Agilely landing on her feet, the woman spun about and turned to face Mitchell. She brought her sword back slightly and said something in Japanese that was lost to him, although he suspected that she was telling him to say his last prayers before she ran him through. Like a big cat approaching its prey, the woman moved slowly and deliberately at Mitchell.
The sound of sirens grew louder by the second. Mitchell began to wonder what was going to arrive first, the police or his own death.
With a snarl on her upturned lips, the woman swung the sword at Mitchell’s exposed midsection. When he saw the flash of the blade as it swung at him, Mitchell jumped back, but not quick enough. Pain shot through his arm as the razor-sharp blade cut through his jacket. Gritting his teeth, Mitchell shot his right hand out and grabbed the outstretched hand of his attacker. He pulled back with all his might, yanked the woman off her feet. Without letting go of her arm, Mitchell balled up his left fist and tried smashing it into her face. Only his attacker was far more nimble and more proficient in the martial arts than Mitchell was. She ducked down, shot her leg out and swept Mitchell’s feet out from under him. Both people, still locked in their deadly embrace, fell to the ground.
Another loud cheer rang out.
The woman may have had the advantage before, but now that they were rolling around on the ground, Mitchell’s size and weight negated her skill and agility. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t shake off Mitchell. Baring her teeth, she growled like an enraged animal and tried biting Mitchell’s sweat-covered face.
He had had enough. Rolling over on top of his attacker, Mitchell sat up and pinned her down with his weight. He pulled his left hand free and sent it flying into the woman’s face, breaking her nose. Blood ran like a red river down her face. He hauled his hand back to strike once more when Mitchell heard a voice from behind.
“Freeze and keep your hands where I can see them!” warned a tall black police officer with his pistol drawn.
With his hand in the air, Mitchell froze in place. He knew it was best not to make any sudden movements around people who had guns trained on you. It was only then that he noticed that he was covered in sweat and how ragged and labored his breathing had become. He was more than relieved to see the police quickly form a ring around himself and the Japanese woman.
“Let go of the woman and step back,” ordered the black police officer.
“She has a sword,” pointed out Mitchell.
“Get it,” said the officer to his partner, who warily stepped forward and took the gleaming blade from the bloodied woman’s hand.
Mitchell slowly stood up and moved back slightly from his attacker.
Raising her head slightly, the woman saw the ring of police officers closing in on her. In an instant, she was up onto her feet, taking one last look at Mitchell. She smiled and then shot her hand inside her jacket, reaching for something. Shots split the air as three of the officers fired. The woman opened her mouth to say something but only a bloody gurgle escaped her lips; a second later, her dead body fell over onto its side.
The black police officer moved over to the body and opened the dead woman’s jacket, searching for a concealed weapon. When he found none, he looked over at Mitchell, a puzzled look on his face.
“She wanted you to kill her,” said Mitchell, shaking his head at such reckless fanaticism. He felt tired and cold as he felt the adrenaline began to leave his body.
“Why would she do that?” asked the officer.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. You had best get your people to inform the FBI that a kidnapping has occurred and that they should be looking for a dark gray civilian-pattern AS550 Eurocopter.”
“You Mitchell?” asked a police lieutenant who had just arrived.
“Yeah,” he replied wearily.
“Come with me, I have a car waiting to take you to the George Washington University Hospital,” said the officer.
The enormity of what had happened hit Mitchell like a speeding truck. His only thoughts were now on his teammate, Fahimah. How is she? Is she dead? Will she survive? He wearily climbed into the back of a police cruiser. Mitchell reached for his phone but found that he had lost it in the fight. He sat back knowing that the next few minutes were going to be among the longest in his life.
10
The unpleasant smell of antiseptic wafted through the air.
Mitchell sat in the crowded waiting area, numbly staring at a nondescript poster on the wall while he waited for news, any news, on how Fahimah was doing. He didn’t even notice that his tuxedo was torn and covered in grass stains. Mitchell was exhausted, but refused to leave the hospital until he knew what her prognosis was. She had been in surgery for the past three hours and the longer she was in there, the more he worried. He had wanted to call Fahimah’s parents, but General O’Reilly, as Polaris’ leader, had insisted that he tell them in person and had driven over to their home in Albany to break the awful news. They were all expected to arrive by helicopter in the next ten minutes.
With a deep sigh, Nate Jackson sat down beside Mitchell and handed him a cup of coffee. “Any word?”
“No, nothing,” replied Mitchell. Taking the cup, he thanked Jackson for the coffee.
“You know, if she hadn’t been wearing her liquid body armor under her dress, she would probably be dead,” said Jackson as he looked into the tired eyes of his friend.
“I don’t know where she hid it. Her outfit was nearly skintight.”
“Well, she did and I’m glad the company sprung for that stuff. It saved her life tonight.”
“Amen to that,” said Mitchell, taking a sip of his bitter-tasting coffee.
Both men sat in silence, lost in their thoughts, when the swinging doors to the waiting room swung open and a weary-looking, white-haired doctor in light-blue scrubs walked in.
Mitchell and Jackson stood.
“Are either of you men related to Ms. Nazaria?” asked the doctor with a strong Boston accent.
“No, sir,” replied Mitchell. “We’re her coworkers. Her parents will be here soon. Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes, she’s going to be fine,” replied the doctor. “She had internal bleeding, caused when one of her blood vessels ruptured from the force of the bullet hitting her bulletproof vest at such close range. Incredible invention, never seen anything like it in my life. She’s been badly injured, but she’ll recover and be back on her feet after a few weeks’ rest.”
Mitchell let out a deep sigh and reached over to shake the man’s hand. He hadn’t been so scared for the life of one of his people in years. All the tension and emotions long suppressed from his last mission in Afghanistan, where five of his men had died when their helicopter had been brought down by enemy fire, rushed forth from the dark places in his soul threatening to overwhelm his senses. Letting go of the doctor’s hand, Mitchell took a seat and then stared straight ahead, not seeing or hearing Jackson as he spoke to the doctor.
“Say, doc, when can we see her?” asked Jackson, with a broad smile on his face.