Shadow_of_the_Templar_03_-_With_a_Bullet.pdf

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Prologue

[tuesday]

She'd washed off her makeup at eleven when it became obvious she wouldn't be going

home tonight. It was two in the morning now. She wasn't even tired. She felt like she was

stretched tight enough to snap, but the thrum gave her the energy she needed to deal with this

thing. This thing.

Nate was in the saferoom, taking another stab at breaking into Rich's old files. That was

good. That was a good thing. At least Nate was here, safe. And she knew where Johnny was.

Mike, though... Mike had left before any of this went down. He had a date, a hot date as he'd

made certain to tell them all several times-- on a Monday? Sandra had thought at the time--

and the asshole had either left his cell at home or turned it off. Sandra had taken a great deal

of personal pleasure in siccing the local police on Mike's license plates. All cars, be on the

lookout for. Maybe he'd take a swing at a cop and end the night in jail. Jail would work just

fine as far as Sandra was concerned.

Her mouth tasted like dogfood and burnt coffee. Her skin felt greasy. Rubbing her hands

over her face Sandra took a long breath and was vaguely pleased to note it was more or less

steady. Ever since Johnny had called half an hour ago she'd been sort of afraid she was going

to cry.

She tugged at the drawers. Locked. She didn't know why he bothered, when he headed up

this team. For form's sake, maybe. She stood up and went to the doorway. "Nate?"

Nate jumped. She couldn't blame him. "Sandy?" he said, a bit squeaky.

"Sorry." Sandra blew out a long breath and pushed her hair behind her ear, getting a hold

of her irrational temper. "I need your crowbar."

"Oh. Sure. Hang on..." Nate hit a few keys on Rich's biggest computer and pressed 'enter',

looking none too hopeful. The computer did exactly nothing. He stared morosely at the

screen.

"Crowbar," Sandra reminded him, as gently as she could.

"Right."

The desk drawers popped open one after the other, yielding to the crowbar with almost

ridiculous ease. Sandra found herself wishing that one would be stubborn. Beating the crap

out of Simon's desk with the crowbar would feel really good, right about now. Instead of

indulging that particular wish she put the crowbar aside and started riffling through the files,

not really looking for anything in particular, just trying to get a sense of what was what.

The number was scribbled on the back of an envelope and shoved haphazardly into the

top drawer, like it didn't matter. 'Archer' was slashed across it in Simon's angular

handwriting. The number itself, oddly, was in the New York City area code, and in a

different hand, small and precise and prone to crossing its sevens. Sandra smoothed out the

crumpled envelope and considered it. It was so battered that she suspected the envelope had

been crushed and smoothed back out several times.

She should call him.

Simon would be furious if she did.

Therefore, she should definitely call him.

Besides, she had this gut feeling that Jeremy ought to know about this. She hated that gut

feeling. Jeremy didn't have any sort of rights to Simon, in Sandra's humble opinion. He'd

worked with the team, sure, got along with them pretty well, but he wasn't really one of

them--hell, he was a felon. Wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. A little

voice that sounded oddly like Mike's deadpanned in the wrong pants? in the back of her

mind, and Sandra discovered that she'd crumpled the envelope in her fist.

I don't know that, she reminded herself, flattening the envelope back out on the desk--not

for the first time, apparently. It's ridiculous. Simon's not... Jeremy's a criminal , anyway.

Simon wouldn't... She stared angrily at the number for a moment longer, then made up her

mind and grabbed for the desk phone, only to drop it half a second later.

Instead, she dug out her own personal cell phone. Before she dialed the number, though,

she checked the little black book she'd found in one of the previously locked lower drawers.

Everybody else's numbers were in it, including a couple of numbers she was damned sure

Simon shouldn't have; the 'Archer' number wasn't listed anywhere in it. Only on that battered

envelope. Somehow that only made her gut feeling stronger. God, she hated that.

Flicking open her cell phone she started to stab out the number, then hit Cancel before the

third digit; instead she programmed the number into memory and called it from there.

Despite the hour, the phone only rang once before it was picked up. "Answering service," a

cheerful anonymous female voice said.

Sandra almost laughed, despite everything. That was Jeremy, all right. Way too damn

clever. "Ah. Yes. I'm trying to get in touch with Jeremy Archer?" Out in the other room, Nate

abruptly stopped typing at the sound of Jeremy's name. It made Sandra wish the office still

had a door. She knew the door was still around here somewhere. Or at least the halves of it.

Maybe down the hall in the men's bathroom...?

The voice interrupted her musings. "Yes, ma'am, I can take that message for you."

"Fine. Thank you. My name is Sandra Leone--uh, he may know me better as Springheel."

Sandra eyed the desk phone again, but in the end she ended up giving the voice her cell

phone number.

The voice on the other end of the line didn't falter at the code name. "Yes, ma'am. And

the message?"

"I... it's urgent that I speak to him as soon as possible." Sandra leaned on the last few

words.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll pass that message along as soon as I can."

