Rogue Angel: God Of Thunder

by Alex Archer

  "The annual schmooze-fest is coming up," Annja said. Every year Annja and the network's other show hosts were expected to attend a dog and pony show for the advertisers. Annja detested every second of every event.

  "I know."

  "I've been invited to a dig that same weekend. There could be a conflict."

  "Annja," Doug whined, "don't do this."

  "The dig is in El Salvador," Annja went on. "It's warm this time of year."

  "The corporate event is only one day. The dig can live without you for one day."

  "I'd lose two other days flying back and forth. All of a sudden we're up to three days."

  Doug sighed. "Do you realize you're probably the only person in the world who doesn't give in to me?"

  Annja didn't say anything.

  "Why," he protested, "did I have to end up working with you?"

  "Everybody has to have an Achilles heel."

  "Don't get all sports medicine on me."

  Annja started to explain.

  Doug held up a hand. "Hold on, professor. I was just kidding. I know what an Achilles heel is. I saw Brad Pitt in Troy."

  "I want to go to Venice," Annja said.

  A serious expression filled Doug's face. "I'm sorry. There's no budget for this."

  "What happened to the budget? I certainly didn't spend it down in Florida. I stayed with the professor at the dig. There wasn't even a hotel bill."

  "I know, and I appreciate that." Doug shook his head. "I hate having to explain Kristie's expenses."

  "Shouldn't be too hard," Annja said. "All you'd have to do is unfurl one of those posters she's done and flash her – "

  The ladies at the Agatha Christie table were staring at her with full disdain.

  Annja sighed.

  Doug took a notepad out of his jacket pocket and wrote quickly. "I gotta try that poster thing. Could be offensive with the women in the room, but that pretty much sums up what we're selling with her, and why the advertisers pay so much for time during her segments."

  That took Annja aback. "There's a difference in the advertising charges?"

  Frowning, Doug said, "You weren't supposed to know that."

  "I do now."

  Doug drummed his fingers on the table. The server thought he wanted attention and came over immediately. He waved her off.

  "Okay," he said, "tell me what you have in Venice and let's see if I can sell it. Vampires?"

  "No," Annja said.

  "Too bad. We can always push vampire material. Serial killer?"

  "No."

  "Mass murderer?"

  "No."

  "Mythological monster?"

  "No."

  Sighing, Doug asked, "What do you have?"

  "Ghosts."

  Doug shook his head and looked at her in disbelief. "I can't have heard you right. "Did you just say ghosts?"

  "Ghosts can be monstrous," Annja said defensively. "Poltergeists are destructive."

  "You don't believe in ghosts."

  "I don't have to believe in them. Just hunt them. People love a good ghost hunt."

  "What if you find a ghost?"

  "I won't find a ghost. Ghosts don't exist."

  Doug frowned.

  "Okay, if I find a ghost I'll interview it or trap it. How does that sound?"

  "Annja," Doug said patiently, "everybody does ghosts. We try to offer something a little different. You know, more sophisticated."

  "More sophisticated?" Annja shot Doug a look of pure disgust. "My Calusa Indian piece now has a phantom shark in it."

  "It's a very sophisticated phantom shark."

  "Do you want to tell me how a phantom shark is different than a ghost?"

  "Sure. It's a phantom, not a ghost. Phantom sounds much creepier than ghost. And it's a shark. People have a serious fear of sharks. That's why they do shark week on the Discovery Channel. Either a phantom or a shark would be enough to guarantee an audience. We've got both."

  "I want to do this story, Doug. It would be easier to do it with the show's backing." Annja knew she could probably put the finances together to make the trip, but there was something magic about telling people that their story was going to be on television that opened a lot of doors. She could lie about it, of course, but once she started doing that and letting people down, word would get around.

  "I wish I could help you." Doug looked uncomfortable.

  Annja let Doug stew a little. At least she tried to. Doug, so far, appeared to be impervious to guilt. But there had to be a breaking point.

