From out of the bustling crowd, stepped two broad-shouldered men wearing tight-fitting rugby shirts. Their noses were askew and their hair cut down to the wood.
“Is this cab for hire?” asked one of the men, his accent Scottish.
“No, it’s not,” curtly replied the bald-headed thug.
“I wasn’t asking you, mate,” said the Scotsman.
“Yeah, piss off mate,” added his redheaded friend, slurring his words.
Jen saw her salvation in the form of two inebriated Scottish rugby players. She knew that she had to time her escape perfectly or end up with a bullet in her back.
“Look, boys, this cab is not for hire, so why don’t you just move along,” said the hired killer, trying to get rid of the two drunks.
“Who you calling a boy?” said the first Scotsman, towering over the thug.
Jen felt the pistol jam hard into her back. “Ignore them. Keep moving,” threatened the woman.
It was now or never! She pretended to trip over her own feet and fell forward into the arms of the redheaded drunk.
“Oy, Dan, it’s my lucky day,” said the redhead with a smile on his face as he looked down at Jen.
Jen wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and said, “Help me please.”
With Jen in the redhead’s arms, the bald-headed thug realized that their plan to quietly abduct Jen off the street had failed. He balled up his fist and struck the first Scotsman as hard as he could in the mouth. On any ordinary man, the blow would have put him on his back, but not today.
With a bloody smile on his face, the Scotsman reached over, roughly grabbed the goon by his jacket collar, lifted him off the ground, and then body-slammed him onto the pavement. The sound of ribs cracking and air painfully escaping his lungs filled Jen’s ears. Moaning in agony, the thug rolled about on the ground.
Still holding tight to the redheaded man, Jen turned her head to look back. The black woman stood there with a look of incredulity on her face. For a brief moment, she hesitated, not sure what to do. She knew that she could never hope to kidnap Jen with her accomplice lying on the pavement struggling to breathe. Her orders were to capture, or, if that failed, to kill Jen March.
The assassin’s brief second of indecision cost her.
From out of the crowd stormed a third drunken rugby player. Like a bull charging at a matador’s red cape, the man hit the black woman square in her chest and sent her flying headfirst onto the hard, concrete pavement. With a muffled cry, the assassin was
knocked senseless, her pistol clattering off under a car.
With a loud screech of burning rubber, the cab peeled away from the street and within seconds was lost among the dozens of other cabs making their way up 145th street.
“Are you okay, miss?” asked the redheaded man as Jen slowly, hesitantly, let go of his thick neck.
“Those people were trying to kidnap me,” said Jen, pointing at the two thugs lying on the ground.
“Do you hear that, Andrew… we’re bloody heroes,” said the redheaded Scot to the third rugby player who had tackled the black assassin.
People from all around were beginning to congregate around Jen and her protectors. Many were busy taking pictures on their phones. The three young men smiled and posed for the people while holding onto their prisoners, enjoying their instant celebrity status. The sound of sirens racing to their location made Jen realize just how close she had come to being abducted.
Looking down, she saw her hands trembling.
The redheaded Scot smiled over at Jen and then asked her if she would like a drink after the police arrived.
Nodding, she knew that she would probably like more than one.
With a loud whoop, the man jumped up into the air. The smile on his face made him look as if he had just won the lottery.
Shaking her head, Jen couldn’t believe the reckless bravado of the three men. Being drunken rugby players hadn’t hurt. The men grabbed hold of their prisoners and waited for the police to arrive.
Reaching into her pocket for her phone, she thought about calling Mitchell. She quickly realized that there was nothing he could do about it while he was still in Japan. Instead, Jen decided to call General O’Reilly. She quickly passed on what had happened and was relieved when O’Reilly said that one of his best men, a former NYPD police officer, would pick her up shortly and bring her to O’Reilly’s home for safekeeping. Thanking him, Jen ended the call as a police sergeant stepped out from the crowd and asked what was going on.
With a grin from ear to ear, the redheaded Scot announced that they had simply been teaching some Americans the sport of rugby. Shaking her head from side to side, Jen intervened. She quickly took charge and explained what had happened before her protectors ended up being arrested for drunkenness and fighting.
A half hour later, Phillip Harris, the man assigned to pick up Jen and take her to O’Reilly’s home, found her sitting on the bar in a local pub being loudly serenaded by three very drunk men. From the look on her face, Harris was certain that Jen was well on her way to being drunk as well.
41
The annoying buzz of Mitchell’s phone vibrating on the nightstand beside the bed wouldn’t go away. No matter how many times he swore at it, the phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. He reached over and saw that it was just after two in the afternoon. He was exhausted and had tried getting a few hours’ sleep before Atsuko Satomi woke up. Wearily, he sat up and answered the call.
It was O’Reilly calling.
Mitchell barely said hello before O’Reilly dropped the news on him. Instantly awake, Mitchell stood and listened intently as his mentor filled him in on what had happened in New York. It was only when O’Reilly told him that Jen was safe and staying with him until Mitchell returned, did he relax somewhat. The next piece of information hit him hard, as if he had been sucker-punched in the stomach. Asking the general to repeat himself, Mitchell’s anger began to boil up inside him. Cypher had made the assignment personal and for that, Mitchell vowed to himself that he was going to kill him. The authorities could all go to hell; he wanted to deal with him the only way men like Cypher knew how to act. Ending the call, Mitchell stepped into his bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap on the sink, and then splashed the cool water over his face. Looking up at the man in the mirror, Mitchell barely recognized himself. His eyes were red and puffy. He needed a shave, and a good, long, hot shower. Pushing those thoughts aside, Mitchell threw his shirt back on and then went to wake up Jackson. He wasn’t looking forward to telling him that his son, Daniel, had not come home last night and was last seen being forced into a cab.
Minutes later, Jackson in a fit of rage was ready to kill Cypher. If there was one man Mitchell never wanted mad at him, it was Nathaniel Jackson. Handing Jackson his cell phone to call Kelly, his wife of twenty years, Mitchell decided that they had waited long enough. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
With anger boiling up inside him, Mitchell banged loudly on Atsuko’s bedroom door. A couple of seconds later, a disheveled and confused-looking Atsuko Satomi opened her door, wearing light-blue silk pajamas and a matching housecoat. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up into Mitchell’s eyes. What she saw frightened her. His eyes burnt with anger. Something had happened, and she was sure that Cypher was behind it.
“Wake your father,” ordered Mitchell. “I want both of you in his dining room in the next five minutes. You’re going to explain what exactly you and your boyfriend were up to and where I can find him.”