God Of Thunder

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?”