  She gazed around the bar, hoping for inspiration. She saw the geeky guy was watching again. Probably listening in on our conversation, she thought.

  Four men filed through the bar's front door. They wore long coats and Annja didn't recognize them. By the time that she did, it was too late.

  Dieter Humbrecht dropped into the booth beside her and jammed a pistol into her ribs. "Hello again, Miss Creed."

  Another man sat next to Doug.

  "Wait a minute," Doug protested. "Nobody asked you to – " His face went white. His hands came up as if he were a victim in a bank holdup.

  "Put your hands down," Dieter ordered. "You look like a moose."

  Doug put his hands down. He looked worriedly at Annja and whispered, "He's got a gun in my ribs."

  The man shoved hard, causing Doug to wince and jerk in pain. "Okay, okay," Doug said. "No talking. I get that."

  With a quick movement, the man beside Doug lifted a quick elbow into Doug's nose and bashed his head back against the high booth seat. He yelped in surprise and pain.

  "Okay," Dieter said. "Now we're going to get out of here. Miss Creed, you and I will go together. My friend will bring your friend. If you decide to be difficult, I'm going to have my friend shoot your friend in the head. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," Annja said.

  "Good." Dieter showed her a cold smile. "Now, let's go, shall we?"

  Chapter 21

  The loud ring was shrill to Roux's ears. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. For the past six days, he'd competed in a Texas hold 'em tournament in Monaco. Things hadn't gone entirely as planned and he'd been beaten in the end by a young Englishwoman named Mai Lin Po.

  The phone rang again.

  "Aren't you going to get that?" a young woman asked.

  "No," Roux answered.

  "Someone calling at this time of night usually means trouble of some kind."

  "Yes. And that's further inducement not to answer the thing."

  "It could be a friend who needs help."

  Roux didn't point out that he didn't keep friends. He had no use for them. He didn't know the woman well enough to tell her that, nor did he want to get to know her that well. They'd had a good time playing cards, and spending time together afterward had been an unexpected windfall.

  The phone stopped ringing. Roux breathed a sigh of relief and his mind drifted back toward sleep. He still felt tipsy from the wine they'd had earlier.

  Then he heard the woman speaking again.

  "Hello?" She paused. "No, he's here." She laughed. "Me? I'm the woman who won two million dollars from him in a poker tournament." She paused again. "No, he didn't cry and this isn't a mercy anything. He's got natural charm." She listened. "Yes, I noticed that he was an older guy. I happen to like older guys." She laughed. "No, I'm not disappointed." A moment later, she laughed again. "Yes, I've had other lovers and I'm not easily impressed." She was silent for a moment. "On a scale of one to ten?"

  Roux peeled the pillow from his face and gazed irritably at the woman as she chatted amiably on his satellite phone. He knew whom she was speaking to. "Enough already," he said.

  Mai Lin Po was exquisite, barely over five feet tall, slender and in her early twenties. Her black hair was cut to her jawline and her almond eyes gleamed with amusement. She wore a tiny red robe with jeweled dragons stitched on it.

  She came from a privileged background, and her father had bankrolled her first few poker tour
naments until she'd gained enough experience to start winning some big purses. Now she lived on her own and had an agent to handle her appearances in the media.

  She laughed again and told the caller to hold on a moment. Covering the mouthpiece, she said, "He says he knows you. His name is Garin."

  "I'll talk to him." Roux dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms while he cradled the phone on his shoulder. "Hello."

  "She says she took all your money at poker," Garin taunted.

  Quashing the irritation that instantly rose in him, Roux said, "She did. She's quite good. Exceptional actually."

  "Does it make you feel better to tell someone you were beaten by an exceptionally good player? I mean, you're still a loser," Garin said.

  Looking back at the bed, Roux discovered the young woman was lying on her stomach and watching him, grinning widely.

