Rogue Angel 53: Bathed in Blood

by Alex Archer

  It was empty.

  Or, at least, it appeared so, but Annja knew it wasn’t. She might not be able to see whoever was back there watching her, but she could feel the weight of their stare.

  Nothing about it felt friendly, either.

  Annja turned back and continued on her way, her thoughts churning along at a furious pace as she analyzed the situation.

  The streets were deserted at this hour, since the rural residents of this community synchronized their lives with the rise and fall of the sun. The road she was on was lit only by dim lamps spaced about a hundred yards apart, creating large stretches of shadow that were dark enough to hide anything.

  To get to her car, which was still at least half a mile away, she was going to have to brave that gauntlet and hope whoever was behind her didn’t catch up before she reached the safety of the rental.

  A head start would be nice...

  And she knew just how to create one.

  She looked back over her shoulder, betting that whoever was following her would duck out of sight, just as they had before. Her guess proved correct; she caught the barest flash of movement as her tail slipped behind a parked car.

  It was the break she was looking for.

  The moment her tail went to ground, Annja took off running, the hard rubber soles of her boots pounding out a rhythm against the blacktop. She pumped her arms as she ran, wanting to put as much distance between herself and whoever was behind her as she could before they discovered she’d played them.

  Five yards.

  Ten yards.

  Twenty yards.

  She was starting to think her imagination had been running wild when there came a shout from behind her, followed quickly by one—no, two—sets of footfalls pounding the pavement in her wake.

  Apparently whoever was back there wasn’t alone.

  Things were about to get interesting.

  Annja thought about running to the nearest door and pounding on it while yelling for help, but she decided against it. Who knew how long it would take for someone to answer. Given the reception she’d received earlier, she wasn’t confident anyone would answer her pleas.

  She had no idea what those chasing her wanted, but if they were willing to go through this much trouble to catch up to her, then it probably wasn’t good.

  Better to try to increase the distance between them while looking for other options.

  So move it, girl! she told herself.

  She tucked her head down and ran.

  The street she was on was entirely residential, but she remembered some shops and a restaurant or bar about four blocks away. If she could reach that area ahead of her pursuers, she could slip inside one of the stores and ask for help. The men following her might be happy to chase her down under the cover of darkness, but she doubted they’d do the same once she was in the light.

  She passed beneath one of the streetlamps and kept going, counting silently. When she reached ten she chanced a look back and was just in time to see two large figures sprinting through the glow of the lamp.

  The two men were gaining on her.

  Annja was a good runner, and her strength and speed had seemed to be slightly enhanced when she’d taken possession of Joan’s sword, but even that extra edge wasn’t going to be enough, she realized. She’d been walking the streets for hours and was already tired before this chase began. She wouldn’t be able to maintain her short head start for very long, not if those behind her were fresh and in reasonably good shape. If she was going to escape, she needed to outwit them rather than outrun them.

  With this in mind, Annja cut right, down the next street she came to, raced ahead and then turned left at the next corner. She was still headed in the same direction, but she hoped that by breaking their line of sight she might encourage them to give up the chase. If they were just random thugs, they might decide the rewards weren’t worth the effort now that she was on to them.

  On the other hand, if they persisted, she’d know she probably wasn’t just some random target.

  A dog barked suddenly and lunged at her from behind a fence nearby, but she ignored it and raced on. Moments later she heard the dog do the same thing at the men tracking her.

  She could hear her boots striking the pavement as she ran, no doubt alerting her pursuers to where she was, and wished she could stop and kick them off. But if she did, they’d catch her.

  Another street, another change of direction, her heart pounding in her chest and her breath coming out in short gasps. The initial adrenaline rush was starting to wear off and she was feeling the effects of spending all day on her feet. Thankfully she was closing in on her destination, and she began to think she might make it. She could only hear one pair of footsteps behind her now and hoped the second man had dropped out of the race. One person would be much easier to deal with.

  A group of parked cars loomed to one side and she desperately wanted to stop and see if any of them might be unlocked but she didn’t dare. Stick with the plan, she told herself. Almost there.

  As she passed the final two cars she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Annja looked that way just in time to see a dark figure rise up from between the vehicles and lunge toward her.

  Annja reacted instantly, her actions honed by years of practice with and without the sword. She swung her arm out beside her in a classic martial arts blocking maneuver, fist clenched and forearm tight, knocking her assailant’s arms away from her before he could grab hold. The move exposed the side of her attacker’s head as his body was pushed in a semicircle by the force of her blow.

  The voice of her first martial arts instructor suddenly echoed in Annja’s head. The best defense is a good offense. Strike and then strike again.

  Annja took that advice.

  She could smell oil and grease—mechanic, maybe?—as she continued her spin, lashing out with the elbow of her other arm, slamming it into the side of her assailant’s head with all the force she could muster.

