"Did you manage to get one of their guns?" he asked.

"No."

"You had one," he accused.

"They took it back." Anger surged in Annja at his tone. Despite the fact that they were running for their lives, the old man's rudeness bothered her on some baseline level. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"You should have shot them," he said.

"I tried."

Shaking his head, barely navigating a sudden turn that sent them skidding out of control for a moment, he reached under his seat and pulled free a rack. Restraining straps held two pistols and a cut-down shotgun securely in place.

"Do you always go this well prepared while hiking?" Annja couldn't help asking.

"Yes. It usually saves me from embarrassing situations like running for my life down a mountainside."

Annja couldn't argue the point.

Behind them, two motorcycles roared in pursuit, quickly closing the distance. Bullets crashed through the back glass and broken shards ricocheted inside the SUV. The old man pulled fiercely on the steering wheel again.

"Can you shoot?" he demanded.

Without responding, Annja freed one of the pistols. It was a .40-caliber Heckler & Koch. She racked the slide.

"It's already loaded," the old man said.

A fat round spun through the air. Annja dropped the magazine from the pistol, and replaced the bullet. She popped the magazine back into place with her palm.

"It would be pretty foolish to carry around an unloaded weapon, now, wouldn't it?" he asked sarcastically.

Another fusillade of bullets hammered the SUV.

"Perhaps," the old man said in exasperation, "you could try shooting backat them."

"I was just listening to that last-minute pep talk," Annja replied.

Hunched over the steering wheel, holding on with both fists, the old man grinned at her. "You do have a certain amount of spunk. I like that."

Annja didn't care what he liked. Despite the fact that he'd helped save her life, the old man annoyed her in ways she'd never before encountered, at a level that she hadn't believed possible.

Twisting in the seat, Annja rested her right hand in her left and took aim with both eyes open. The British ex-SAS officer who had taught her to shoot had ground that into her on the indoor and outdoor firing ranges. A shooter was never supposed to limit vision, not even on a scoped weapon.

The motorcycles had closed to within thirty yards and were coming closer, fishtailing and lunging as they pursued their prey. Annja couldn't help thinking of the hunters who had chased La Bête all those years ago. Surely they had pursued it through these same woods.

But they'd never found the lair, had they? Despite her concern over her present situation, Annja couldn't help feeling a little joyful triumph mixed in.

She squeezed the trigger, blasting through a 3-round salvo. One of the bullets hit the lead motorcycle's handlebars and jarred the wheel. The rider quickly recovered and opened fire again.

"You missed!" the old man roared.

"I see that," Annja replied. "I kind of got that when he didn't fall off the motorcycle."

Bullets bounced off the SUV's exterior again, sounding like hail.

"Hold steady," Annja instructed, taking aim again.

"On this pathetic excuse for a road? Ha!" The old man jerked hard left, following the twists and turns.

Annja fired again, deliberately aiming toward the center of the lead rider's chest. She kept up the rate of fire, hoping to get lucky or at least give their pursuers something to think about.

One of the bullets struck the motorcycle's front tire. Rubber shredded and the motorcycle went out of control, lunging suddenly into the forest and smashing against a boulder the size of an earthmover. The gas tank ignited and exploded, blowing the rider free.

Her weapon empty, Annja reached for the second pistol. More rounds hammered the Mercedes.

The old man cursed, but his words were in Latin. And very descriptive.

"Latin?" Annja asked in surprise.

"I find the language more… native to my tongue," the old man said. He followed another turn and the road flared out straight for a hundred yards. "Hold on."

Annja didn't have time to brace herself on such short notice. The seat belt bit into her chest as it clamped down when the old man jammed his foot on the brakes. She whipped her head around, watching as the last motorcycle following them down the mountainside tried to stop.

The man's efforts only succeeded in locking up his brakes and sending him into an out-of-control skid. He hit the back of the SUV and flipped over the top, landing on the hood of the Mercedes. He lay there for a moment, then weakly, tried to bring up the pistol he'd somehow managed to hang on to.

Annja lifted her own weapon, but the old man shoved the transmission into reverse and spilled the man from the hood before she could fire. Then the old man shifted back into a forward gear, floored the accelerator and ran him down as he tried to get to his feet.

A dull thud sounded as the man struck the front of the SUV. A moment later the Mercedes rocked back and forth as it crunched over the man's body.

In disbelief, Annja whipped her head around and looked back. The man lay twisted and broken in the path.

"That was cruel," she said.

"You're right," the old man agreed. "Shooting him would have been much more merciful. After all, for reasons unknown to me, he was willing to kill me to get you. However, I didn't see that we were going to be successful in persuading him to stand still long enough for you to shoot him several times. He'd probably have preferred blowing up against the side of a boulder like his friend."

"I don't know who they were," Annja said. "We could go back and check for identification."

"Men like that, assassins, rarely carry identification," the old man said, continuing to gain speed. "Feel free to jump out and go back. I won't have hurt feelings. It wouldn't be the first time I've saved someone's life only to have them squander it foolishly against the very person or thing I saved them from. Do you know if the other men in the cave are dead?"

"No," Annja replied.

"Well, I suppose you might consider the possibility that they're still indisposed is worth the risk. I, however, don't."

"Your attitude leaves a lot to be desired." Annja settled back in the seat, loosening the belt.

The old man shook his head and laughed. "You're hardly the grateful sort yourself." He shoved out his hand.

She took it, surprised at the strength she felt in his grip. Then it felt as if she'd grabbed hold of a branding iron.

The old man took his hand back and the strange sensation ended.

"Are you all right?" Concern touched his blue eyes beneath the thick white eyebrows.

"Yes," Annja replied, annoyed that he would think she wasn't.

"Good." He paused and looked back at the road. "My name is Roux," he said, as if it would explain everything.

Two hours later, Annja sat waiting quietly in the Lozère police station. She was pointedly ignored.

"I think you've disrupted their day," Roux said. "Now there will be paperwork generated, reports to file."

"This is ridiculous," Annja said.

"You're an American." Roux sat in a chair against the wall. He held a deck of cards and shuffled them one-handed. "They aren't particularly fond of Americans. Especially ones that claim to have been shot at."