thigh pocket.
For a moment, the older man’s attention was diverted as he watched his companion and talked to other members of his group. Partially blocked from the man’s sight and standing to the right of the man handling Krauzer, Annja reached for the thick ceramic plates Orta had brought for their dinner. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the top plate and hurled it in a discus throw, spinning and getting her weight into the effort.
The older gunman brought his weapon to bear and fired a short burst that sliced through the air above Annja’s head as she ducked. Spinning, the heavy plate struck the gunman in the throat and knocked him backward.
Shifting his attention from Krauzer to Annja, the second gunman tried to spin to cover her. Balanced on both hands and one foot, Annja shot her other foot out and caught the gunman in the chest and arm, driving him back toward the table. His head struck the table’s edge with a hollow thump and his eyes slid up so that only the whites showed as he toppled to the floor.
Still in motion, aware that the older gunman had been only momentarily put off, Annja stood and reached for the second plate. She held the plate at the end of her arm like a tennis racket and swung it into the surviving gunman’s face in a backhand swing as she spun.
The plate shattered across the man’s grizzled features and shards exploded in all directions. Blood streamed from the man’s broken nose and a deep cut on one of his cheeks. Unconscious, certainly concussed, the man sank to the floor.
Annja knelt over the man and quickly went through his pockets but found nothing that identified him. A demanding voice spoke over the walkie-talkie the man wore over his shoulder.
She looked at Krauzer and Orta, both of whom stared at her in shock. “There are more coming,” she told them.
“For my crystal?” Krauzer sounded amazed.
“Get it and get moving,” Annja ordered as she took the man’s machine pistol and recognized it as one she was familiar with. She dumped the partially expended magazine and shoved in a fresh one taken from the man’s tactical gear.
Krauzer stood slowly, moving as if he was in a daze. He started at the blood pooling around the gunman’s head. “Is he dead?”
“No.” Annja stood and slung the machine pistol over her shoulder. She listened for footsteps out in the corridor. She didn’t hear anything, but she’d noticed the thick soles on the gunmen’s boots. The team would be moving quietly.
“This is stupid crazy,” Krauzer announced. He wiped his face.
Annja shoved him into motion. “Grab the crystal. Let’s go.” She was happy to see that Orta was already putting the manuscript sheets back in their protective case. Grabbing her backpack, Annja quickly packed her gear into it and pulled it on. She tried to think of how much time had passed and knew that she had no clue.
Orta looked at her. “There are more of these men?”
“Yes.” Annja pulled the ear-throat mic into place and clipped the walkie-talkie to the ammo belt. A deep, controlled voice spoke at the other end, demanding that Fox Six reply. She ignored the command and nodded to Orta. “You know the campus layout. Which way is the quickest way out?”
“Follow me.” Orta headed to the back door.
Krauzer had the crystal wrapped in one arm like an oversize football and was reaching for the other machine pistol lying on the floor.
Taking a quick step, Annja kicked the weapon under the table and out of Krauzer’s reach.
He whirled on her, his features taut with rage and fear. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep us alive,” Annja said. “You’re a director, not a commando.”
“And you think you’re some kind of action hero?”
Annja glanced at the two unconscious attackers. “I’ve got experience with this sort of thing.”
“I can shoot! Two guns are better than one.”
“Are you coming?” Annja asked as she jogged toward Orta at the back door.
Krauzer started to go around the table, but another gunman slid into place out in the hallway.
The radio came to life in Annja’s ear. “Fox Leader, Fox Six is down. The woman has a weapon.”
“Kill them,” the deep voice ordered. “Do not harm the crystal.”
Annja lifted the machine pistol and aimed. Then she fired off three short bursts. Bullets hammered the door frame, throwing splinters out into the hallway, and they struck the gunman, knocking him down. Annja didn’t know where the man was hit and knew she didn’t have time to confirm his condition.
After fumbling with the back door, Orta opened it and stuck his head outside. Then he yelped and pulled back inside the room just ahead of a salvo of bullets that ripped into the doorway and outside wall.
Grabbing the man’s arm, Annja pulled him back from the door, squatted and snaked around the door frame. Two men held the hallway, one positioned on either side, with their machine pistols at the ready. As Annja leaned out, one of the gunmen broke cover and rushed toward them.
Annja brought up the machine pistol and fired at almost point-blank range. The gunman managed to get off another burst that burned the air beside her. Her bullets stitched the man from his chest to his face.
She forced herself not to think about what she’d just done. She didn’t have time. She stepped into the guy and gripped his bloodstained tactical vest with her free hand.
Leaning into him, guiding his slow fall by partially supporting his weight as he went down, Annja aimed at the other gunman in the hallway and fired a burst that scored the wall above his head. She corrected her aim as the dead man sagged on her, careful not to let his weight trap her.
The other gunman fired his weapon, either knowing his partner was dead from the blood pooling on the floor or not caring if the other man survived. Bullets thudded into the corpse, some of them burrowing into the tactical armor and some biting into flesh.
Ignoring the vibration of the bullets’ impacts and the grisly weight of the dead man, Annja fired again, emptying her weapon in two short bursts. Tossing the weapon away, she scrambled from beneath the falling dead man, slipped in his blood and recovered as she stripped his weapon from his hand.
Landing on her knees, Annja brought up the new weapon and hoped that the dead gunman hadn’t emptied it during his charge. As she centered the machine pistol on the surviving attacker, the gunman collapsed to the floor. She was on her feet immediately.
When she paused over the second man, Annja dumped the magazine in her weapon and grabbed a fresh one from his gear. She glanced back at Orta and waved him on.
“Fox Nine,” the deep voice called over the radio. “Report. Report!”
The tinny echoes of tactical gear jangling in the hallway reached Annja’s ears and her pulse accelerated. Orta reached her, looking pale.
“Where?” Annja asked as she stood.
Behind the professor,
