Free The Thirteenth Skull by Rick Yancey Page A

brought the dagger around to the side of my neck.
    The tip nicked my skin as he tried to force the blade forward. I could feel the blood trickle down my neck and soak into the collar of my dress.
    Nueve’s present ... which shoe was it in? The one on my foot or the one lying on top of the hospital elevator? Had all my luck run out or was there still a drop or two left?
    I clawed at my shoe as the wind tugged at my wig, pushing it forward until I was looking at him through a curtain of gray curls.
    The fingertips of my right hand brushed against the hard casing of the poisoned pen. An inch ... a half inch ... but in a situation like that a half inch might as well be a mile.
    He was too strong, too determined, too focused. Even if I managed to grab the pen, by the time I got the cap off— assuming I could—the dagger would be slicing my carotid artery and I would be one dead old lady.
    So I spit right in his eyes. His grip loosened for an instant, and I gained the half inch I needed. I flicked the cap off the pen, pressed the button, and slammed the needle into his neck.
    His eyes flew open and then froze that way. His body went stiff as a board beneath me. The dagger fell from his hand.
    I picked it up and scooted toward the front of the ambulance. It was slowing down. I glanced over my shoulder and saw we were in the emergency lane, coming up on the scene of a pileup that blocked all three westbound lanes.
    The ambulance screeched to a stop. I slid off the back before the paramedics could exit the cab. I sauntered over to the guardrail, just another old lady out for a stroll on the interstate with her six-inch dragon-headed dagger. Unfortunately, a cop was standing about twenty feet away. I looked at him and he looked at me, and so I gave him a little nod like, Hey, sonny, don’t mind me. I’m just your average old lady out for a stroll on the interstate with my six-inch dragon-headed dagger . Then I threw one leg over the concrete railing and steeled myself for the thirty-foot plunge to the embankment below.
    The cop shouted something and started to run toward me, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver. Like he would actually shoot an old lady, dagger-wielding or not.
    Still, on the off chance that he might actually shoot a dagger-wielding old lady, I froze on the barrier.
    I shouldn’t have.
    A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up behind the ambulance and two men in dark suits jumped out. One had a semiautomatic pointed at my head. The other man was focused on the cop.
    â€œThat’s all right, Officer,” he said in a gentle Southern drawl. “We’ll take it from here.” He looked at me and smiled. “Hello, Alfred.”
    The cop didn’t lower his gun. He didn’t know who to aim at now—me or the dark-suited guy.
    Dark Suit pulled an ID from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it up.
    â€œVosch,” he said to the cop. “FBI.” He smiled a second time at me. “Step down, Alfred. You made a good run, but it’s over.”
    â€œI gotta call this in,” the cop said. He still hadn’t lowered his weapon.
    The man who called himself Vosch nodded, still smiling, while his buddy ripped the dagger from my hand, pulled me from the barrier, and handcuffed me.
    â€œLook ...” I said to the cop.
    â€œShut up, Alfred,” Vosch said pleasantly. Then he said to the cop, “Terrorism, murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and interstate flight.”
    The suit with the gun—now he had the muzzle jammed into my rib cage—dragged me toward the car as I shouted at the bewildered young cop, “These guys aren’t FBI! Check out their wheels—since when do FBI agents drive Town Cars?”
    I was slung into the backseat. Vosch’s partner slid in beside me and slammed the door. The driver, a big guy with slits for eyes and a crooked nose, glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
    â€œBonjour, Monsieur Kropp,” he