by Alex Archer
****
The man was smooth – Annja gave him that. But he was working on the presumption that he was dealing with someone unused to violence. Most people would have frozen when a strange man grabbed them by the arm. An uninvited touch in polite society usually elicited a blistering look of disdain, followed by a command to release the arm or a demand to know what was going on.
By the time all that happened, it was usually too late for the person who was accosted.
Annja had expected the touch, had desired it, in fact, because it made everything easier. The move put the man in reach.
Gripping her backpack straps with her left hand, Annja turned inside the man's grip. He stood flat-footed, never expecting her to turn like that. Or, at least, not expecting what followed.
Agent Smith opened his mouth to speak. Annja didn't know what he was going to say. Maybe he was going to say her name, or maybe he was going to give her his fake name.
Before he could utter a word, Annja jerked a knee up into his crotch as hard as she could. He wasn't totally unprepared, though. She felt the hard surface of a protective cup jar her knee with bruising force. Despite the presence of the cup, there was a certain amount of force that still communicated through the protective gear.
The man froze, not certain how badly he was hurt. Annja knotted her right hand in his coat and pulled him close. She head-butted him in the nose and heard it break with a loud pop. As he stumbled back, his coat fell open and revealed the pistol holstered on his hip.
Okay, Annja thought, that's good to know. It was better to have the bad news up front. She stuck her foot between Agent Smith's legs to hook a foot behind his, then put her shoulder in the middle of his chest. Agent Smith smashed backward into his partner.
"Help!" Nikolai shouted, going to cover behind the counter. "Help! Police!"
"Try using the phone," Annja urged as she turned back to the door.
Nikolai's hand came up and began feeling around for the phone handset while she bolted through the door. Agent Smith and his partner were already getting to their feet and grabbing for their weapons.
Outside, Annja turned right and ran. She knew the area well. Not only did she frequently walk to Mailboxes & Stuff, but she also jogged in the neighborhood and did most of her shopping there.
She took a firmer hold on the ersatz package as she lengthened her stride. "Excuse me. Out of the way. Coming through." She pushed herself down the crowded sidewalk, jostling the pedestrians.
Most of the men and women shot her looks of indignation. A few of them cursed at her as only a native New Yorker could, and it would have taken a master linguist to sort out all the variations of the single-syllable word they used most.
Then they saw the pistols in the hands of the men pursuing her. Trained by the post-9/11 world, the pedestrians hit the sidewalk and wrapped their hands over their heads.
They also shouted, and the shouts caught up to Annja and passed her. In seconds, the pedestrians in front of Annja had hit the ground, as well. The sidewalk became treacherous with bodies, and there was no way she could lose herself in a crowd.
A gypsy cab with a Buddha swinging from the mirror and blaring Eminem braked to a halt at the curb. The driver hit his horn repeatedly, cursing at the traffic congestion that had gridlocked him.
Annja threw herself across the cab's hood, sliding on her hip in a move made famous on The Dukes of Hazard television show. She hit the street on the other side of the cab and managed one step before she leaped again.
This time she sprinted across the next car. Horns blared behind her. The gypsy cabdriver shrilled curses at her, but shut up when he saw the men with guns. Annja used that sudden silence to mark the progress of the two men following her.
The other two men were across the street and tried to set themselves up on an interception course, running along the sidewalk.
By that time Annja was dealing with the oncoming traffic. It wasn't as congested. The flow wasn't moving quickly, but it was moving. Tires shrieked as the drivers in the inside lane tried to halt, but a New York City transit bus advertising the Late Show with David Letterman blocked her path.
Annja got her free arm up and used it to cushion her impact against the bus, slamming up against the Letterman photo. The bus never even slowed.
Whirling, Annja ran to the left. She figured the two men trying to intercept her would expect her to run to the rear of the bus and try to get around. Instead, she trusted herself to outrun the bus and the other two pursers.
She ran, breathing quickly, hoping she didn't get a muscle cramp from the cold weather. A quick glance at Agent Smith and his partner showed them trying to negotiate the first lane of traffic that wasn't stalled. Horns blared all around them.
Smith, his nose streaming blood, stopped long enough to yell to the other two men. He waved them back in the direction Annja had gone.
Annja's thoughts ran rampant. Cold air hit her lungs like a fist. She'd gotten acclimated to Florida over the past few weeks, and the weather there hadn't been anything like Brooklyn's.
Going back to the loft is a bad idea, she told herself. She kept running. Then the side mirror of a flower-delivery van in front of her shattered. Pieces of glass scattered across the street. The sound of the gunshot followed immediately.
Panic spread over the street as some of the motorists tried to lock down their vehicles while others searched for a gap to make their getaway.
A limousine ahead of Annja plowed into the back of an older sedan. Immediately a man in a black business suit and wraparound sunglasses got out of the limo and dropped into a crouch. His hand snaked under his jacket.
Annja was pretty sure he was going for a shoulder holster. A shoot-out in the middle of the street was the last thing that needed to happen.
She jumped up in a flying kick just as the man's hand cleared his jacket. The large pistol had a shiny nickel finish.