  "Well," Roux said, "I don't feel like a loser at the moment." He crossed to her and kissed her.

  Turning away, he walked to the hotel balcony and stared out over the glittering night scape of Monaco. Yachts trolled the harbor and a few cars trailed along the mountain highways.

  He studied his reflection, knowing the woman was staring at him. He didn't fool himself into thinking this was anything other than mutual curiosity. They would probably play each other again at some time, and it would help to know more about the psychology of the opponent.

  "Why did you call?" Roux asked in Latin, using that language so the woman wouldn't understand his conversation.

  "Can't I just call and say hello without having an ulterior motive?"

  "You never have. Where are you?"

  "Austria."

  Roux detected a note of sadness in Garin's voice. That was definitely unusual. In the hundreds of years that he had known Garin, the boy – and especially the man – had been too selfish and sullen to care about anyone but himself.

  You can't say that, Roux told himself. He carried you out of an underground city when he didn't have to. Garin had also extracted a promise from Roux to help him at some point in the future. So far he hadn't asked for that help.

  Roux wondered if tonight would be the night and what it would mean.

  "What are you doing in Austria?" Roux couldn't help reacting to the melancholy and uncertainty in Garin's voice. Despite over five hundred years of trying to kill each other, there had been a time when Roux had raised Garin and taught him everything he knew.

  Roux had never been a father before that time. He'd always managed to avoid such circumstances by design or by luck.

  "I'm helping a friend," Garin said.

  In all the years that Roux had known him, Roux had never heard Garin claim anyone as his friend. The words were filled with threat.

  "Who's your friend?" Roux asked.

  "You don't know her."

  Her? Ah, the light begins to dawn. Roux smiled grimly. He'd never expected to see Garin capable of loving someone. Not with the horror that had been his childhood.

  "If I don't know her," Roux said, "there's a good probability that I won't get to know her. So why call me?"

  "My friend is interested in finding Mjolnir."

  Roux was surprised. "Thor's hammer is a myth," he said.

  "Is it? It seems that I've read something about it in those ancient books of yours."

  The television flared to life behind Roux. The reflection looked gray in the window. Mai Lin had muted the voice.

  "I doubt very much that whatever you're after is actually Thor's hammer."

  "Did Mjolnir exist?"

  "Something like it may have. The sword isn't the only powerful weapon that exists. That weapon has had different names."

  "So you're not interested in this one?" Garin asked.

  "If it were truly Thor's hammer, I would be."

  Garin's voice turned harsh. "That would be too bad."

  "Does your friend want to acquire Thor's hammer?" Roux asked.

  "She only believes in the treasure that's supposed to accompany it."

  "I would caution you that greedy friends aren't the best friends."

  "The days when you could choose my friends are over."

  Roux was silent for a moment. "Why did you call me? I hadn't known about your friend's desire before this. Now I have to admit to some curiosity."

  "Stay out of this," Garin growled. "I called you because Annja is involved. I want you to keep her out of my way."

  "I can't control her any more than I can control you," Roux said.

  "Then you'd better find a way to convince her. If you don't, there's every likelihood she's going to get hurt."

  The phone clicked dead in Roux's ear.

  He returned to the bed and put the satellite phone back on the nightstand.

  "Problem?" Mai Lin asked.

  "Family squabble."

  "Was that your son on the phone?"

  Roux lay back on the bed. "Yes." It was as good an answer as any.

  "He sounds interesting. Very confident."

  "Arrogant."

  "Then I'd say he takes after his father." Mai Lin looked at him. "Are you going to see him?"

  "I don't know. We haven't been close in a long time."

  Mai Lin looked sympathetic. "That's sad."

  "Some days," Roux said. "Some days it is."

  ****

  Garin closed his phone and put it on the bar in front of him. Listening to the blues music around him, he regretted his choice of drinking establishments. But if he'd gone to a heavy metal bar he wouldn't have been able to have the conversation with Roux. The calm exterior contained a dark wood interior that had fit his mood.

