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They got through the crate and used a blade on the cardboard. Lara forced herself to look at the light coming through the widening cracks so her eyes would be adjusted by the time they had it open. From her limited view, it looked like she was in a garage. She saw groundskeeping gear hanging from hooks, a workbench covered with tools, and the bonnet of an automobile.

One of the guards let loose with a Hindi oath. Another pulled away the inflated plastic wrapping about her.

“Tussaud’s—of course! The wax sculptures,” the more garrulous of the guards said. They wore khaki shorts, with high white socks and Sam Browne belts. Neither had a weapon out. “They are very famous. Must have cost the boss a mint.”

“No, you’re wrong there. It was sent to him. Didn’t you see the manifest?”

It was hard not to move her eyes. One reached up to touch her.

She brought the gun down, pointing it between the two guards. Their reaction was worthy of a photograph. One took a startled step back and tripped on the lid of her packing case, falling to the floor; the other flung up his hands like a soccer goalie blocking a ball kicked at his face.

The Tomb Raider flexed her stiff legs. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

 

The Lost Cult, Chapter 6