Annja tugged, but the rebar held her prize securely. It was close to the surface. Deciding to get out from the water, and struggle with the backpack then, she heaved herself up. Using the rope wrapped about the moorings, she managed to slap a hand onto the dock.

The sting of a warm leather-gloved hand gripped her wrist, and reeled her in as if a giant fish. She was able to stand—for two seconds.

A fist to her gut forced up a hacking cough of water. Annja stumbled backward. Her soggy boots slipped on the wet plank dock. She went down. The landing might have hurt worse if she had feeling in her body. The cold did a number on that.

Kicking at the man who leaned over her, she managed a boot to the side of his face. He yowled. The hood of his jacket fell away to reveal a bald head.

She hadn’t the mental dexterity, or warm enough muscles, to exercise a judo kick or to pull out her Krav Maga moves.

Annja turned and pushed to her knees. Swinging out her right hand, she willed the sword into her grip. It arrived from the otherwhere, solid and weighted perfectly to her hold.

Not completely focused, her brain felt half-frozen. She blindly swung backward. Contact. The hilt struck his temple.

The attacker went down in silence. Must not have expected the fish to bite back.

Annja whipped the sword into the otherwhere. Moving as quickly as her numb limbs would allow, she crawled to the water’s edge and dipped a hand into the canal glimmering with oily residue. Her fingers hooked the backpack strap. It came free of the rebar with a tug.

Her cheek settled on a thin layer of snowflakes. Lying sprawled, her hand gripping the heavy backpack, she closed her eyes.

Did other women spend their Saturday nights like this? She must be doing something wrong. What did a girl have to do to meet a nice guy who wasn’t either set on killing her or being hunted himself?

Standing, her body shivering and her steps moving her in zigzags across the ground, Annja didn’t look back.

If the man lying on the ground was the sniper, she wanted to get out of his range before he came to.

Her lungs thudded like heavy chunks of ice against her ribs, and the muscles in her legs felt as if they’d been stretched like taffy. She wasn’t far from home.

Forcing herself to wander through the debris-littered back lot of a warehouse, she found the street and trudged onward.

When a cab pulled alongside her, Annja hugged the icy yellow vehicle before crawling into the backseat.

“GOOD GIRL, ANNJA. You got the prize.”

Dropping the sniper scope, the tall dark-haired man quickly crossed the cement floor and descended the iron stairs. Each footstep clanked loudly. He wasn’t concerned with stealth.

He’d almost been too late. Hadn’t been able to stop the first shot. But the second he’d altered the course. Not much, but enough to save the girl.

Now, to see what she did with the prize.

HARRIS LET THE PHONE ring six times before hanging up. The sniper had agreed to contact him with details of the skull’s whereabouts, and keep him posted about each move Cooke made.

He wasn’t supposed to fire a shot unless the man holding the skull looked as though he would hand it over to someone else. Cooke hadn’t even gotten the thing out of his backpack. Harris, from his vantage point on a building half a mile down the canal, bit back a growl as the pair went over the railing, taking the skull with them.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Ravenscroft must have hired the sniper. That man knows so little about fieldwork!”

Tucking the cell phone inside his jacket, Harris eyed the brick-fronted warehouse where he knew the sniper had been positioned. The shooter should be long gone.

Five minutes later, Harris topped the fourth-floor stairs in the abandoned warehouse. His shoes crunched across debris of broken glass and Sheetrock. An icy breeze whipped up his collar and froze his face. At the far end of the warehouse he saw the M-16 rifle, still set upon a tripod.

He rushed through the darkness and stopped before he tripped over a man’s body.

“What the hell?”

Inspection found no ID on the body. He wore black leather gloves and shooting glasses. The sniper. He was dead. No blood evidence. Looked as if someone had broken his neck.

Harris stretched his gaze through the hazy darkness in a circle around him. Whoever had taken out the sniper could still be lurking.

Why had this happened? Had Ravenscroft sent his own backup?

It made no sense at all. This was merely a surveillance job. Keep an eye on Cooke, and make sure he doesn’t do anything rash between the time he landed in New York and met Ravenscroft for the handoff.

Harris scrubbed a hand over his scalp. Anything and everything had gone wrong.

“Ravenscroft is not going to like this one bit.”

3

The cabbie had argued fiercely for a generous tip after he’d seen Annja was dripping wet and smelled like something he’d dumped out of his rain gutter last week. Good thing the twenty she’d stuffed in her back pocket had survived the swim.

Much as Annja wanted to unzip the backpack and discover what she’d almost drowned for, the call of a hot shower denied that curious need.

Dropping the backpack inside the door of her loft, Annja made a beeline through the living room for the bathroom. Twisting the spigot, she would let the shower run for a few minutes to warm up.

Stripping away her wet clothes, she caught a glance of herself in the vanity mirror. Her lips were blue, as was the fine skin under her eyes. Tilting her head up she stroked the bruised skin on her neck. An abrasion tormented the base of her earlobe. The bullet had skimmed her flesh, but hadn’t drawn blood.

“Lucky girl.”

To touch it hurt worse than actually getting the wound.

She pressed a palm over her gut. She could still feel the bald guy’s knuckles there. He’d packed a force. But she’d gotten lucky when the hilt had clocked him on the temple. A blow to that sweet spot joggled a man’s brain inside his skull and instantly knocked him out.

“Should have searched him for ID,” she said to her sodden reflection. “You weren’t thinking straight, Creed.” Due to her frozen brain. “Who was watching us that would rather kill the one who holds the artifact than see it retrieved?”

Because the shooter had to have known if he did kill one or the both of them, the backpack would be irretrievable.

Had Sneak expected a tail? He’d been nervous. Probably a thief. Might explain why someone was following him.

Twisting the water faucet adjusted the temperature and she climbed into the shower, but was too weak to stand any longer. Settling into the tub in a self-hug, she let the warmth spill over her aching half-frozen muscles.

Annja had learned long ago comfort was never freely given. If she needed a hug or a reassuring word, it had to come from herself. She was fine with that. If you couldn’t pick yourself up after a trying challenge, then you’d better get out of the game because life wasn’t designed for sissies or wimps. Mostly.

She laughed into her elbow. “You must still have brain freeze. The game? Whatever.”

A half hour later, with a mug of hot chocolate in hand and some warm flannel pajama bottoms and her Dodgers sweatshirt on, the final shivers tickled her spine.

Annja squatted on the floor before the waterlogged backpack. It reeked of things she’d rather not consider. Things she had washed down the shower drain. Toxins in the Gowanus Canal? Big-time.