunmen as soon as Zakkarat and Luartaro were settled.

She tried a few other languages, but nothing clicked with the villagers. Zakkarat tried again and finally nodded to one man with a sun-weathered face and a thick shock of inky hair. He said something in return.

"They are Thins, Annjacreed." Zakkarat grimaced when Luartaro and one of the villagers helped him up onto a table at the back of the single large room.

It had the looks of a cla.s.sroom, with rows of benches and narrow tables that could serve as desks, a table and chair at the front of the room and a bank of shelves stuffed to overflowing with books and papers.

She raised an eyebrow. "Thins?"

"Yes. That man, Rangsan, said they are Thins. There are maybe a half dozen main hill tribes in this region-the Karen, Lahu, Lisu, Hmong, Mien and Lawa. There are smaller tribes that came from them, such as the Thins, and each has its own language. Thins have lived in Thailand for a long, long time, maybe more than a thousand years, and some members of the main hill tribes have joined them."

He grimaced when they stretched out his legs, and he leaned back on his elbows. "Thins have preserved their way of life, making little changes since they migrated here from China. There are said to be less than thirty thousand of them in this country. Most of their villages are in the Nan Province, but some are farther north near the mountains, like this one. The Thins build with bamboo, as you can see. Lots of bamboo."

Annja had noted that nearly all of the buildings were either made of bamboo stalks tied together or woven into thatch panels. Even the floor of the building was bamboo.

"The Thins are-" Zakkarat frowned as one of the villagers examined his sore ankle "-pract.i.tioners of swidden agriculture, my father taught me. They farm glutinous rice. Some are Buddhists, but many are just considered animists."

"Their language..." Annja started. She tried to keep her frustration in check; she enjoyed the local history lesson, but now was not the time for it. She needed to be on her way-to find the gunmen if possible, and to find the authorities. She watched as one of the villagers brought in a wooden bowl filled with water and gently cleaned Zakkarat's ankle. Another villager stood by with a strip of cloth, ready to wrap it. "Their language, Zakkarat...what do they speak? It doesn't sound quite like Thai. Can you make them understand-"

Zakkarat shrugged. "Thins, I guess. They speak Thins. Like I said, most of the tribes in Thailand have their own languages, Annjacreed. But this man here-" He nodded toward the one with the bowl. "Rangsan. He seems to understand me well enough."

Annja's words came fast now and breathy with urgency. "Tell Rangsan about the men with the guns who chased us down the mountain," she said. "These people need to know about the guns."

Zakkarat was not as quick with his speech, repeating a few of the words so that the villager could better understand and talking longer than Annja would have liked. "They do not need to know about the treasure," he said softly. "They do not need to go into the mountain looking for gold and finding trouble."

"Ask them...ask Rangsan about transportation, a Jeep, a motorcycle. What is the name of this village? Do you know where we are, Zakkarat? Are we anywhere near your Jeep? Can one of them draw us a map?"

"This place has no name, Annjacreed." He shrugged his shoulders at the rest of her questions and translated.

"It goes without saying there would be no cell phone or satellite phone," Annja continued, talking to herself as much as to Zakkarat and Luartaro. "But transportation. And directions. If they have a map or can draw a map, give us a better reference to Tham Lod and our resort, the river. Anything. Otherwise, I'm about half a heartbeat from heading off on my own." She refused to lose the urgency of the situation.

Zakkarat kept speaking slowly, again repeating words.

Annja gestured for him to speed up, but he shook his head and kept at it.

"How far are we from the resort? From a town?" she asked. Annja paced in a tight circle and listened for the answers. She also listened to the rain, which hadn't let up in its intensity, and the soft chatter of the villagers. "Hurry, Zakkarat."

"Hurry? You do not understand tribal life, Ann-ja-creed," Zakkarat said. "These villages are ancient and remote. You cannot do things quickly here. And you cannot go too slowly because time is not measured in hours, or maybe even days. I doubt anyone here owns a watch." Annja noted that Zakkarat's own watch had been broken, too. "Time is measured in seasons and years. And distance? It is not a measure of kilometers or miles, but in time, how long it takes to get from one place to the next...and that depends entirely on the method of transportation or how long your legs are. So, Annjacreed, some of your questions cannot be answered."

She paced in a wider circle, the villagers stepping back to give her room. "I appreciate their way of life. I envy it a little. But, Zakkarat-"

"Annjacreed, a man named Erawan-someone already went to get him-has an old motorcycle. They also have a few bicycles and a good cart and an ox. Another man has gone in search of a doctor who lives nearby."

A burst of laughter came from just outside the doorway. Children were crowded around it under an overhang, one of them parroting Annja's pacing and facial expressions.