  The man grunted in pain and doubled over, only to have his face collide with Annja’s right knee as she brought it up toward him.

  There was a dull crack as his nose, or perhaps his cheek, broke with the impact.

  That was enough; the would-be attacker dropped between the cars like a wet sack of laundry.

  Annja’s breath was heavy in her ears as adrenaline flooded her system, but that didn’t prevent her from hearing the sound of running feet coming from the darkness behind her.

  Now the odds were in her favor, however, and she was tired of running. It was time to take a stand.

  She reached into the otherwhere and drew forth her sword, the blade gleaming in the darkness as the moonlight reflected off its surface. She swung the sword in front of her, making it clear that she knew how to use it.

  “Come on!” she shouted into the darkness. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

  The running footsteps slowed and then stopped.

  Annja turned directly toward the sound and thought she could see a figure standing in the shadows about ten yards away. She took a few steps in that direction, sword held high, and that was enough to convince whoever was out there that discretion was the better part of valor.

  Her assailant turned tail and ran off without a word.

  Annja watched him go until he was out of sight.

  Then, and only then, did she release her sword back into the otherwhere.

  Her first assailant was still unconscious, which was good since Annja wasn’t all that delicate when she dragged him a few yards up the street and into the circle of light from the nearest streetlamp.

  He wasn’t much to look at—just a bullnecked thug dressed in oil-stained coveralls and a pair of work boots. Annja quickly searched him, hoping to find some ID, but came up empty-handed. That alone didn’t mean anything—people left their wallets behind all the time—but given that the duo seemed to have been following her, Annja took it as a sign the entire encounter had been planned ahead, right down to the lack
of identification should one of them be waylaid in the process.

  That suggested something larger at play than a simple robbery or sexual assault.

  So now what? She didn’t relish the thought of sitting in the police station all night while filing assault charges, especially when it was going to come down to a “he said, she said” situation. The cops would see that her assailant had come down on the wrong side of the situation, and they might even try to press charges against her if the “victim” came to and started spinning a story about getting attacked by a crazy woman who knew karate.

  That, she didn’t need.

  In the end she decided an anonymous phone call to the police about two drunk men fighting in the street would be best. When they arrived, they’d find her assailant unconscious, assume he’d gotten the short end of the stick and throw him in the drunk tank overnight for good measure.

  Annja propped the unconscious man against the lamppost, made the call to the authorities and then continued down the street.

  Five minutes later she reached the restaurant/bar—perhaps tavern would be a better word—she’d been running toward and decided that after the day she’d had, she deserved a drink.

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  11

  The tavern consisted of one long rectangular room with a bar on the left and a dozen or so round-topped tables and chairs on the right. Two customers were sitting at the near end of the bar and a handful of others at the tables. There didn’t appear to be a waitress; if you wanted something you walked over to the bar and asked the barkeep.

  That was fine with Annja; she didn’t want to deal with any more people than necessary.

  She crossed the room and took a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the other customers and with a good view of the entrance. As she sat down a door to her right opened and a woman came out carrying two plates of food. She set them down at the end of the bar and called out to the barkeep before disappearing into the other room once more. As she did so, Annja got a good look into the kitchen just beyond and noted the open door at the far end of the room leading outside.

  At least there’s another way out, she thought.

  A metal clip at the edge of the bar held a couple of laminated menus, and she grabbed one when she saw the barkeep eyeing her. She turned slightly so she could pretend to study the menu while keeping her eye on the entrance. She wanted a good look at whoever came in next, just in case assailant number two had decided to double back and follow her again.

  When five minutes had passed and no one entered, Annja figured she was safe and focused on the menu. The smell of food wafting out of the kitchen reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since morning; she was famished.

  The barkeep wandered over when she put the menu down, drying his hands on his apron as he came. He said something to her in Slovak, but then switched to English when Annja shook her head to indicate that she didn’t understand.

  “Dinner or just drinks?”

  “Both. I’ll have the steak and whatever dark beer you recommend, please.”

  The barkeep nodded. “Be a few minutes for the steak, but I can get you the beer right away.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The barkeep shouted something into the kitchen, got her the beer and then left her alone until the food was ready. Annja kept her eye on the door while she waited but no one came in after her and gradually she relaxed.

  Ten minutes later the kitchen doors banged open and a hard-looking woman with a hairnet and an apron deposited her plate in front of her without a word. When the hot smell of freshly cooked meat hit the air Annja forgot all about her mysterious follower and dug in with gusto.

  She was halfway through her dinner when the bell above the door announced a new customer. Annja glanced in that direction, her concerns about being followed still fresh in her mind. She relaxed when she saw that the man entering the room was in his midsixties and walked with a limp. The man who’d been following her had moved much too fast to have been hampered by an injury. So she ignored him and went back to her meal.

  Until he pulled out a chair and sat down next to her at the bar.

