Up ahead, the bikes turned to the left and disappeared from sight behind several tall trees. Mitchell was a distance runner, not a sprinter; his lungs and legs burnt as he ran as fast as he could in his dress shoes. Turning in front of a tall, red-bricked building, Mitchell could see the bikes trying to make their way through a throng of people coming in from Jefferson Drive, all blissfully unaware of the bedlam unfolding mere meters away.
From behind, Mitchell heard the sound of a horse’s hooves steadily clopping loudly on the path as it galloped up behind him.
“Stop, sir,” said an authoritative voice from behind.
Mitchell could see a young police officer chasing after him. He had no time to explain what was going on. Mitchell dug deep in his gut and poured it on, hoping to the catch the two bikes before they made it to the road now barely a few meters away.
“I said stop, sir,” said the rider as he leaned forward on his horse and tried grabbing the collar of Mitchell’s tuxedo jacket with his outstretched hand.
Something inside Mitchell snapped; he had had enough crap for one evening. Turning on a dime, he reached out, grabbed the rider by his arm, and then in one swift move pulled him right off of his horse, sending him tumbling to the grassy ground. Before the officer was aware that he was no longer on his horse, Mitchell had swung himself up into the saddle. Quickly jamming his feet into the stirrups, Mitchell grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and then with a cry of encouragement, he slapped the horse’s flanks and was rewarded with a loud neigh as the horse took off after the bikes.
A passing bystander helped the stunned police officer to his feet. Reaching for his Motorola, he reported that he had been attacked and that a man in a tuxedo had stolen his horse and was heading for the park.
Yelling as loud as he could, Mitchell called on the people in his way to move aside. Seeing a screaming lunatic on a horse galloping toward them, the crowd instinctively began to split apart, allowing Mitchell’s horse to ride straight through them. Mitchell looked up over the horse’s bobbing head, he saw the two bikes race straight across Jefferson Drive and then, without slowing down, they kept on going straight into the park. With a pat of encouragement on the horse’s neck, Mitchell tried to close the growing gap between himself and the speeding motorbikes. Having ridden a horse for years growing up on a farm in Minnesota, Mitchell was more than comfortable in the saddle. As he approached the crossing, people dashed out of his way as his horse galloped across the busy street, ignoring the blare of car horns and hurled insults of the drivers as it raced after the bikes. Over the jumbled noise of the angered drivers, Mitchell could hear the welcome sound of sirens converging from all over the National Mall.
High above the National Mall, a dark gray helicopter swooped out of the night sky, racing after the fleeing motorbikes. The co-pilot, seeing Mitchell on horseback chasing after them, relayed the information to both the drivers, who turned their heads in unison and looked back. With a quick nod at the driver of the second bike, the lead bike peeled away and turned back toward Mitchell, while the motorbike with Atsuko on it kept going.
Mitchell heard the roar of helicopter’s engine as it flew right over him. He looked up into the air and saw a darkened shape, like a prehistoric beast, fly out of the dark to the far end of the park. A few seconds later, it began to slow down for a landing. Mitchell swore; he had no doubt that they intended to place Atsuko on board and make their getaway in the helicopter before the police could arrive in force to stop them.
Mitchell was surprised to see that one of the bikes had turned about and was now racing straight at him. He could see that the passenger sitting behind the driver had a pistol in her hand. Reaching into his tuxedo jacket pocket, he pulled out his pistol and then leaned as far forward as he could on his horse, giving his opponent less of a target to shoot at. Mitchell lined up the onrushing bike on his right side so he could get a clearer shot. People who had gone for a pleasant nighttime stroll in the park scrambled out of the way as the two adversaries, like knights at a tournament in mediaeval England, charged toward one another. He took a deep breath, looked over his pistol’s sights and then waited. He knew firing from a charging horse was a crapshoot at best, but he had no other choice.
Within seconds, they were barely twenty meters apart. The bike’s passenger fired first. The shot missed, but not by much. Mitchell heard the bullet snap through the air as it sailed right over his head. Waiting one more second until the bike was barely a few meters away, Mitchell aimed and then pulled the trigger. Hit in the chest, the driver let go of the handlebar and then slid down the side of the racing bike. Propelled on by its own speeding momentum, the bike sped past Mitchell, and then a second later began to wobble uncontrollably as the driver fell from the motorbike onto the grassy field. The passenger hit the ground, rolling end over end, until she came to a stop when she plowed into a young couple walking their dog.
Turning his attention to the other bike, Mitchell swore as the bike came to a sliding halt. In a flash, the driver and Atsuko were off the bike and into an open door on the side of the helicopter. With a curse on his lips, Mitchell pulled back hard on his horse’s reins just as the helicopter revved its powerful engine and began to rise effortlessly up from the ground, its rotors sending grass and dirt swirling up into the air, blinding Mitchell. He brought up his hand to block the rotor wash. Mitchell looked up into the night sky at the helicopter banked hard over, began to pick up speed, and then quickly vanished from sight. Climbing down from his borrowed horse, Mitchell let out a cry of rage and anger. He was furious at the people who had taken Atsuko and had shot Fahimah. He was pissed at those who had screwed up the intelligence information, and more than that, he was furious at himself for letting it all happen.
He placed his pistol back into its holster in the small of his back. Mitchell decided to check on the bike’s passenger; perhaps she could be persuaded to shed some light on what the hell was going on. Red and white lights cut through the night as several police cruisers raced out onto the open field. Seeing the bike, with its driver laying facedown on the ground, Mitchell looked about trying to find the passenger among the growing crowd of onlookers, many of whom had their phones out and were excitedly chatting among themselves or were busy recording the grisly scene. Nothing like an accident or a shooting to bring out the morbid curiosity of people, thought Mitchell.
All of a sudden, he heard the terrified scream from a woman pierce the din. Mitchell saw the crowd race apart; standing there was the passenger of the bike with a short sword held tightly in her hands. Her clothing was dirty and torn from where she had hit the ground. Blood covered the right side of her face from a deep cut on her forehead. Yelling at the top of her lungs, the woman raised the sword over her head and then with hate and fury etched on her face, she began to run at Mitchell. Instinctively, he went for his pistol, but at the last second, he stopped: he needed the woman alive. Stepping back slightly, Mitchell took a deep breath, braced himself and waited. Some people, thinking it was all a stunt, began to cheer aloud and look about for the hidden movie cameras, only they couldn’t have been more mistaken. Within seconds, the woman was less than an arm’s reach from Mitchell.
When he saw the deadly look in her eyes, Mitchell knew that he had one chance to guess correctly how she was going to attack, or he would end up lying on the ground, dead with a sword sticking out of him. With one last deep cry, the woman jumped up into the air, intending to bring her sword down straight onto Mitchell’s head. Diving forward, Mitchell rolled over on his shoulder and came up on his feet, just as the woman slashed her sharp blade through thin air, hitting the ground where he had been. A loud cheer and excited clapping filled the air; the growing crowd was enjoying the spectacle. Mitchell thought the same people would have cheered on two Roman gladiators as they fought to the death in ancient Rome.