God Of Thunder. Alex Archer
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.
T HE 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 something. 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