God Of Thunder. Alex Archer

Stuff. A woman answered, sounding a little tense.

      “Could I speak to Nikolai?” Annja asked.

      “Could I tell him who’s calling?”

      The strange question pinged Annja’s radar immediately. “This is Nicole.”

      “Oh. Well, Nikolai isn’t in right now.”

      “I see.” Annja watched the television as a news reporter delivered an update on the violence that had broken out in Brooklyn. Police were still in the area. “I was just calling to make certain Nikolai was all right. I saw there was some trouble in his store a little while ago.”

       Not even two hours ago. The short amount of time was unbelievable.

      “He’s fine,” the woman said. “He’s with the police now. They’re hoping he can identify the men who came in here. This is really bizarre, isn’t it?”

      Annja continued the conversation for a moment longer, then managed a graceful exit. She felt frustrated. But since she was hungry and there was no sign of anyone following her, there was only one place to go—Tito’s, her favorite restaurant.

      There was no sense in going to her loft. Agent Smith, or Dieter and Klaus or their buddies might be there by now. She was certain someone would be.

      She used the pay phone again, this time calling Wally, her building super. Wally was sixty-seven years old, a retired semipro baseball player who had bought the building with his wife while he’d still been playing ball. Tough and intelligent, Wally was a crusty guy who tended to follow his own line of thinking.

      The answering machine picked up.

      Annja debated leaving a message, and decided to because she wanted to know about her loft. “Wally, it’s Annja. If it’s not too much trouble—”

      The phone clattered as it was lifted from the cradle.

      “Hiya, little lady,” Wally said boisterously.

      Annja smiled. It was nice hearing a genuinely friendly voice. “Hi, Wally.”

      Wally’s voice quieted, but since he normally talked like Foghorn Leghorn, he was still loud. “Got yourself in some trouble again, do you?”

      “I didn’t do this,” Annja said.

      “You shoulda stayed down in Florida with the rest of the snowbirds.”

      “I can always go back.”

      “Getting out of the city could be tricky,” Wally said. “First of all, you got these unidentified types that have been watching your loft for the last three days.”

      “Unidentified?”

      “I don’t know them.”

      “Okay.” Annja smiled a little at the man’s protective nature.

      “And now you got cops,” Wally said.

      “The police are there?”

      “Oh, yeah. I spotted a couple of plainclothes guys in the neighborhood. After I rousted one and he identified himself, he asked me to let him into your place. I didn’t, of course. He had no legal right there, and I told him that. You ask me, he needs to watch a few more Law & Order episodes so he knows more about what he can and can’t do.”

      “What are the police doing there?”

      “Said they want to make sure you’re all right.”

      “Did you tell them about the unidentified types?”

      “I did, but after the police arrived, those guys were gone.”

      “How did the police find out I might be in trouble?”

      “Beats me. The only person giving out less information than the cops was me.”

      Annja smiled at that.

      “You called for a reason, little lady?”

      “I’m worried about my home.” The loft was the first true home Annja had ever had.

      Growing up in the orphanage always meant sharing space, bathrooms, everything. College and her early years in the field had been more of the same. She’d dreamed of having a place of her own ever since she was little. A place with plenty of space.

      When she’d locked the deal with Chasing History’s Monsters, she’d signed a lease agreement with the option to buy with Wally. She hadn’t regretted a minute of it.

      “Your home’s gonna be fine, little lady,” Wally replied. “Don’t you fret none about that. I’ll see to it.”

      “Thanks,” Annja said. She hung up the phone, then walked over to the counter to get a cup of coffee to go.

      Her cell phone rang.

      Excited, Annja took the phone from her pocket and checked the Caller ID, hoping it was Nikolai or Bart or Mario. The number was blocked.

      Annja answered anyway.

      “Hello,” an excited male voice said. “Is this Annja Creed?”

      “Yes.” Annja paid for the coffee and left the bistro, heading for Tito’s.

      “Cool! I never thought I’d ever get to speak to you! I’ve been calling and calling!”

      “Is there something I can do for you?” Annja asked.

      “Oh, no,” the man said. “But there is something I can do for you.”

      When the man proceeded to tell her what it was, Annja closed the phone and put it away. Creep! She suddenly felt unclean. More than anything, she wanted a bath in her own apartment.

      The phone rang again. It was another blocked number.

      Annja cringed. The possibility existed that the call was from someone she was waiting for. She opened the phone.

      “We got cut off,” the man said. “I didn’t get to finish telling you—”

      Annja closed the phone and kept walking.

      T HE LUNCH RUSH WAS over at Tito’s, but there were several regulars who deliberately waited until those people had left so they could have a more leisurely lunch. The fare was Cuban, served fresh and hot, with all the love Maria Ruiz could put on the platter.

      She stood at the counter that served as her throne, ruling over her kingdom with a benevolent eye. Everyone who came through the door was taken care of, and those who tried to take advantage of the staff or act in a rude manner were tossed.

      Maria was plump and gray haired, dressed in black slacks and a lime-green top under an apron. In her sixties, Maria had transplanted from Cuba as a young woman, then raised a family in Brooklyn. Her oldest son ran the kitchen.

      The booths and tables were a festive green and yellow. Strings of glowing red jalapeño-shaped lights framed the windows. Servers wore black slacks, white shirts and smiles. Most of them greeted Annja by name.

      As soon as the scent of spices, fajita meat and beer filled her nose, the ball of tension in Annja’s stomach relaxed somewhat. Inside the walls of Tito’s, she was home.

      Maria spotted her. “Señorita Annja!” She held her arms open wide and came toward her.

      Annja met the woman halfway, accepting the offered hug and giving one in return. There was nothing like one of Maria’s hugs. It was almost as substantial as one of the meals that Tito’s served.

      “Hello, Maria,” Annja said, grinning. After all the confusion and worry of the morning, it was nice to be welcomed.

      Stepping back quickly and looking concerned, Maria placed her hands on Annja’s jawline. “You’re freezing.”

      “It’s cold outside,” Annja agreed.

      “We’ve got to get you warm again.