“So you want me to use the show’s cache, if you will, to get it for you?”

“Did you wake up on the smart side of the bed this morning, Doug?”

“That depends on who you think is going to pay for whatever it is you need.”

Annja glanced across the table at Garin. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got the payment issue handled. You just get me the gear.”

She could hear him moving something around on his desk, which she hoped meant he was going to write it down. It was going to be a long list.

“All right,” he said, “I’m ready.”

ON THE OTHER SIDE of town, Blaine Michaels climbed out of the back of the van in which he’s been discussingthe current status of their search for the missing treasure with Professor Reinhardt. He used his handkerchief to absently wipe the blood off the knuckles of his right hand as he considered what to do next.

He had not been pleased to arrive at the plantation last night only to discover that Annja Creed and a companion had arrived before him. The prattling idiot of a Realtor hadn’t known much, but Blaine knew she was on to something, anyway. No one else would have had reason to ask about the phrase “where two mouths meet.”

Clearly, the Creed woman had made a copy of the missive containing the clues to the treasure before his men had obtained it from her vehicle. Now she was using that information to try and find the treasure for herself.

The woman doesn’t know when to quit, he thought.

Creed and Reinhardt had the same information available to them and, so far, Creed had been faster off the mark. As an American, her knowledge superseded Reinhardt’s when it came to cultural and local references. If things continued in that fashion, he’d be runner-up for the treasure and that was something that was simply unacceptable. It could not, would not,happen.

It was time he was a bit more direct in his response to her interference.

He took his phone out of his pocket and made a call. When it was answered, he asked, “Where are they now?”

The man sitting five tables away from Annja and Garin never looked in their direction as he replied, “The Good Day Diner on Main, between West and Stevens.”

Michaels nodded to himself. That should work quite nicely.

“All right, here’s what I want you to do.”

THEY WERE GOING TO NEED a boat if Doug managed to secure the equipment they’d requested, so Annja flagged down their waitress and asked her if she knew where they might rent one. The waitress, Sue, wasn’t certain, but she was willing to help, and inside of ten minutes she’d queried the regulars and come up with a name.

“Jimmy Mitchell,” she said, handing Annja a napkin with an address and phone number written on it. “Hank says that he rents out his fishing trawler from time to time when money’s getting low. Which, for Jimmy, is just about all the time.”

Annja didn’t know who Hank was, but she was happy enough to have a lead to work with and thanked the woman for her assistance.

“Anything for my favorite TV host!” Sue replied, winking at her. “I’m a big fan of the show.”

In all the hubbub, neither Annja nor Garin saw the man a few tables away get up and slip out the back door.

As Garin watched with a bemused expression on his face, Annja signed one of the diner’s T-shirts at Sue’s insistence, then paid the bill, leaving a generous tip in the process.

“Not a word!” she said to Garin, once they were back outside on the street. The last thing she needed was to be ribbed by him all day for the notoriety the show gave her; she was having a hard enough time dealing with it already.

Jimmy Mitchell lived in the next town over, so they decided to drive there and see if they could speak to him in person. While Mitchell might be willing to rent out his boat, Annja had a feeling that he’d be less inclined to do so to strangers and she wanted to increase their chance of success as much as possible. It was easy to say no to someone over the phone; it was harder in person.

They’d parked at a meter several yards away from the diner and headed in that direction.

Behind them, a motorcycle turned onto the end of the street and headed toward them.

Annja saw the bike make the turn out of the corner of her eye and she registered its presence in the back of her mind, but she didn’t pay any real attention to it at first. They were on a public street, after all, and vehicular traffic was to be expected, even in a quaint little town like this.

But when the driver kicked the bike into high gear, the roar of the engine cut through the mental fog like a siren, sending adrenaline pumping through her system. Time seemed to slow as she turned to her left, looking back up the street toward the oncoming traffic.

She caught sight of the biker right away, as he was now less than twenty feet away and coming on like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the war cry of his steed a steady growl as the engine spurred the bike onward.

The biker’s hand was coming up, something long and dark held securely in his grip.

Shotgun, Annja thought in the slow-motion reference of her hyperaware state, and knew instinctively that she and Garin were the target.

She had only seconds to act.

As the bike roared inexorably closer, Annja shoved backward with her left hand against Garin’s chest, sending him off balance and stumbling out of the line of fire. At the same time she spun to her right, coming around in a semicircle that would put her a foot or two to the right of where she’d been standing the moment before.

She called her sword to hand.

The weapon responded as it always did, flashing into existence in a heartbeat, the hilt suddenly there in the palm of her hand, the blade quivering like a falcon eager to strike.

Annja didn’t disappoint it.

The would-be killer had made an amateur mistake, closing the distance between himself and his targets in the hope of getting a tighter shot pattern rather than taking them out from farther away and then using a second shot to finish them off when they were no longer a threat. Annja made good use of his blunder.

As she completed her spin, she lashed up and out with the sword, the razor-sharp edge striking the barrel of the shotgun a split second before the killer pulled the weapon’s trigger.

The sound of metal rang as her sword connected with the barrel of the shotgun. Half a second later the gun went off with a thunderous boom, but by then the killer’s aim was off and the blast blew out the windshield of a nearby car rather than injuring either of its intended targets.

Annja found herself standing on the edge of the street, sword in hand, staring at the biker’s back as he accelerated away from them at high speed. Garin stepped up beside her, a look of fury on his face as he reached inside his coat as if to draw a weapon, but he must have thought better of it at the last moment for his hand came out, empty.

“Are you all right?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Peachy,” was her reply as she watched the biker make the turn at the end of the road and disappear from sight.

With the threat now removed, Annja released her sword back into the otherwhere.

She was just in time, too, for a second later the doors to the diner burst open and Sue and several of the regulars charged out onto the street.

“Are you okay?” Sue asked, spying Annja and Garin standing near the edge of the sidewalk, next to the damaged car.

“We’re fine,” Annja said quickly. “A motorcycle just kicked up a rock unexpectedly and it shattered that windshield.” She pointed at the vehicle ahead of them, as if that were explanation enough.

“But it sounded like a gunshot,” Sue protested, glancing around as if she expected to see armed gunmen come running from around the corner of the building.

At this point Annja wouldn’t have been surprised if they did.