Free The Matador's Crown by Alex Archer

will be far more interesting than I’d hoped,” Manuel said, then winked. “The two of you will ride along with me in the van, Braden?”
    “Of course.”
    “Very good.” Manuel turned to be sucked into the crowd of hungry-eyed women.
    “He’s quite the charmer,” Annja noted.
    “And he succeeded in luring you in with only a few words. Have you eyes for a man you consider a murderer, Annja?”
    “He’s not—” Perhaps Garin had been right. There were many ways to look at the reasons behind a man’s actions. Bullfighting an art form?
    Two killers had entered her life today. Now to determine if they were standing on equal—albeit shaky—moral ground or if one might be granted the excuse that art trumps blood.
    * * *
    T HEY STEPPED OUT into the sultry evening under the glaring streetlights behind the van painted along the side with Manuel’s moniker, El Bravo. A decal featured him posed before a bull, cape sweeping gloriously. A rock star’s tour bus, Annja mused. Every culture had their idols. Spain happened to worship a man who slaughtered animals raised only for the one appearance in a ring, a fight that virtually always ended in the animal’s death. It was the rare bull that was granted its life for bravery.
    Maybe that’s why she’d stepped a little closer toward the side of the bull and the line of protestors who stood behind a safety blockade wielding signs to Stop the Torture! She accepted that all cultures had their own beliefs, rituals and ceremonies. But that didn’t mean she had to subscribe to those beliefs.
    As Garin leaned close to say something to her, a flash out of the corner of her eye caught Annja’s attention.
    A woman in the crowd milling about the van cried out as a glass of sherry shattered on the ground. The metallic ricochet of a bullet hitting the van’s back quarter, just above the decal of Manuel’s eye, simultaneously drew Annja’s and Garin’s gazes like trained sentry dogs to scan the area for danger.
    One of Manuel’s assistants shoved his maestro into the van.
    “Was he hit?” Annja called, but didn’t wait for an answer.
    Her heartbeat quickening, she reached for the sword hilt, but with so many around her, she stopped short of grasping it. She’d seen a flash, and turned to scan the row of brick buildings lining the opposite side of the street. The pink sky provided a contrasting background to the dark buildings.
    A sniper? Possible. But a professional shooter wouldn’t position himself too close to the stadium and risk being sighted. Another flash from a rooftop a quarter of a mile down, possibly from sun reflecting off the shooter’s sunglasses, Annja decided. She said to Garin, “I’m going after him.”
    He palmed the pistol he always wore under his left arm. “Right behind you.”
    She took off down the street, pushing through the crowd that had become knit in a tangle of legs and arms as men and women attempted to see if their idol was safe. In Annja’s wake, a chorus of approval from the protestors weakened their argument against cruelty.
    “Was he hit?” Annja called back to Garin.
    “The bullet was four feet off its mark. What did you see?”
    “That building on the left side of the street. Three-story yellow brick with the curved windows along the top and Moorish tile work.” The city was old and didn’t boast many buildings over three stories high, so the skyscape was easy to pick out. “I’m going around this side. You take the north wall.”
    She dodged down a narrow, cobbled street where the streetlights didn’t reach and, seeing Garin didn’t follow, was surprised he’d taken orders without argument. He was a man who gave orders. And the only time he listened to a female was if she’d whispered a sweet nothing in his ear or dangled an HK P7 before him like a carrot.
    Festive music close by kept Annja from picking out the sounds of footsteps, but the clang of metal against brick signaled someone had dismounted an iron stairway