Odd-little-turtle: Where do I get the weird stuff? Hum. Internet (thank god for search-engines), books… I own a copy of the Apocrypha myself. And I'm a bit of an expert regarding the history of the Crusades and the different military orders like the Knights Templars and so on, which was what caught my attention in the first place when I played AoD (the Lux Veritatis, ecc.)

Lara-n-Kurtis: Yeah, that was me (Kurkubain /Kurt Cobain) I used to love Nirvana. I still love Foo Fighters.

Acid-Rush: Thanks for the compliments. I hope you'll like this chapter. As you said before, I'm trying to break from the heavy symbolic writing here and again, so this is another attempt.


A REFRESHING EXPERIENCE

He's called "The Weasel", unsurprisingly so, since he really resembles one.

"Kamarovsky says you pay well."

A smirk appears on the beautiful, disdainful mouth.

"I'm looking for Trent."

"So I hear. Haven't seen him since I knocked him out cold at the Louvre."

"There's quite a lot of money in here…" she tells him seductively, pushing slightly aside her long leather coat to reveal a well-padded envelope. And the weapon.

The Weasel eyes the woman, clearly interested.

"Is that so? Looks like there's a lot more than money in there…"

"Oh, you noticed." She smiles with false sweetness and lets the coat close again.

The man glances nervously around him.

"Listen, Miss…"

"Croft."

"Right. I know who you are. I could get into serious trouble here. I'm only doing this because Jurij Alexej is an old friend of mine and…"

"…You owe him a couple of favours and you don't want him to get cross. Just spit it out. Where is Trent?"

"He had a date with Gunderson this afternoon. At the Asamkirche. Don't know what he did after, but I heard he's staying at…"

She is glad she's been standing where the shadows are the deepest when she hears the unmistakable sound of an automatic with a silencer break the silence of the park. Instantly, she throws herself down, all senses shrieking alarm while she scans the shadows. She feels more than hears the soft thump of the Weasel's body as it hits the ground.

A clean job. Good I never got around to give him that money. I would have to buy a new Monopoly set.

She crawls to the nearest tree, and kneeling, pulls out her guns.Listening intently.

The traffic in the nearby avenue. The mysterious cacophony of cities. The rustling trees.

She can make out dim shadows detaching themselves from the deeper blackness, coming closer. How many?

Without hesitating, Lara turns and runs.

Runs for the light of the avenue, but realizes fast they are cutting her up from that side. She promptly changes direction and runs down the hill, to where the shadows are thicker and darker.

With such speed that she almost goes headfirst into the river when the invisible path she is following ends abruptly at the torrent. In the melancholic light of the street lanterns she feels like a dazzled rabbit. Water splashes, as another bullet hits the river.

"Oh, great. Where now?"

To her right, the path by the river fades into a dark cavern. A wide bridge, high above her head. To the right it is, then.

She crashes violently against something in the dark, something that lets out a surprised grunt. Whatever. She has no time right now to mind about some poor homeless chap she has so ungently awakened from its wine stupor. She turns and starts firing.

When the guy that's following the closest utters a short gurgling cry, before choking on his own blood, the others back off again into the shadows. Lara pulls herself closer to the wall, panting. She can feel the human presence close, but as it's showing no signs of interfering, she supposes her mysterious companion won't be much of a bother.

"Just keep quiet, OK? I shall be gone in a minute," she whispers to reassure him.

Here they come again, the stupid gits. In the dim light outside, they're easier targets than the wooden ones in her garden.

She fires wildly, exhilarated, shots briefly lighting the damp wall, the odd graffiti, until she hears the soft click of the empty magazine. Searching quickly for a new one.

Something heavy slams into her, pushing her against the wall. Then, she hears the distinctive roar of a big caliber weapon, deafening in this small space.

"Hiya, Croft. Kill me later, OK? There's at least five more out there…"

She fires a single shot in the direction of the voice. He can feel the soft hush of the bullet scraping his temple.

"Aahw FUUCK!"

"Agreed," she hisses, legging it for the far end of the tunnel.

Stopping dead on her tracks when she sees more shadows appearing at the end of the passage.

Kurtis grabs her arm in the dark. "Fancy a refreshing experience?"


The black water takes them eagerly into its icy bosom, closing liquid arms over their heads.

Hell, it's freezing. This river must be carrying bloody ice cubes.

Fighting for air, she struggles back to the surface. The current is strong, plenty of melted snow finding its way down from the mountains. She has no idea of where she is. Leather coat proving not-to-practical for swimming purposes. She is fairly sure she's going to drown when her boots kick ground under them. Somehow she manages to crawl out on a pebble-covered riverbank. He is nowhere to be seen.

I bet the bastard would even drown if only to deny me the pleasure of killing him myself!

But the river is more generous. Here he comes, coughing and spitting water. Music in her ears.

"This way," he tells her, rushing past her.

They run in the dark. Twice she stumbles over something. What? Stones, roots?

She hasn't the faintest idea where they are. Unknown streets. She has lost him again.

"Over here!"

His eyes dart past her, scanning the shadows. Face tinted faintly orange by the street lights.

"It's always running with you!" she hisses lowly.

"I'm still faster."

"Only in a short sprint. Listen to yourself! You're going to drop dead any minute, by the way you're panting."

"Nicotine deprivation." He coughs, trying to kick the bike into gear. Seeing that she isn't moving, he snarls at her.

"What are you waiting for? A formal invitation in a gold-rimmed card? Hop on!"

"Forget it. I'll take a taxi."

"Soaked like that? Good luck!"

The bike roars, swerving dangerously at the first street turn. Lara grabs a handful of soaked fabric. Presses herself against him. The cold…

"Where are your things?" he shouts over his shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"Your things! Your clothes! You'll catch your death if you don't change into something dry soon."

"How touching. All I brought is in my backpack."

"Travelling light, ain't you…"

"There's always Visa…"

"Sure. At ten p.m."

The ride takes hours. Or maybe minutes. Chilly wind, drenched clothes. Even her brain is shivering from the cold. And he must be turning into an icicle. The thought warms her up a little.

He pulls the bike by the curb on a side street, swinging himself off. Around the corner she can make out the blue logo of a Holiday Inn. The man really doesn't have a taste to speak of.

"Wait here. Twenty minutes. If I'm not back by then, run."

"Run where!"

"If I'm not back, it'll hardly be my problem."

As she watches him run away, Lara thinks angrily that he could at least have left her the ignition key.


He reappears carrying his bag, throwing something soft her way.

"There. Put that on."

Lara looks at the clothes in her hands, a blackish sweater and a pair of none-too-clean looking jeans. He's already changed, and his pants look certainly clean. Grinding her teeth, she orders:

"Turn around."

He does, making a helpless, exasperated gesture. "Getting a look at your panties is the last of my worries right now. But suit yourself."

Checking that the street is still deserted, she wriggles out of her soaked garments. "Where are we going?"

"Outta here for a start. Get moving."


About an hour later they stop at a motel by the Autobahn. She's hardly surprised as he pulls out of his bag a bunch of passports, flicking quick through them until finding a satisfactory choice. He looks warningly at her.

"I'll handle this, OK?"

"I can't wait," she replies, folding her arms.

Unaffected by her sarcasm, he strides into the registration office.