Free The Matador's Crown by Alex Archer Page B

her. She held a regal pose, arms arced above her head and chin thrust down defiantly as she worked some fancy footwork on the cobblestones to no more than the clatter of the crowd’s claps. Palmas, Annja knew the rhythmic clapping was called. It punctuated the dancer’s moves, as did the occasional shouted “Olé!”
    The woman’s hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Not nearly as smoothly coifed or styled as the other dancers around her. A sheen of perspiration beaded her neck and chest.
    Annja moved to the front of the crowd, clapping in unison and mastering the open-palmed echoing palmas after a few tries.
    The dancer spun around, her ruffled skirts dusting the air and revealing her rapid footwork beneath. It was amazing the punishing motions she could perform so forcefully and yet gracefully. Must be hell on the Achilles tendons.
    Annja’s sight fell on the black mark on the woman’s wrist. Looked like a tattoo, but her rapid movement wouldn’t let Annja make out the design. Clutching her skirts at her hips, the dancer brought her dance to an end with a triumphant thrust of her hand to the sky.
    The crowd cheered and some called for another performance, while the dancer’s head tilted down and her eyes angled to Annja. Her steady, dark gaze did not falter as she read Annja’s daring look. A smirk curled the corner of the dancer’s mouth. She stepped back and performed a twirl, fitting herself between two men in the crowd with a flirtatious ease, and then—she dashed.
    Who danced and dashed? Only someone with good reason.
    Annja took chase after the dancer, knowing with certainty she had found the sniper.
    She dodged a basket seeming to float in the air, until her shoulder slammed into the basket carrier’s shoulder and the huge wicker conveyance wavered and toppled. Angry shouts followed in her wake.
    The dancing and festivities stretched far ahead and down the street, seemingly endless. The partying would continue all night. Perhaps the hostel hadn’t been so wild, after all.
    The dancer dodged into the crowd, but Annja stayed close. A swirl of skirt frilled alongside her, and the tourists jostled her off balance. Gripping a street pole, Annja swung her body around and, using the momentum to lunge upward, almost managed to grasp the dancer by the arm.
    She saw Annja, then shoved a heavyset man drinking from a pewter mug toward her. Splattered with tequila, Annja apologized and swiped the back of her hand across her cheek without stopping.
    They passed a group of men smoking cigars who whistled at the dancer as she swept by. In response, the woman flicked them the international symbol for “get out of my face.” They jeered and made some comment about Annja chasing her girlfriend as she raced by.
    The dancer’s heels clicked madly as she picked up her pace. The nails in her shoes designed to make loud, exacting beats when flamenco dancing did not serve well for stealth. And Annja couldn’t imagine they provided good traction.
    The dancer turned right, and the alley was so narrow Annja had to turn sideways. The dancer was thirty feet ahead of her and veered left down another alleyway.
    Noting the fallen garbage can ahead, Annja sped up and jumped over it, landing smoothly. She swung around the corner where the dancer stood, poised for her approach. Charging her, Annja took a punch to the shoulder, which threw her off balance and against the brick wall. A heel kicked her in the hip and she felt a nail head tear her skin.
    “You are loco! ” the dancer accused her. Body poised in a half crouch for another punch, she waited for Annja to shake off the blow, then followed with another swing.
    Annja was able to avoid the second punch with a dodge of her head to the left. She wasn’t dealing with a delicate dancer who liked to swing her skirts for a few coins, so she dropped all apprehension and swung her leg in a high kick, connecting with the dancer’s ribs and knocking her against the brick