The car’s gentle rumble lured her to close her eyes, but she didn’t. She kept one eye glued on the men in black.

She hadn’t had much sleep in the diner. What she really wanted to do was to go home and crawl between the sheets. Calling Bart to stop by her loft and give it a once-over would not be a bad idea, but she didn’t want to upset him.

Hell, he already knew about the body in the river. And the body in the university.

She smiled. Bart had no idea she was the bearer of Joan of Arc’s sword. Telling him something like that might put him over the edge. But he had to wonder about her for the many times she’d called him to help her out of a bind, or to avoid the scene of a crime that may have her fingerprints, or yes, to let him know how the victim had been murdered because she’d witnessed it firsthand.

Good old Bart. He was the best friend a chick could have. It had been a while since they’d paired up for bar trivia. When they teamed no one in the Brooklyn area bars could compete.

But what if they paired for more than that? Like dating? Or sex?

Never work, she told herself. I’d hate to lose a good friend over something like sexual incompatibility. And I can’t tell him the truth about the sword. That would really kill him.

“Miss Creed?”

A chill zinged up Annja’s spine. The fiberglass seat next to her creaked as one man in black sat next to her. The other loomed over her, clinging to the vertical steel pole extending from floor to ceiling.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This didn’t feel right. And she’d learned to trust her intuition. It was rarely wrong.

There was the kid at the end of the car. A sleeping woman. And a few stops between here and Manhattan that might introduce more riders.

“You know me,” she said, tilting her head to look directly at the one next to her. “Must have seen me on TV, huh?” Keep it light, Annja. Protect the innocents. “I haven’t a pen for autographs…”

The man standing before her slid aside his coat to reveal a knife tucked in a shoulder strap under his arm. She couldn’t see the blade. Had to be a big one to secure it that way. “We’re not here for an autograph.”

“I guessed as much.” She planted her feet. The man to her right likely also wielded a knife or pistol. “Can I ask who is so interested in me?”

“He’ll tell you when you meet him. He’s asked us to escort you to his office.”

Did Serge have an office? He’d come after her himself, she felt sure. So that left Benjamin Ravenscroft. Much as she’d like to meet him, the current circumstances offered no appeal.

She had no intention of going anywhere with these thugs. Much as she wanted to know who was behind this, she’d gone one too many times with thugs before, and it never turned out in her favor.

“Think I’ll pass,” she said.

She stood. The man who’d been sitting also stood. Cornered, she looked at the young man down the way. He was oblivious to anything but his tunes. The woman still slept.

She was right-handed, but in times like this, ambidextrous was the way to go. Annja thrust out her left hand, opening her fingers to receive the sword. She slid it through the air, cutting across the man in front of her. He yelped and grasped a shoulder.

Feeling the icy cut of blade across her right forearm, Annja hissed. She stepped toward the center of the car. The second man approached. His knife glinted with her blood. If he was smart, he should see the futility of his blade versus her three-foot-long battle sword, she thought.

Tossing the sword to her right hand, Annja swung toward the approaching man. He dodged. He was more agile than she expected from such a hefty man. Points for him.

She backed her spine against a pole. Dropping the sword freed both hands. Gripping the pole near her hip, she lifted her legs and kicked. Her hard rubber soles landed against the man’s face. He stumbled, and went sprawling backward against the doors.

Red tunnel lights flashed swiftly. The prerecorded conductor’s voice announced the next stop.

The other thug had recovered and wasn’t about to play stupid. Annja dodged a flying blade. It soared over her head. She followed its trajectory, wincing as it flew just six inches before the reading guy’s face. That got his attention. He tugged out his earbuds, and flashed her wide eyes.

“Get to the end of the car!” she shouted at him.

He nodded, and scooped up his book. He left the woman. So long as she stayed asleep she might not become a hazard.

The train stopped, whistles blowing and the doors opened. Just get out!she should have yelled. No new passengers entered the train. The doors closed and they jerked into motion again.

Grabbed by the shoulder, Annja swung her free arm, but her position was wrong. Elbow connecting with steel, she became twisted about the pole. Back to the thug, and the pole before her, she couldn’t swing across her body and turn.

Fingers gripped her hair. A vicious shove banged her forehead against the pole. Bright colors flashed behind her left eye.

Mental note: give up pole dancing.

And keep the bad guys away from the innocents.

Annja gripped the pole with both hands and kicked up and back. Someone grabbed her ankle and twisted. Her grip slipped. She landed on the floor of the rumbling car on her back and shoulders. A colorful gum jungle was stuck beneath the plastic seats.

A kick to her hip made her cry out in pain.

With a stretch of her neck she could see the book guy had jumped to stand on his seat. His fists were up, but he was acting out of fear. She hoped he’d stay put and not try to be a hero.

A kick to her side forced her stomach against the steel pole. Another stop was announced and she prayed no new passengers joined the melee.

This was not going the way she planned for it to go. It was time to start swinging blindly and hope for an advantage.

Slapping her palm on the floor, she summoned the sword. It emerged from the otherwhere, the blade stretching along the floor with a glint. She gripped it and swung backward, using the moving train’s momentum to strike through fabric, flesh and bone as another kick was aimed for her elbow.

The thug yelped and stumbled backward. The blood spraying the floor told Annja she must have hit an artery. Served him justly for kicking a girl when she was down.

Jumping and landing four feet away from the thugs, Annja put her back to the book guy. The old woman was still sleeping, her head against the window and her lower jaw sagging.

“Stay there,” she called to the young man. “I’ve got things under control.”

“That’s cool with me, girlfriend.” He was too afraid to make a move—to get off the train or to summon help.

Thug number two charged her, knife in hand. Annja leaped to a bright orange seat and, two hands gripping the sword, sliced it across his forearm. Blood flowed, but she hadn’t cut too deep. She didn’t want to sever any body parts, especially not in front of college boy. Gross anatomy, this was not.

The thug growled at her and tossed the blade to his unwounded hand.

She kicked. He slashed and managed to cut up under her calf. The sudden pain startled her and Annja toppled forward, losing her stand on the seat. She clutched an arm about the pole and swung out wide, coming to a landing in a crouch.

All right, so maybe pole dancing had it advantages.

The thug charged. She swung wide, cutting again through his shoulder and sending him veering left. The arc of her swing was powerful. Annja followed it through, spinning at the waist, and drawing the sword low. She halted its course. The tip stopped just below the college kid’s neck. A heavy dreadlock bobbed on the blade.

He squeaked and swallowed.

“Sorry.” Annja thrust back her arm, releasing the sword into the otherwhere as she did so.

The train came to a stop. The guy’s eyes fluttered. He was ready to faint.