Rogue Angel: God Of Thunder

by Alex Archer

  "Can we get audio on this?" Garin asked.

  "No," Gunther said. "We didn't have the opportunity to do that. The staff there watches the day-to-day operations pretty closely."

  Garin accepted that, watching as the men unzipped the sack and emptied the contents onto the floor. A man, bound hand and foot and his mouth covered with duct tape, spilled out of the bag and onto the floor.

  The man was young and wide-eyed with terror.

  The computer monitor tightened up on the scared man's face, then froze. Another window opened up on the screen, and head shots started cycling through.

  "Perhaps we'll find out who he is in a moment," Gunther said.

  As Garin watched, two of the men in the room grabbed the helpless individual by the elbows. Schluter walked to the rear of the room and pressed a hidden switch to reveal a sliding panel in the wall.

  "Hidden passageway," Gunther said. "We found it when we scoped out the blueprints on the building. There's a room under the building."

  Schluter stepped into the open doorway. The men, half carrying the prisoner between them, followed.

  "Do we have video down there?" Garin asked.

  "Yes, but it was tricky. We couldn't go in through the office, so we ended up tapping the room through the ceiling conduits. As it turns out, the hidden room also has electricity. We tapped in through that."

  Schluter led the way down to the basement and turned on the lights. Revealed in the pale white glow, the room was twenty feet square and empty.

  When he'd found it, Schluter had instantly seen the dark promise of such a room. There was even a floor drain in the center of the space. He'd had the water supply line added.

  Gesturing toward the center of the room, Schluter slid out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  Two of the men put the bound man on his knees. His choking, wailing cries filled the room, cascading in the enclosed space.

  Through it all, the incessant gurgling of the sewer below the drain echoed around Schluter. The original design hadn't had a trap and had allowed the stench of the foul water to fill the room. The trap in place now blocked that, but decades of reeking odor had permeated the brick.

  "Shut up," Schluter commanded.

  The young man tried to control himself, but the effort was doomed to failure. He knew what he'd done, and he knew what was going to happen. This wasn't his first visit to the basement. Schluter ripped the tape from the man's mouth.

  "I gave you a chance," Schluter screamed, "and you betrayed me."

  "Please!" the man begged. "Please, Wolfram! I needed the money! I swear to you!"

  "I paid you," Schluter responded. "You had money. You just wanted more and helped yourself to it."

  Tears leaked down the man's quivering cheeks. He shook his head in denial so forcefully he almost fell over. One of the men put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  Schluter fed on the rage that filled him. He lived in his grandmother's world so much of the time that it was hard to remember that he had control over parts of his world. This was one of those times when he could do anything he wanted.

  "My brother is sick," the man cried. "He needed money for medical treatment."

  "Liar," Schluter said. "Even if you had a brother in dire straits, you wouldn't help him."

  "I can pay you back!" the man promised. "I swear, Wolfram! If you'll just give me a chance, I'll pay you back! I'll work for free!"

  "You're vulnerable and weak," Schluter said. "Eventually the police will get to you. Then, instead of losing just what you've taken from me, I'll lose everything."

  The man shook his head. "No! I swear!"

  Schluter crossed the room to a metal toolbox. He pulled out a small ax. The man's wails and sobs grew louder and more desperate. Schluter ran his thumb along the edge, reveling in the sense of power that he had.

  ****

  "Sir?" Gunther asked.

  Garin knew the man wanted to know if he wanted the surveillance team to interfere. They had a team on-site, inside the club.

  "No," Garin said, watching Schluter step forward with the ax.

  "He could be a policeman."

  "That's not our problem. We're not here to protect anyone. We're here to learn what we can."

  Gunther looked at another screen. "He's not a policeman."

  Following the man's line of sight, Garin saw that the window beside the action taking place on the central monitor had frozen on a face. It matched the one worn by the man on his knees in the basement room.