"A bicycle will do little good in all this mud. And I don't need an ox, Zakkarat. I can walk faster than an ox. The motorcycle would be good, though. But I'll settle for a map. Ask someone if they can draw-"

"I already asked that. One of them is drawing you a map, the teacher at the front of the room." Zakkarat cleared his throat. "Annjacreed, I have been thinking a lot about that treasure. Maybe those men came to the cave because they were worried about all the rain. Maybe they wanted to move as much treasure as possible before that cave flooded. Maybe I should go back with the ox and cart and take whatever they could not haul away. I could find the place again, I know that. The men will be gone by the time I get back there. I could take...we could take whatever they-" could take whatever they-"

Annja made a hissing sound like a kettle left too long on a burner. She balled her fist and calmed herself before replying. "Zakkarat, you can't take the chance that the men will be gone. If they are still up there, they will kill you. And the treasure will do you no good if you're dead. Your life is worth more than all of that gold."

One of the children in the doorway balled her fist and hissed like Annja. More laughter followed, and the little white dog yapped happily. The children scattered when a broad-shouldered young man in khaki pants and a pale rose-colored T-s.h.i.+rt entered. He exchanged several words with Rangsan, who in turn spoke to Zakkarat. After a moment, Zakkarat translated for Annja.

"This is Erawan, the man with the motorcycle. He says you can borrow his-"

"We will pay him to borrow his motorcycle." This came from Luartaro, who had been silent since entering the building.

Zakkarat wagged a finger. "You have only to promise that you will bring it back when you can. He doesn't care about baht beyond using it to buy gasoline."

"I promise," Annja said, facing Erawan. "I promise to bring it back as soon as possible-and give him baht for gas. Please thank him for me. And please remember to tell all of these people about the men and the guns and-"

The wind gusted, bringing a shower of rain inside the building. Thunder boomed and beyond the doorway fingers of lightning flickered. The dog yapped shrilly.

A single burst of gunfire sounded. A heartbeat later another followed. From somewhere outside a woman screamed and a child wailed.

Annja rushed past Erawan, reaching under her s.h.i.+rt and drawing the pistol, stopping just outside the doorway and taking everything in.

The children who had been playing streamed into the other large building across a mud-slick clearing, shooed by a gangly woman in a sleeveless pink s.h.i.+ft. Others looked out from windows and doorways, eyes fixed on the body of the small white dog that one of the gunmen had shot.

Annja looked around the corner and saw four men, shoulder to shoulder, machine guns raised at waist height. They were some of the dark-clad men who had come from the Jeeps on the mountain. Annja recognized their hard faces. One stepped forward, fired another burst into the dog's carca.s.s and hollered something she couldn't understand. A moment later he repeated it in English.

"The foreigners...the strangers. Surrender them now or everyone dies."

With another burst of gunfire, they advanced into the village.

12.

Annja whirled in the opposite direction from the gunmen, hugging the building and darting past a bench, then slipping around the far end of the school, leading with the pistol in the event more men had come in from another direction.

No one else had-at least that she could see. Apparently, there were just the four. And they hadn't seen her yet. She heard the frightened voices of the villagers inside the school, the wails of children across the way, the continued shouts of the gunmen and the rain striking everything.

"Surrender the strangers," one of the gunmen repeated, punctuating the demand with another burst of gunfire. "The white woman and two men. Surrender them now."

The villagers don't understand what you're saying, she thought. They don't understand English or Vietnamese, and only one of them seems to speak Thai. But they understand that you killed a little dog and could just as easily kill them. They understand that you're dangerous. And I understand that you need to be dealt with now.

More children cried, and a woman leaning out a window shouted something Annja couldn't make out.

"Surrender, or we will kill you one by one!"

"I give up!" This came from Luartaro. There was more wailing and chatter and he shouted to be heard over it. "Don't shoot anyone. Leave these people alone. It's me you want."

"No," Annja growled. She slipped around the next corner, intending to come up from the other side, where the men still would not be able to see her. "No. No. No, Luartaro."

"The woman's not here," Luartaro continued. "I lost her in the jungle. Who knows what happened to her. It's just me. Take me and leave this village alone."

There was a quick exchange in which she could pick up only a few groups of words.

"Surrender to us."

The phrase was repeated several times and made Annja furious. The villagers had done nothing to provoke this; she and Luartaro and Zakkarat had simply been at the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time, and seen piles of treasure that the smugglers wanted no one else to know about.

She peeked around the next corner, spotting the four men and immediately drawing her head back. They'd advanced a little farther into the village. Another look, and she couldn't see them anymore; they'd pa.s.sed out of her line of sight. But she heard Luartaro, again calling for the men to leave the villagers alone.

"On your knees!" shouted the man who could speak English.