Swinging her left foot out, Annja caught the man in the forehead. His head snapped back and bounced off the car. He went boneless and dropped, out cold.
Thankfully, the impact didn't throw Annja off much. She caught herself on her hands, prone on her stomach on the street.
Two car lengths behind her, Agent Smith and his friend had gone to cover, ducking behind the florist van. Seeing the unconscious bodyguard sprawled in the street beside Annja, they grew brave enough to shove their pistols around the van.
Annja vaulted to her feet and ran across the back end of the limousine. At least two rounds smashed the vehicle's bulletproof rear window, leaving spiderwebbed cracks in the reinforced glass. The front glass of a coffee shop shattered. Patrons inside screamed and threw themselves to the floor.
Okay, Annja thought as she leaped for the curb. Now we know these guys aren't afraid to use those guns.
She hit the pavement with both feet and stumbled forward. Knowing she had to get off the street and out of the sights of the two men, she raced for a nearby theater.
****
The theater was small, with an upper and lower screen. Decked out in yellow and red, the theater looked as if it were still in the 1950s when it had shown first-run movies instead of hand-me-downs that came out on DVD the same week.
The marquee advertised a couple of movies – one a horror picture and the other a new fantasy picture about a dragon. A line had formed at the ticket window.
Annja ran past them, slamming through one of the front doors. The box she carried absorbed some of the impact.
She was inside the building. A crew of early-twenty-somethings and a few teens worked the counter. The heavy scent of buttered popcorn hung on the air, mixing with the sharp stink of a cherry air freshener. Movie posters of the movies that were currently showing hung on the wall between the two bathrooms.
Barely breaking stride, Annja headed for the theater at the back of building. An usher in a red vest stood at the small podium reading a comic book. He looked up at Annja's approach, then looked as if he was going to say somethi
ng. By that time she was already past him, and the four armed men came through the door. People began screaming.
Annja ran inside the dark theater, cut around the corner that blocked the light from entering the viewing area and ran down the steps toward the emergency door at the back. She halted, framed by the screen as a band of warriors gathered on a rocky cliff. She looked back at the protective wall.
She knew she hadn't left her pursuers, but she didn't want them to lose her now. The idea of the four men searching through the theater crowd left her chilled. They needed to know where she was.
"Hey, lady!" someone yelled. "Down in front! Some of us are here to see the movie!"
The four men came around the protective wall, briefly backlit by the closing door. Agent Smith pointed his gun and fired. The shot rang out in the enclosed space, but it was quickly drowned out by the dragon's roar on the film. On-screen, the warriors screamed and ran for their lives. Anyone watching would have thought the film was interactive, because the moviegoers did the same.
Annja turned and ran toward the lighted emergency exit as a line of bullets chopped into the wall behind her. Evidently the emergency factor compelling the men to seize the package was escalating. She couldn't keep up the chase or an innocent bystander was going to get hurt.
Chapter 3
Plunging through the emergency door, Annja ran out into the alley behind the theater. Potholes lined the street. Battered Dumpsters filled to overflowing stood resolute as old soldiers against the wall. She spotted some fire escape stairs to her right and headed for them.
Under the retractable ladder leading up to the fire escape, she leaped up and caught the chain, pulling the ladder down. The ladder clanked through the gears, then halted with a clang that echoed through the alley.
The noise drew the attention of the four men exiting the theater. As they turned toward her, Annja dropped the package she'd been carrying and climbed the ladder. She crunched her body from side to side, taking the rungs three and four at a time, one side pulling and pushing while the other reached for new hand-and footholds. Her backpack thumped against her back.
Agent Smith fired at her, and his aim had improved. One of the bullets hit the rung in front of Annja's face. The round ricocheted with a shrill screech. Two more bullets jackhammered brick splinters that pelted her face and coat.
Annja didn't look down. She looked up, focusing on where she wanted to go. Looking back or anywhere else would have divided her attention and slowed her.
Reaching the rooftop, Annja heaved herself over as a new salvo of shots chopped into the side of the building. She dropped to a squatting position, keeping her head below the edge of the roof.
The gunfire stopped.
Annja forced herself to wait. She reached into the otherwhere for her sword and felt the familiar hilt against her palm. All she had to do was pull and it would be there with her.
But she didn't do that. The sword was only an option when she was out of all other options. Even Joan of Arc, who had first carried the sword into battle, hadn't relied on the sword as anything more than a last resort. Joan's words and actions had brought countries, kings and churches to heel at different times in her young life. Now that the sword belonged to Annja, she knew it carried with it a heavy responsibility.
Not hearing any sounds on the fire escape, Annja relaxed her hand and the sword faded away. Duckwalking farther down the roof, she cautiously peered over the edge into the alley.
Agent Smith had the package. He used a small knife to slit it open. Reaching inside, he brought out a Star Wars collector plate that featured Yoda.
"Yoda?" Agent Smith held up his captured prize in surprise.
Nikolai had once coerced Annja into accompanying him to a local sci-fi event. As it turned out, Annja had discovered she had a fan base among the convention goers. She was surprised that Nikolai had shoved his prized plate into the package.
