Free Paradox by Alex Archer

already
dropping onto her palms on the sidewalk, preparatory to flattening herself like
a lizard on a hot rock. As a louder, heavier boom rolled over her on a breath
of hot wind she realized she'd just seen a two-stage explosion going off. The
first, sharper blast had been to rupture the car's fuel tank and turn the
gasoline inside into an aerosol—which when ignited itself served as a high
explosive.

The movies loved using two-stage blasts because they were showy, with lots of
bright yellow fire. But out in the big bad world Annja knew they were
relatively rare because they took extra effort and knowledge to plant. That
meant they were reserved for those people who had really annoyed somebody who
was really, really skilled.

I guess this means the Turkish government disapproves of our little scheme, she
thought as chunks of debris began to rain down around her.

The blasts were still echoing around Kavaklidere when she thrust herself
upright. She wasn't superstitious but she sure believed in bad luck. As in, it
was bad luck to be the only person visible on the street when a car containing
a reasonably major public figure blew skyward atop a pillar of fire.

With her usual gymnastic grace she snapped to her feet in a single spasm of
effort. Time to get off the street and find a nice dark corner to fold myself into,
she thought. She figured her next priority after that was a call to the
Sheraton to let her friends know they needed a brand-new set of plans. In one
heck of a hurry.

Before she could take a step a heavy hand clamped her right bicep. Another got
her left one. They felt like iron bands.

Despite the length of her legs and her lean muscle weight, she felt herself
picked up bodily off the ground. She smelled stale male sweat and harsh
tobacco. Not a good sign. Not one little bit.

Looking hurriedly around, as she was dragged back down the street and around
the corner, she saw she'd been seized by a pair of burly, swarthy goons in
ill-fitting suits. One had a shaved head; the other took the opposite tack with
a shaggy head of hair. Both had thick moustaches. Both also wore impenetrably
dark mirror shades.

"I don't suppose the fact I've got an American passport will make much of
an impression on you gentlemen, huh?" she said. "Huh. No. Thought
not."

It had been purely quixotic to ask—mostly to reassure herself with the sound of
her own voice, and assert her personal power with a smart-ass remark.

They bundled her into a four-door Mercedes sedan, black and shiny and imposing.
Keeping a low profile didn't seem to be high on the agenda for this team.

One of Annja's captors slid in beside her, staying firmly latched to her arm
while the other went around to the other side and got in, pinning her between
their bulky bodies. The car slid away from the curb.

"Just to be fair," she said, "I'm giving you gentleman one last
chance to let me go. Fair warning."

Dark sunglasses still on, they exchanged looks past her. Then as one they
started laughing.

Annja formed her right hand into half a fist. The sword's hilt filled it with
cool reassuring metal hardness. She leaned back against the luxuriant
leather-upholstered seat, and jabbed before either man could comprehend what
they had just witnessed.

The man to her right screamed shrilly as the blade's edge bit into his face.
The man to her left was struggling to shift his bulk. She felt him bunching to
deliver some kind of retaliatory attack. She couldn't get much hip into her own
blows but she did the best she could, swinging her body hard to ram the sword's
pommel into his face. She felt teeth splinter.

The other guy was thrashing and bellowing. Glancing back she saw his face
fountaining blood from a long gash. Seizing the hilt with both hands Annja did
quick nasty work in the tight confines. Periodically she gave his partner a
quick slam with the hilt. The man on her right shrieked and convulsed. The
inside of the driver's-side window and the rear window were sprayed