Alex Archer - Warrior Spirit

She tilted her head back and rested it on the edge of the tub, her eyes still closed as the heat enveloped her. The way Ken had moved in the restaurant earlier played across the screen of her mind. Annja slowed the reel down and tried to study how he had managed to thwart the gang without even appearing to break a sweat.

Marvelous, she concluded.

If Annja had even a small percentage of the same skill, Nezuma would be the one nursing not just bruises, but his wounded ego, as well.

If ninjitsu truly did exist still and Annja had a chance to see a class being taught, there was no way she’d turn down that opportunity. She didn’t feel any particular obligation to one form of martial arts over another. She was far too pragmatic to get lost in the politics of that silly debate. Annja needed what worked; it was as simple as that. And if adding some ninjitsu to her arsenal helped her stay alive, well, bring it on.

A cool breeze suddenly blew over the room, scattering the blanket of steam that had hung about the tub like mist over a swamp.

Annja’s eyes opened again.

Her stomach tensed.

Someone was in her room.

She could feel the air currents being disturbed. But she heard nothing. Whoever was inside the room, knew how to move in absolute silence. But movement—any movement—disturbed the air ever so slightly.

Annja wondered, could she move just as quietly and get out of the tub without them knowing?

She frowned. Not a chance.

The invaders must have known she was there. And depending on how long they’d been in the room, they might have even heard her say that line about Ken. It couldn’t be Ken, could it? That was enough, she decided.

It was time to get out of the tub.

Instead of doing it as quietly as she could, Annja engaged a different strategy. She started to whistle.

“That felt good,” she said as she stood and stepped out of the tub.

The door to the bathroom was closed almost all the way, except for a gap of about five inches. Annja braced herself behind the door in case they rushed the bathroom. But she didn’t think they would. If they’d meant her harm, they would have already come into the bathroom when she was far too vulnerable.

She felt for the towel hanging on the hook and then mopped at her hair and shoulders.

Still whistling, she tried to figure how best to wrap the towel so she could fight if necessary.

The hell with it, she thought, frowning. If someone wants to throw down right now, being naked might just help my cause and give me a split second to get the upper hand.

So much for modesty. She almost grinned. Too bad the cameras weren’t rolling now. This would earn her top ratings for Chasing History’s Monsters in a way that bimbo Kristie Chatham never could.

Annja took a deep breath and flushed her system with oxygen. Adrenaline flooded her body as it readied itself for a fight. She flexed her fists and steeled her will.

And then stepped out of the bathroom.

Her room was empty.

Annja noticed that her stomach was more relaxed now.

Were they gone?

She shivered in the cooler air of the room. She felt certain someone had been here. And she’d been getting reacquainted with her long-lost primal instincts enough to place some trust in them when they warned her of danger. Somewhat. Annja was the first to admit that she still had a lot of trouble having one hundred percent faith in her instincts. Especially when her logical mind seemed ready to always mount a good argument for why she shouldn’t.

Someone had been in the room.

But now they were gone.

Annja knelt and checked under the bed and at the base of the simple curtain framing her window. She carefully checked the closet, as well. Otherwise, there was no place to hide in the Spartan room.

She frowned again. A cursory glance around told her that they hadn’t taken anything. Her laptop still sat open on the desktop, although the screensaver was bouncing around from a lack of activity. Annja’s bags sat unopened next to her bed. And her cell phone and purse remained near the door.

Weird.

She padded back to the bathroom and toweled herself dry before pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then she walked around her room again before ending up at the window.

Annja’s room was on the fifteenth floor of the hotel. From her window she could see the Tokyo skyline outlined in the dazzling colors of the neon spectrum. The city shone so brightly that Annja could pick out very few stars in the sky.

Her window wasn’t locked.

I know I checked that lock earlier, she thought to herself. Being a native New Yorker, Annja was nothing if not security conscious. All doors and windows were always locked behind her whenever she was home. And that habit stayed with her no matter where she traveled.

But now, her window was unlocked.

She slid it back on the rails and found it could open wide enough to enable someone to get through it.

But who would be able to get through fifteen stories up from the ground?

Annja grinned and shook her head. She was being silly, imagining that someone would consider her such a prize that they would risk life and limb scaling the side of a high-rise just to get into her room.

Still…

She slid the window closed and locked it. The double latch clicked shut, and Annja let the curtain fall back into place. She wished she had a fingerprint kit so she could dust the sill.

Annja sat at the desktop and brought her laptop out of its sleep mode. Once she clicked Refresh, she clicked the mouse and waited for the newsgroup page to reload.

“Wow.” She already had one response to her query on the newsgroup.

Annja checked the name—Earl Sunday. He listed himself as a professor of Asian history at some college Annja had never heard of—probably some online institute that charged people a couple hundred bucks for a credit or two. Of course, that was no surprise. These days, anyone with some bucks could open a school and charge people money for a degree. And sometimes, they didn’t even bother with the school part.

Annja looked at the post.

There is no such thing as modern-day ninjitsu. Ninja were used in Japan’s past, but there is no evidence or verifiable records to suggest that so-called modern exponents of the art actually engage in authentic ninjitsu training. This, despite what many claim, is the truth. Furthermore, anyone claiming to be involved with ninjitsu should have their head examined. Ninja were nothing but cutthroat assassins who were only concerned about money. They had no honor and their historical significance is virtually nil. Japan would be far better off if there had never been such characters in her past.

Annja leaned back from her keyboard and shook her head. She guessed that being called wishy-washy wasn’t a problem for Sunday. She also decided that he must be an extraordinarily inflexible person to post something so utterly rigid and devoid of anything useful to her.

“I’ll bet he enjoys listening to himself talk.” She frowned. “Jerk.”

Annja hit the reply button and as the page refreshed, she saw four other people had posted responses.

Sammy23 in Baltimore posted this:

Ninjitsu does exist and if Sunday wasn’t such a complete bonehead impressed more with the words he writes than actual fact, he might do better research before displaying his idiocy to the world. The art still exists and is taught in Japan and in many countries around the world by students who have returned from training with the grandmaster. Ninjitsu is a complex system of martial arts, broadly encompassing every facet of personal protection and survival. If you have the opportunity to study it with someone who knows what they’re doing, I suggest you do so. Good luck!