One of the other men spoke rapidly in a guttural language that Annja thought was German. She spoke the five Romance languages fluently, a little Russian and even less German, but she could make her wants known in those languages. The man below spoke too quickly and quietly for her to understand what was said, but she gathered that he wasn't a happy guy.
Agent Smith argued with the man, evidently protective of the plate. That made Annja wonder if they even knew what they had been sent after.
Abruptly, a cell phone chirped for attention. Annja realized it was her phone in the side pocket of the backpack. She pulled her head back just as the men looked up and one of them pointed his weapon at her. The bullet cut through the air where her head had been.
She fished out the phone, hoping it was Bart returning her earlier call. But she didn't recognize the phone number on Caller ID. The string of digits logged there were too long to be domestic, and she knew it was an international number.
The country prefix was 371. She didn't recognize that, either. Curious, not hearing anyone running up the fire escape and thinking that the call might be from Mario Fellini, Annja answered the phone.
"Hello."
"Ms. Creed?" a woman's voice asked in a professional manner. There was an accent, too, but Annja couldn't place it.
"Speaking." Annja crept across the rooftop and took up another position. A siren screamed in the distance. She hoped that Nikolai had gotten hold of the police.
"You don't know me, Ms. Creed," the woman said, "and I'm sorry to trouble you. Am I calling at a bad time?"
"If you're trying to sell me something, yes." Annja peered over the roof. The four men, satisfied with their ill-gotten gain or not, had elected to leave.
They know who I am, Annja realized. It's not like they're going to have trouble finding me again if they want to.
That wasn't exactly a happy thought. In fact, it made her angry to think she couldn't go back to her loft. Her work was there. Her life.
I am not going to be afraid of going home, she told herself as she watched the men flag a cab. She took her small digital camera from her backpack, focused on the men and snapped off captures in rapid succession.
"I'm not trying to sell you anything, Ms. Creed," the woman said. "I'm looking for Mario Fellini."
"You didn't say who you were."
"I'm Erene Skujans."
Annja tried to place the surname as she watched two of the men climb into the cab. One of the other two crossed the street and flagged down another cab headed in the opposite direction.
A feint at misdirection? Annja wondered. Are they going to separate places, or are they going to meet up somewhere?
She memorized the cab companies and identification numbers on both cabs. Both were medallion cabs fully licensed by the state of New York.
"I'm afraid I haven't seen Mario," Annja said.
"It's important that I speak to him, Ms. Creed."
Annja felt irritated. The woman acted as if Annja was being deliberately evasive about Mario Fellini.
"You did hear the part about me not seeing him, right?" Annja abandoned her post and jogged across the rooftop to the fire escape.
She started down, taking the steps quickly.
"I'm afraid Mario may be in trouble," Erene Skujans said.
Me, too, Annja thought. Especially since a package he sent me has got guys shooting at me.
"What kind of trouble?" Annja asked.
"I don't know the extent of it."
Lie or truth? Annja wondered. She had no way of knowing.
In the alley, Annja sprinted for the street. She ran toward a line of cabs in front of the theater. Evidently the cab companies had heard about the shooting and had massed in an effort to pick up extra fares desperate to get out of the area.
"Again," Annja said, running down the line of cabs, "I haven't seen Mario. I just got back into New York. I've been out of state."
"Mario said he was going to contact you."
"Did he say why?" Annja found a cab that belonged to the same company that two of the men had taken. She
shoved two twenty-dollar bills up against the window, fanning them so the driver could see them both.
He was young enough that her looks probably captured more of his attention than the money. He waved her in.
"No."
That, Annja thought as she opened the rear passenger door and slid across the seat, is probably a lie.
The driver peered at her through the security glass and smiled. "Where to?"
"Why didn't Mario try to call me?" Annja asked.
"He left the country suddenly. He didn't want anyone to know where he'd gone."
What country? Annja wanted to ask.
"Hold on," Annja told the woman. She covered the cell phone's mouthpiece and looked at the driver. "Another one of your cabs just picked up a fare on this street. Just a couple minutes ago. I got the number of the cab. I missed a meeting and I'm trying to catch up to a client. If I don't at least try to close this deal, I'm going to be looking for a new job." She tried to look desperate.
Some of the smile left the driver's face and he didn't look so friendly. "Hey, lady – "
Oh, great! Now I'm "Hey, lady," Annja thought. So long sex appeal.
"I got this thing about hauling around psychotic ex-girlfriends," the driver said. "No offense."
"If I was a psychotic girlfriend," Annja said evenly, "I'd wait for him at his apartment." She took another sixty dollars from her jeans with her free hand and held the full hundred against the safety glass. "Now the question is, do you want a big tip or should I find another cab?"
The driver eyed the money and shrugged. "You know, psychotic or not, it's really none of my business. What was the number of the cab?"
Annja gave it and they got under way. The driver called for dispatch and asked about the other cab's fare destination.
"Okay," Annja said into the phone, "I'm back."
The woman was gone.
Thinking the signal had been dropped, Annja called the number back and listened to the double ring tones.
No one answered.
Annja closed her phone, wondering what Mario Fellini could possibly have gotten into that would have involved men with guns and no hesitation about killing. And why would he have brought that to her?