  "His name is Bruno Frantz," Gunther said. "Apparently he has a long history of being on the wrong side of the law. Drug possession. Intent to distribute. Armed robbery."

  "Not exactly a pillar of the community, then, is he?" Garin asked. It wouldn't have mattered if the man were a police officer, though. Garin had never seen himself as the savior of the world. Not even Roux had thought that way.

  Garin watched the screen as Schluter lifted the ax high and brought it down. The men around the unfortunate on his knees quickly stepped away. Blood sprayed everywhere.

  Even when he was covered in crimson gore, Schluter didn't stop raising the ax until his arms were too tired to lift the weapon anymore. The amount of energy Schluter had invested in the effort impressed Garin.

  "Well," Garin said, staring at Schluter as he stood there with his chest heaving, "he doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, does he?"

  "No, sir," Gunther replied in a calm voice.

  Garin knew the man didn't mind the violence. While with the surveillance corporation, he'd seen worse. Garin didn't suffer enemies gladly, either.

  "What do you want us to do?" Gunther asked.

  "Keep him under surveillance. Let me know what he does, where he goes. Knowing that he has a taste for killing and doesn't mind doing it up close is knowledge I needed." Schluter wasn't just a jackal, then. He was more dangerous than that.

  "I wouldn't just say Schluter has a taste for it, Mr. Braden. That's more of an appetite. He enjoys doing what he just did."

  Studying the blood-drenched figure, Garin had to agree. But a smile pulled at his lips. "This makes it a little easier, though. I'd thought he was just a cowardly cur living off his grandmother's goodwill. Now I know he's dangerous. In some ways he'll be more predictable."

  "I take it you're going to continue your business with Baroness Schluter."

  "I am." Garin had made his promise sixty years earlier when he'd loved Kikka Schluter. Part of him still did because he could glimpse flashes of the woman she'd been inside that wrinkled and sagging flesh. He didn't give promises often, but he always carried through on them.

  "Then you'll want to be careful, sir. Schluter is more of a threat than we'd thought."

  "Perhaps," Garin said. "But he's not as dangerous as I am."

  ****

  Freshly showered in the bathroom he kept off his office and clad in a new outfit, Schluter left the club and crossed the snow-covered lot to his car. He whistled happily to himself, thinking that maybe he should catch people stealing from him more often.

  By now Bruno Frantz's bones were sluicing through the Viennese sewers, broken into slivers. The rats would eat his flesh. Only the bones would remain, and probably not enough of them to make identification an issue. Schluter had been very thorough with the ax, reducing the man to a shattered mess.

  His men had dumped Frantz's remains into the sewer, then hosed the room clean. They'd sprayed bleach from a special container, sluicing the liquid over the room to break down the DNA.

  Sliding into his car, Schluter keyed the ignition and heard his cell phone trill. "Yes."

  "Baron Schluter," a man's calm voice replied, "the problem in New York has been dealt with."

  Schluter took in a deep breath and let it out. Dieter Humbrecht and his team were dead. "That's good. I'll see that there is a bonus."

  "There is, however, another problem."

  Checking the sparse traffic, Schluter pulled out onto the street. "What?"
/>   "The woman has left New York."

  "How?"

  "By private jet as I understand it."

  Schluter grimaced. "Whose?"

  "A man named Stanley Younts."

  The name didn't mean anything to Schluter and he said so.

  "Younts is a very popular American writer," his man said.

  "How did he get involved?"

  "While we were monitoring Annja Creed's producer's office, Younts showed up to have a conversation regarding a possible interview with the woman about her career."

  "Why?"

  "He's researching a book."

  Schluter thought about that. "So he flew her out of New York?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know where they're going?"

  "When Dieter intercepted her, she was trying to get her producer to agree to send her to Venice."

  Schluter drove through the narrow streets, but he felt the jaws of a trap closing on him. Venice was where Mario Fellini had started his investigation, and that investigation had sent Schluter's grandmother into desperation to find the treasure.

