Garin knew that Roux would take forever to get around to that line of logic. Roux's ego wouldn't let him arrive at that conclusion. Presumably, they both had forever to wait, but Garin didn't like waiting. Even after five hundred years, he was impatient.

If the sword – if Joan'ssword, he corrected himself – was going to be a threat to him, he wanted to know now.

The young man ran back out of the bookstore.

Garin rolled the electric window down with a button.

"She's not inside," Avery said. "Roland said he thought she went over to the coffee shop." He pointed – and froze.

Following the direction of the boy's arm, Garin looked. He saw the men dressed in black robes surrounding the coffee shop and guessed at once that this wasn't a normal occurrence. Through the windows, he spotted Annja Creed backing away from the men closing in on her.

Without a word, Garin dropped the transmission into reverse. The powerful engine roared. Whipping the steering wheel and throwing an arm over the seat as he stared backward, he backed the Mercedes around in a tire-eating ninety-degree turn. He narrowly missed a farm truck and two small cars in the other lanes. Horns blared and angry voices followed him.

He reached under his jacket for the S&W .500 Magnum and backed into the coffee shop's parking lot, slamming into three of the black-robed warriors and sending them flying.

Chapter 13

THE CHAOS IN THE parking lot drew the attention of everyone inside the coffee shop.

Annja stared in disbelief as three men skidded across the concrete. One of them slammed into a parked car, setting off the alarm, and crumpled into a heap. Another slid under a car that had been backing out. The third man lay under the heavy luxury car.

A fourth man stayed on his feet. He pulled a semiautomatic pistol from somewhere inside his robe.

A huge man with the blackest hair Annja had ever seen – black as sin, she'd heard someone describe a color like that – pushed out on the driver's side. Dressed in black, from his gloves to his long coat to his wraparound sunglasses, he looked like the specter of death in a medieval painting. He held what looked like, and in the next split second, sounded like a small cannon.

The man pointed the pistol at the black-robed man without even looking in his direction and pulled the trigger. The muzzle-flash ballooned from the barrel.

The black-robed man jerked backward, fell and lay still. His pistol skittered across the pavement.

Calmly the big man aimed the pistol at the coffee-shop windows. Everyone inside the shop hit the floor amid curses and cries for help.

Even Corvin Lesauvage was on the floor.

Guess this guy doesn't work for him, Annja thought. She crouched near one of the tables, but knew she couldn't stay there. The black-robed men at either entrance were duck-walking toward her.

The big man outside shot the large plate-glass window twice. The glass fell in sheets and shattered into thousands of pieces against the floor.

"Annja Creed!" he yelled in a deep voice. He spoke in English. "I've come to help you!"

Annja backed away from the nearest black-robed man. She stared at the livid tattoo on his neck. Without warning, he lunged at her.

She dodged back, falling to her left hand and sweeping the baton back with her right. The metal end caught her opponent along his jaw and broke his forward movement. She thought she broke his jaw, as well.

Then the man behind him pulled a pistol from his robe and aimed at her. "Come with us," the man demanded in accented English, "or I will kill you."

Annja believed him.

Before she could reply, before she could even figure out how she was going to react, the black-robed man's head emptied in a crimson rush and he pirouetted sideways. Then the massive boom of the big man's pistol filled the coffee shop again.

The lesser of two evils, Annja decided. These guys have promised to kill you, and getting kidnapped by them doesn't seem too appealing.

She pushed to her feet and ran for the broken window. The backpack's weight with the computer slowed her a little, but she gained a tabletop in one lithe leap. Shadows moved around her as she leaped through the broken window and cleared the hedges before the parking lot.

The big man took aim again.

For a moment, Annja feared she'd made the wrong choice. But when he fired, she wasn't the target.

"The door's unlocked," he said conversationally, as if he wasn't killing people and was only out for a walk. He broke open the massive handgun and spilled empty brass onto the ground with audible tinkling. Taking a speed-loader from his pocket, he refilled the cylinder and snapped the weapon closed.

Annja's hand found the car's door latch. She opened the door and clambered into the plush leather seat. Bullets hit the window as she tried to close the door, causing it to shiver under the impacts. She expected to feel shredded glass and metal tear through her.

That didn't happen.

When she looked back at the window, all she saw were faint hairline cracks.

"Bulletproof glass," the stranger said as he dropped into the driver's seat. He grinned at her and she saw her reflection in the black lenses of his wraparound sunglasses. "I never go anywhere without it."

Several other bullets caromed from the car without doing any appreciable damage.

The big man grinned at the men running out of the coffee shop toward them. "Idiots."

"They could shoot out the tires," Annja pointed out.

"Let them try," he growled. "They're run-flats. They would have to blow them off the car to get them to fail."

"If we wait, maybe they'll roll in a tank," Annja said, only half-joking.

He smiled at her. "You've got a sense of humor. I like that." Then he put the car into gear, shoved his foot down on the accelerator and sent them screaming out onto the street.

Twelve anxious minutes later, with no sign of pursuit visible through the rear window, Annja turned to the driver. "Who are you?"

"Garin," he said, offering a hand. The pistol was tucked between his legs. "Garin Braden. At your service."

Caught off guard, Annja took his hand. Before she knew what he was doing, he folded her fingers inward and kissed the back of her hand.

"Enchanté,"he said, then released her hand.

"Me, too," Annja whispered. She didn't know how to react. "Do you always go around rescuing people from – " she didn't know what to call the black-robed men " – other strangepeople who want to abduct or kill them for unknown reasons?"

"Not always." Garin drove confidently.

"How did you happen to be there?" she asked.

"Actually, I was looking for you."

Annja took a fresh grip on her baton. If Garin noticed he obviously didn't feel threatened. "Why?"

"Aren't you glad I was?"

"For the moment," she said.

He laughed then, and the noise was filled with savage glee. "I have no reason to wish you harm, Annja Creed."

"Then what do you wish?"

Looking at her, he asked, "Would you like to get back the charm Roux took from you?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Then we'll go get it." Garin paused. "If that's what you want to do."

Annja considered her options briefly. She didn't want to remain in Lozère with Lesauvage and the black-robed warriors hunting her.

Getting to the airport and getting out of the country was out of the question. Inspector Richelieu probably had a warrant out for her arrest by now.