"Thank you," Sandra said distractedly, and broke the connection. She stared at her phone

for a moment, then stabbed at the buttons. S-H-A-D-O-W, read the name above the number

when she was done. She flipped the phone closed on Jeremy's code name and put it on the

desk, and then put her head in her hands and waited.

Less than five minutes later it rang, and she and Nate both jumped. She thought Nate

actually yelped a little. The number was a string of digits in all the wrong configurations:

international call. She flicked the phone open. "Sandra," she snapped, belatedly realizing how

edgy she sounded.

The pleasant Englishy voice on the other end of the line didn't seem to care. "Ms. Leone,"

he said, rendered tinny with distance, like a James Bond movie playing in the next room.

"This is a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

And now that she actually had him on the line, she had no idea what to say, so she stalled

instead. "Jeremy. I'm sorry, I just realized what time it was." She realized that she didn't

exactly sound sorry. She sounded sort of flat, actually. Oh, well. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Time...? Oh! Oh, no. It's four in the afternoon here, Ms. Leone. I assure you I was not

asleep." The good humor was leaking out of his voice fast, though. He was quick, she'd give

him that much. "What can I do for you?"

"Four? Where are you?" Still stalling. It was like a reflex. She sounded like her mother,

she suddenly realized, all pleasant chit-chat and no substance. The realization made her feel

vaguely sick.

"Tokyo. Ms. Leone--"

"Tokyo! God, what are you stealing there, some kind of... gold-plated Hello Kitty

statue...?" Sandra trailed off there. When she started again, her voice was harder. "I'm sorry.

That was stupid. I didn't call to chat, did I."

"I suspected as much." No good humor left at all now. "Please. What is it?"

Sandra closed her eyes and fell silent for a moment. On the other end of the line, Jeremy

was also silent. Sandra could hear the babble of many voices somewhere far behind him. She

opened her eyes and splayed one hand out on the desk, staring down at her fingers. "Simon's

been shot."

The long pause that followed this abrupt announcement told her more than she needed to

know. Damn that gut feeling anyway.

On To Part One, Chapters 1-6

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Part One: Chapters 1-6

"Shot," 'James St. John' finally said, putting his free hand

over his ear in order to hear better. Behind him he could hear the

low murmur of thousands of people--gem importers, jewellers,

wholesalers--echoing off the cavernous roof of the exposition

hall. He stared at the wall. He thought his voice sounded calm

enough.

"They say he's going to pull through," Sandra said in his ear,

rushing the words a little now that she'd finally got to them.

"Johnny's with him at the hospital, he called an hour ago, Simon's

out of surgery, the damage isn't as bad as it looked--"

"I see," Jeremy breathed, shutting his eyes and momentarily

putting 'James' away.

Sandra talked right over him. "--the bullet went under his ribs

at an angle and lodged by his spine, nicked a lung but didn't

puncture it. Mostly blood loss and muscle damage." And then she

stopped babbling so abruptly that Jeremy could almost hear her

teeth click shut, halfway around the world. There was a pause.

"Anyway. I just thought you should know." Her voice was abrupt

and not entirely friendly. One of Jeremy's eyebrows lifted just a

bit.

He waited, just a moment. Nothing else seemed to be

forthcoming. "Thank you," he finally said, and "I appreciate your

letting me know, Ms. Leone."

"You're welcome." She still sounded abrupt. "Good-bye,

Jeremy."

"Mm. Good morning, Ms. Leone."

The phone clicked in his ear.

"Sinjun- san? "

All the tension melted out of Jeremy's shoulders as if by

magic. By the time he turned to face his interpreter, 'James' was

smiling absently. "Ah, I'm terribly sorry, but you know how it

is," he said, his voice lazy, sliding the phone back into his jacket

pocket. His interpreter shrugged and nodded, indicating that he

did, indeed, know how it was. "Are they ready for me?"

"Yes. They will sign."

"Excellent!" 'James' sauntered off back into the exposition,

his interpreter trotting in his wake. Despite the documents

waiting for him in one of the convention centre's plusher office

suites, he took his time, idly examining the displays as he passed,

reaching out to run one loving finger over a strand of black pearls

worth a tidy fortune. Deep within 'James' Jeremy felt more like

running. "I'm quite glad we could come to an agreement today. It

seems my presence is required elsewhere."

"Hah? You are leaving so soon?"

"Unfortunately so. Business," 'James' said, with only the

slightest faltering of his lazy smile, "waits for no one."

[wednesday]

Twenty-seven hours later, at five in the morning local time,

Jeremy Archer (having peeled off and discarded the affably

useless 'James St. John' like so much dirty laundry, leaving him

in Japan along with 'James St. John's' systematically destroyed

mobile phone and, unfortunately, a lovely pair of matched pink

pearls whose existence would have been a little too awkward to

explain) leaned against the white wall of a Washington, DC

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