  "When will you be able to confirm the destination?" Schluter asked.

  "We're working on it now."

  "Let me know as soon as you find out."

  "Yes, sir."

  Schluter punched the phone off and cursed. He drove for a moment, his mind screaming for an answer. Then he called Tomas Piccoli, one of the mercenaries whom he'd sometimes employed to arrange "accidents."

  "Yes?" a thick voice answered.

  "Are you working?" Schluter asked.

  "I could be. I'm not involved in anything that I can't walk away from. A babysitting job that's more show than activity. Low threat level, but it keeps the money coming in."

  "I have a high-priority project I need to have handled right now."

  "Bonus?"

  Schluter hesitated. Paying a bonus on top of Piccoli's usual rates would be expensive. "You haven't even heard about the job yet," Schluter protested.

  Piccoli laughed. "If you're not having Humbrecht take care of this for you, that tells me you're either spread thin, this thing is happening faster than you can handle – which means more trouble for me – or Humbrecht's already tried and couldn't do it. If you told me what the case was, I'd better know how much to charge."

  Ignoring that, Schluter said, "I want the problem isolated. Failing that, I want the problem removed."

  "Only one problem?"

  "Yes."

  "You may be getting overcharged."

  "Bring the problem in isolated and you'll get more. The details will be e-mailed to your drop."

  "I'll be waiting."

  Schluter punched off the phone and tossed it into the passenger seat. Adrenaline from killing Frantz still coursed through his system, but it warred with the anxiety that filled him. Things were getting more and more complicated. But he had a trump card in place in Latvia that no one knew about.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. Perhaps once Piccoli had finished the task in Venice, he could turn his attentions to Garin Braden. Finally, a smile spread across Schluter's face. No one was immortal. If things went well, maybe he could even arrange for Braden to be brought to the club basement for a private session.

  Schluter looked forward to that.

  Chapter 29

  The jet's sharp descent woke Annja from a nightmare. She started to get to her feet into a martial-arts ready position, but the seat belt restrained her. Anxious, she gazed around the dark cabin.

  "Are you awake?" Stanley Younts sat across the aisle. He worked at a specially built table that provided a stable base for his notebook computer, complete with docking and recharging stations. For much of the flight, Annja had worked there.

  "We're landing," Annja said.

  "Yes."

  It was dark outside the jet.

  "You'll have to advance your watch to match local time," Stanley said.

  Annja did.

  "It'll be after nine when we touch down." She wasn't happy about that. It meant they'd have to wait until morning to go to St. Mark's Books, the shop that the Playfair cipher had pointed to.

  "I've booked us into a hotel," Stanley said. "Separate rooms."

  Annja smiled at him despite the fatigue that still weighed her down. The writer's innate naïveté was refreshing. During the long flight, he'd continued to be hospitable, occasionally asking questions about how and why she conducted her research. Both of them had been pleasantly surprised that their techniques didn't differ that much. They both performed the same basic groundwork, then shaped it into different end products.

  "Thank you." Annja was looking forward to a real bath, which she hadn't had since Florida. "I know you haven't gotten much out of the time we spent digging into Latvian history yesterday, so – if you can fit it into your schedule – I'd be happy to take you on a more relaxed dig."

  "Actually," Stanley said, "I've been quite happy with this one." He pushed his glasses up. "It's going to be different dealing with physical locales instead of written documents, though. I look forward to that."

  "Me, too," Annja admitted. "I love books and records. There isn't anything like them. But being on-site, in an area where you can still see the history – or imagine it taking shape – is awesome."

  "I know. When I'm able to take research – something historic or scientific or emotional – and present it in a context that involves the reader so much that he or she is compelled to write to me and tell me that I made them feel like they were there, that's when I know I've hit a home run."

  ****

  They left the jet and made their way into the Marco Polo International Airport terminal. The airport was located on the Italian mainland.