  Annja glanced over and found herself staring into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She might have been taken in by those eyes if they weren’t filled with a flatness that instantly put her back on guard and had her hand twitching for want of her sword.

  He held her gaze for a moment and then smoothed a hand over his craggy face and white beard before he looked away, glancing about the room as if checking to be sure no one was watching them. Apparently satisfied that they weren’t being observed, he picked up the menu and held it in front of him, pretending to study it.

  “People around here don’t like it when strangers start asking questions,” he said in English.

  Annja felt a chill run up her spine. This man hadn’t been following her, but he could’ve been working with those individuals. Why else come in here after her?

  Annja turned her body slightly in his direction, leaning away from the bar and giving herself more room to maneuver. “Is that a threat?”

  “Don’t look at me!” he said sharply, but beneath his breath. “Keep eating.”

  Annja did as she was told, her thoughts whirling. It seemed she might have misjudged the situation.

  “It’s not a threat. At least, not from me.”

  Keeping her voice low and her attention on her plate, she said, “That’s a bit contradictory, wouldn’t you say?”

  He grunted but didn’t say anything more. The barkeep stepped over and asked what he wanted. The man ordered a lager and was quiet until his drink was set in front of him. Once the barkeep had gone back to his place at the other end of the bar, the newcomer said, “You’ve been asking questions about the killing the other night, flashing that girl’s picture about. That can be dangerous, Ms. Creed.”

  The fact that he knew who she was didn’t surprise her. He had sought her out after all. But Annja had no intention of acknowledging his comments, at least not until she knew who she was talking to and maybe not even then. Instead, she asked him a question.

  “Who are you?”

  He considered his response for a moment and then said, “A friend.”

  Annja shook her head as she stabbed a piece of meat with her fork. “Not good enough,” she said, taking a bite.

  “It’s going to have to be.”

  Annja wiped her face with her napkin and made to get up from her chair. “Nice chatting with you.”

  The stranger’s arm shot out and pinned her wrist to the bar, the bulk of his body hiding his action from the barkeep and the other customers.

  “You can’t leave,” he said.

  Annja’s free hand twitched and she almost called her sword, but she managed to resist the impulse at the last moment. Her anger, however, was less controllable. “Get your hand off me before I cut it off,” she said in an icy tone.

  “There is a man waiting across the street. I believe he’s looking for you. It isn’t safe for you to leave,” he said. “Not yet.”

  He took his hand off her arm as requested.

  For a moment she considered marching over to the front door and going outside, just to see what would happen, but then her good sense asserted itself. She’d already had one confrontation tonight—she didn’t need another. Annja settled back into her chair and waited for her companion to make the next move.

  She watched from the corner of her eye as he casually looked around the room, checking to see if anyone had noticed their interaction. Then he glanced at her and went back to staring at the bar top.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”

  Annja accepted his apology with the slightest of nods.

  “My name is Novack. I didn’t come here to harm you. On the contrary, I came to warn you that you’ve chosen a dangerous path. If you persist in asking questions, you’re only going to draw attention.”

  “Attention from whom?” Annja wa
nted to know.

  “The wrong kind of people.”

  Annja leaned closer, her emotions flaring. “A woman was murdered. If my questions bring those responsible out of hiding, then so be it.”

  “They’ve already killed once. Who’s to say they won’t make you their next target?”

  Annja smiled but there was no warmth in it. “They’re welcome to try,” she told him.

  Novack—first name or last name?—glanced around and then reached inside his coat. Annja stiffened, expecting him to pull a weapon, and was relieved when it turned out to be a small manila envelope.

  He slid it across the bar toward her hand.

  “I was hoping you might say that. Meet me in the Church of the Holy Savior in Čachtice tomorrow evening at seven if you want to know more.”

  Annja frowned. “I’m not going to meet you anywhere,” she said, even as she picked up the envelope and opened it. “Why would I meet with someone who won’t even tell me their full name?”

  She glanced inside the envelope and her breath caught in her throat. Staring up at her was a color photograph of a naked woman lying dead on the ground somewhere. The front of the photo was stamped with the word Doklad in bright red.

  That was a Slovak word she knew.

  Evidence.

  “What on earth...?” she began, looking up, only to find Novack halfway across the tavern headed for the exit.

  She opened her mouth to shout after him, but then remembered how careful he’d been to avoid being seen speaking with her, and cursed under her breath instead. She jumped off her bar stool, threw some money on the bar to cover her bill—and then some, she thought—before hurrying to catch up.

  By the time she reached the street, however, she was too late.

  Novack was nowhere to be seen.

  12

  With Novack’s words of warning echoing in her head, Annja kept a sharp eye out as she made her way the last few blocks to her car. She didn’t see anyone following her, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there somewhere, watching her. When she reached her car she got in, locked the doors and drove straight to her hotel.