Day Of Atonement. Alex Archer

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       12

      Morning.

      Annja had had a restless sleep and the bottle of Pouilly-Fumé hadn’t helped. She had a dry-wine hangover and needed to get some air.

      It felt like weeks since she’d been out for a proper run, really pushing herself. She had her gear with her, including a good pair of running shoes, so she got dressed, pulled her hair into a ponytail, stretched the kinks out of her muscles in a warm-up, then hit the streets. She pounded the pavement for a predawn hour, nothing but the wind in her face and the bite of the icy air in her lungs to keep her company until the first birds started to sing.

      And then she kept on running, glad she’d resisted the temptation that Philippe presented, even when the wine had been flowing. It was always a mistake to mix work and sex. Always.

      The ice glistened on the road ahead of her as the sun rose.

      There was nothing like being out before the rest of the world woke up; it was like sharing a secret with the universe.

      It was the best hour of the day, because it was just her and nature.

      She kept on running, pushing herself to go faster as she reached the hills, and whenever she was presented with a choice of the hard way or an easy way, Annja chose the hard way every time. It felt like a metaphor for life as well as being a grueling workout.

      Ninety minutes later she was in the shower, steam venting up out of the drain where the hot water hit the cold tiles, then she toweled herself dry, dressed and went down for breakfast.

      The dining room wasn’t busy. Half a dozen people were keeping very much to themselves. She stocked up on a continental breakfast—fruit, muesli, yoghurt and a wonderfully fresh brioche—before she headed out to the car.

      The run had cleared her head and taken the edge off her stress, as it always did. Even so, she checked over her shoulder as she slid the key into the lock, looking for the Mercedes.

      She was past the point of being afraid. Very little in life scared her these days—in part because Joan of Arc’s mythical blade was only an arm’s length away in the otherwhere, just waiting for her to reach for it, but more because of the way her own body had changed during the few years since she’d first reached out to take it. She wasn’t the New Yorker she had been, and even back then she’d been a together, strong, independent woman. Now, though, the strength of the ages ran through her veins. She could run farther, faster, fight harder, and had lightning-fast reactions. Now she was a daunting foe for anyone. She’d handled the worst the world could throw at her, and came away from it feeling indestructible. Maybe this is how it feels to be bitten by a radioactive spider, she thought, grinning, as she slid into the driver’s seat.

      If the guys from the Mercedes were interested in her, then let them come. It was as simple as that. They’d regret it. People who tried to mess with her always did.

      That was why she was in the car in the first place, taking control of the situation.

      She was using herself as bait to lure them out—or discount them as an actual threat and put the dumb notion out of her mind once and for all.

      Annja took the road out of town, heading into the countryside. It was still early, meaning it was what passed for early-morning rush hour in these parts.

      She checked the mirror.

      There was nothing back there.

      It wasn’t the possibility that they were watching her, but the fact that she had no idea of who they were that bugged her. She didn’t like not knowing.

      Annja was barely half a mile outside the town when she caught the glint of sunlight on silver behind her.

      She smiled to herself, and muttered, “Come out, come out, whoever you are.”

      Even without being able to see the shape clearly, she knew it was the silver Mercedes, and with no other cars on the narrow road it caught up with her quickly. She slowed, imperceptibly at first, gradually allowing the Mercedes to close the gap and invite it to pass her. But that wasn’t the intention of the Mercedes’s driver, and she knew that. Annja would have felt more in control if she were behind the other car, if she was the hunter rather than the hunted in this game of cat-and-mouse. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.