Annja crept around the next corner of the building.

"Where is the woman? You lie! She is not in the jungle. She is here. Send her out."

"Here!" Annja hollered as she spun around the last edge, brought the pistol up and fired at the closest man. "I'm right here." She struck him in the hand, her intended target, and he dropped the machine gun and fell to his knees, clutching his b.l.o.o.d.y fingers and cursing in Vietnamese. The next two charged her, firing, the fourth staying put, crouching to make himself a small target and shooting at something she couldn't see.

I should have gone after them, she thought. Should have left Luartaro and Zakkarat on the trail and gone after the men. Shouldn't have risked them finding us. Shouldn't have risked drawing them to the village.

Then she shoved her second thoughts to the back of her mind and managed to squeeze off two more shots before the pistol jammed. One of the two men pitched forward, grabbing at his chest, where she'd hit him. The other grinned wildly and ran at her, sweeping his gun in a tight arc and firing. Bullets chewed into the corner of the building, splintering the bamboo. Annja ducked back around, tossed the pistol and called for the sword. Before it had fully formed the man fired at her again, ripping up more of the building. Someone inside screamed, and needle-fine pieces of bamboo flew into Annja's arms and legs. She gripped the sword and raised it back over her shoulder and whipped it to the side as he fired again.

She felt blood running down her arm, hotter and thicker than the rain. The wind gusted at that moment, rustling the leaves and rattling the building and providing just enough distraction. The man squinted in the force of the rain that was coming sideways at him. Annja closed in, and as he fired again she brought the sword down, aiming for the machine gun and striking it and his right forearm. He screamed in agony, blood spurting and bone protruding. She reached out and grabbed the gun as it fell, tossing it wide and bringing up her leg, kicking him in the gut and sending him on his back, muddy water splas.h.i.+ng up around him. He writhed, grabbing at his arm as she raced past him and rounded the corner of the building to face the fourth gunman.

"Dear G.o.d, no!" Annja's throat constricted as she spotted Luartaro facedown in the mud, the final gunman standing over him, head canted back and yelling to the villagers. The one whose hand she'd shot was struggling to his feet and reaching for a small holster at his side. She knocked him over, kicking him in the jaw as she headed toward the last man standing with a gun.

"It's me you want!" she spat. "Me, you thief! Murderer!"

He fired as he turned, and she dropped and somersaulted as she closed the distance. Annja was slick with mud, globs of it flying off her as she rose and brought the sword around with as much strength as she could summon.

Who had Joan of Arc fought with it?

How much blood had she drawn?

And how many lives had she ended before she met her own end in a pyre remembered for all time?

Had someone wielded the sword before Joan?

And who would have it after Annja was dust?

The tip of blade caught the end of the machine gun and turned it, bullets still spitting and striking the school building again and chewing into an empty bench out front.

Annja pulled the blade back again and brought it down and around, powered by the fading strength in her burning arms. The impossibly sharp edge struck the machine gun once more and the gunman's fingers, slicing a few of them off. He didn't holler in pain as she'd expected. Instead, he screamed in anger and tried to bring the gun up again, pulling the trigger with his thumb.

Annja was furious with herself that she'd not gone after these men earlier, thinking they might not follow them to this village...furious that he and his fellows would jeopardize all these innocent people...and livid to the point that heat surged up her neck into her face, burning her like a fever.

Her arms felt on fire as she swept the sword forward, rain pinging off the blade. She'd intended to strike his arm, maiming him and ending the threat of the machine gun. But he moved at the last instant and slipped in the muck. The sword struck higher, slicing into his chest and ripping through his dark clothes and padded vest. The gun went off as he went down. Bullets spit into the mud and into Annja's leg. She sucked in her lower lip to keep from crying out, took two steps toward the man she'd just killed, then fell forward into a puddle.

ANNJA AWOKE ON THE SAME table Zakkarat had occupied, a coa.r.s.e blanket draped over her, another folded blanket serving as a pillow. Her head pounded, her right arm ached terribly and her right leg felt...nothing. She propped herself up on her elbows. table Zakkarat had occupied, a coa.r.s.e blanket draped over her, another folded blanket serving as a pillow. Her head pounded, her right arm ached terribly and her right leg felt...nothing. She propped herself up on her elbows.

"h.e.l.lo, there." A man well into his middle years tended her numb leg. "I expected you to be out for quite some time longer, Miss-"

"Creed," she replied. Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy. She opened her mouth to speak again, but one of the villagers held a ladle up to her lips and encouraged her to drink. The mixture was a pulpy, fruity nectar that tasted sweet and went down her throat slowly.

"Well, Miss Creed."

"Annja. Call me Annja." She nodded her thanks to the villager. "And you are?"