  Few people were in the terminal and all the shops were closed. Stanley hired skycaps to handle their baggage, but Annja carried her backpack.

  A group of teenagers stood at the doors leading to the pickup area. A girl looked at Annja intently, then approached her. She wore a cropped top and fringed jeans, her red hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

  "Ms. Creed," the girl called out. She waved and smiled.

  "I guess you have a fan of the television show," Stanley said.

  It wasn't too unusual. Chasing History's Monsters did have a solid following and was internationally syndicated. Annja had been approached by fans before.

  The girl did indeed have a recent copy of a magazine that included an interview with Annja. She honestly couldn't remember talking to whoever had written the article, but it had been an excuse to plaster her on the cover in a tight shirt and khakis.

  "Can you sign my magazine?" The girl spoke in Italian and held out a pen.

  The pen was ornate and heavy, and Annja noticed the discrepancy at once. Then she saw a familiar-looking crested R on the pen's barrel. It was simple and understated, almost tasteful.

  "Wow," Stanley said. "That's some pen."

  The girl rolled her eyes. "Maybe you could announce it to the rest of the airport, you doof." Her English was impeccable and carried just the right hint of full-on, acidic snark.

  Stanley was startled. "What?"

  Annja signed the magazine. "Who gave you the pen?"

  "The old man."

  He's here? Annja's pulse quickened.

  "He gave me a hundred bucks to tell you that some guys are waiting outside for you."

  "I speak great Italian," Stanley said in that language.

  The girl and Annja looked at him.

  "I just thought you should know," Stanley said weakly. "Probably not so important right now."

  "He said to go out front and he'd meet you there," the girl said.

  "Who's 'he'?" Stanley asked.

  "A friend," Annja said, taking the writer by the elbow and pulling him into motion.

  "Wait. Where are we going?"

  "Out."

  Stanley went along reluctantly. "My Italian really is good."

  "It is," Annja agreed as she pushed through the first set of
doors.

  "And I'm sure I distinctly heard that girl say there was someone out here waiting for us."

  "We'll be all right." Annja hoped that was true. Despite the situation, she knew they couldn't stay there. If they didn't come out, whoever was hunting them would doubtless come in. And if they wanted them badly enough, the security guards inside the terminal wouldn't be able to stop them. There might have been a chance for them to return to the jet, but the aircraft was an awfully large target.

  Outside, Annja stared across the parking area in front of the terminal. Covered awnings led to the waiting line of cabs, buses and private cars pulled in next to the curb.

  Two two-lane streets picked up and dropped off passengers inside three covered structures. Glass awnings connected them. The streets had an upper and lower level, allowing for a large amount of traffic to flow into and out of the terminal. Islands of trees, grass and landscaping separated the streets on the lowest level.

  As soon as Annja stepped outside, she saw a group of men start for them. She counted seven, then gave up. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that they'd been followed from inside, as well.

  "You know, I've been under fire before," Stanley said.

  "Me, too," Annja told him.

  "But I still get nervous."

  "Me, too." Annja reached and felt for the sword. It came comfortably to hand but she didn't pull it from hiding yet. She remembered how Mario had looked in the hotel bed, how he hadn't had a chance against the men who had killed him.

  Maybe these weren't the people who had killed him, but they were men just like Humbrecht and the others. She squeezed all doubt and mercy from her heart. Tonight she wasn't just fighting for her life – she was going to send a message to the man who had ordered Mario Fellini's death.

  ****

  On his computer at home, Wolfram Schluter watched the action at the airport with keen-eyed interest. The thirty-two-inch plasma HD screen rotated through eight different cameras worn by the men Piccoli had contracted to do the job. None of those men knew about Schluter. Piccoli was the only name they knew.

  "Are you watching?" Piccoli asked.

  "Yes." Schluter sat on the edge of the ergonomic chair, his elbows braced on his knees, his forefingers under his chin. His grandmother was still entertaining Garin Braden in the study, staying up far past her normal bedtime.