  You could have called from your car, he thought, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall that ran the length of the bar.

  Behind him, several couples swayed to the whiskey-throated crooning of the lead singer. Other couples sat at the small tables and talked over candlelight.

  The city had changed dramatically since Garin had sat at a similar table and enjoyed Kikka Schluter's company. But in his mind it only seemed like yesterday.

  "Would you like another?"

  Garin looked up at the young bartender. He had a shaved head, a goatee, tattoos up to his chin and several piercings.

  "Another drink?" The bartender pointed at Garin's empty glass.

  Garin nodded and pushed the glass forward.

  Amber liquid sloshed into the glass.

  "Bad call?" the bartender asked.

  Garin knew the man didn't really care, that he was only making conversation. A small time investment to earn a larger tip.

  "Difficult," Garin admitted.

  "Girlfriend?"

  Garin thought about that. He could have just said yes and been done with the conversation. But he said, "My father."

  "Ah, bummer." The bartender leaned on the bar and shook his head. "The relationship with your dad can wear you out. Both of you have these expectations, and both of you – even though you didn't plan on it – end up living in different worlds."

  Although he and Roux were not related by blood, Garin found that the assessment fit their relationship more closely than he would have expected.

  "But I'll tell you something else, too," the bartender said. "I lost my dad last year. His heart gave out. We fought for years over what we both thought I should do with my life. Never agreed. But the thing is, now that he's gone, I really miss him. Once they're gone, they're gone. You can't bring them back. Might be something you want to consider every now and again." He threw his bar towel over his shoulder and went down the bar to tend to a new customer.

  Left alone with his thoughts, Garin wondered what would happen if Roux were gone. He'd tried to kill the old man on more than one occasion. And Roux had returned the favor.

  But what would happen if Roux were really gone?

  Don't think, he told himself. You're not a philosopher like that old man. Life is to be lived. Get on with living it.

  But he knew that seeing Kik
ka in the condition she was in – old and frail – had him thinking such things. He was going to be better off getting this thing done and getting away from her. Leaving before he accomplished that was out of the question, though. He felt he owed her that.

  He asked for his check, then added a generous tip and went back out into the night. He needed to get moving, to shake loose all the thinking and just react.

  He didn't believe Roux would be able to dissuade Annja Creed from following whatever trail she was on if she was already involved. During his time with her, he'd come to grudgingly admire her.

  Like him, she didn't suit Roux's idea of what she should be, but he knew she came closer to the mark. It was just one more thing to dislike about her.

  Chapter 22

  "Couldn't we talk now?" Doug asked. "I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? If you play this right, you can get more money than just robbing us. I don't know about Annja, but all you're going to get out of me is plastic. I never carry cash."

  Annja felt sorry for Doug. He was entirely out of his element. She didn't know if he'd even been mugged before, much less taken by force at gunpoint, and he definitely wasn't the confrontational type.

  "They're not going to rob us." Annja stood out in front of the building. The winter wind swept through the heart of Manhattan and pulled at her calf-length coat. Coming off Long Island Sound by way of the Atlantic Ocean, the wind was bitter and piercing.

  "Kidnapping's not very smart," Doug said. "You can get the death penalty or life imprisonment for that."

  "Not if you don't leave any witnesses," one of Dieter's men said. "And especially if you don't leave a body in enough pieces to be identified."

  "Okay, that is not a happy thought." Doug wasn't smiling anymore. He appeared positively glum. He looked around. "Do we have to stand out in the cold?"

  The man standing behind Doug slapped him on the back of the head hard enough to cause him to stumble.

  Doug glared at the man. Then he looked at Annja. "Are you sure this isn't some kind of trick to convince me to get you the money to go to Venice? Because if it is, it's not working."

  Annja kept looking out into the street where cabs glided through the falling snow. She didn't know whether to hope for a police officer or not.