“Get dressed, it’s cold outside. Then come with us and don’t try anything,” said a white-haired thug with a strong Russian accent.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” replied Mitchell with a smile as he pulled on the dark gray winter jacket.
Following the white-haired man out of the terminal, the freezing cold wind blasting in Mitchell’s face was a nasty reminder that he was not in Africa anymore. Bundling up, he stood and waited in the frigid air, when out of nowhere, a dark-green minivan came to a screeching halt. Mitchell got inside the vehicle, closely followed by two of the thugs, while the white-haired leader jumped into a silvery-gray BMW X-5 Jeep that had pulled up behind the minivan.
“Where are we going?” Mitchell politely asked the ex-policewoman in the van with them.
She looked over, her eyes cold and dangerous. “To the other end of the airport where Mister Romanov has a helicopter waiting for you there. No more questions,” said the woman brusquely.
Two minutes later, the vehicles pulled up in front of a small office building at the far end of the near-empty runway. Mitchell was quickly escorted inside at gunpoint.
The white-haired thug stepped inside, reached inside his blue ski jacket, pulled out a Glock 9 mm pistol, and aimed it at Mitchell’s heart. “No funny business, ok?” warned the thug.
“I already said that I would behave,” said Mitchell.
“We need to check you out before we leave,” said the thug, waving towards the washroom with his pistol.
Ten minutes passed. Mitchell was dressed once more. His clothes and personal possessions had been thoroughly inspected for hidden weapons or transmitting devices. Finding none, the thugs only confiscated his cell phone and, grabbing a sat-phone, the head thug made a call. Almost immediately, the sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades rhythmically beating away vibrated through the small wooden office. Outside, a gold-painted commercial Bell 430 helicopter swooped out of the gray sky and came in to land, its powerful rotors churning up the snow, creating a near whiteout just outside the office building.
“There’s your ride,” said the white-haired thug authoritatively, pointing at the waiting chopper.
Mitchell knew there was no going back. With a smile, he walked out to the waiting helicopter and quickly buckled himself in. Mitchell watched as his luggage was fastened to the floor of the helicopter. With a loud thud, the side door slammed shut, sealing him in as surely as if he were trapped in a cold, dark crypt. A shiver ran down Mitchell’s back at the thought. The three thugs had remained outside and crept back from the helicopter as it slowly edged its way skyward. With a powerful rev from its engine, the helicopter banked over, rapidly picking up speed as it flew away from the airport and headed south, over the dark gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Mitchell sat in silence as they flew into the unknown. He knew he was taking a huge gamble, but there was no alternative if he wanted to get Jen back. Leaning over, he looked out the window at the water racing past beneath him, knowing that if they had to ditch the chopper that they would all die from hypothermia in minutes in the near-freezing water.
After about thirty minutes, Romanov’s luxury yacht, Imperator, came into view on the horizon. Mitchell looked out the side window at the opulent ship. He had never seen anything quite like it in his life. He had no doubt that this was their destination. The helicopter began to slow down as the pilot brought them in for a landing on the yacht’s helipad. A well-dressed deckhand with bright orange paddles appeared on the helipad and helped guide the helicopter in for a smooth landing. No sooner had the wheels touched down, when two well-armed men ran up onto the helipad, their high-tech-looking FN-2000s levelled at the side door of the chopper.
The instant it landed, Mitchell reached over and slid the door open. Bitingly cold wind rushed inside the cabin of the helicopter. Seeing Mitchell sitting there, both armed men tensed. Their hands gripped their weapons tighter as if expecting a fight. Mitchell raised his hands to show that he meant no hostile intent and then slowly climbed out of the helicopter.
Mitchell turned to reach for his luggage.
“Leave it,” snapped one of the guards. “You have no need for it right now. We’ll bring it to you later.”
Mitchell did not believe a word, but stepped back slowly, keeping his hands where the nervous thugs could see them.
“Follow us,” said the guard, waving his assault rifle towards a set of metal stairs at the side of the helipad.
“Ok, just do what the polite gentlemen with the big guns want,” said Mitchell to himself, as he followed his guards down off the icy platform and inside the warm interior of the yacht. They descended several decks until they came to a long hallway. At the end was a polished oak door inlaid with gilt in Cyrillic. The guards led him to the door and then abruptly halted.
Checking that the guards were looking toward the door and not at him, Mitchell nonchalantly reached over and pressed the indigo light on his watch three times quickly, activating a tiny, but strong, transponder built inside.
One of the guards stepped forward and opened the door. Mitchell stepped inside. In the center of the room, he could see sitting behind a long mahogany desk were Jen, Dmitry Romanov and his daughters. Alexandra was dressed in a black jumpsuit while Nika wore a matching teal blue.
Mitchell looked over at Jen. The worried expression in her eyes sent a warning through his body.
“Hey, asshole,” said a threatening voice from behind Mitchell.
Mitchell tensed as he spun about on his heels. He was a fraction of a second too slow as the butt of an AK smashed against the side of his head, sending him tumbling on to the floor.
Jen screamed as Teplov stepped out from behind the door, an AK clasped in his hands and a twisted look of hate on his face. Mitchell’s vision blurred. Agonizingly slow, he got up on his hands and knees, fighting through the pain and waves of nausea rippling through his body. He tried to rise, but was hit hard again, this time on the back of his neck from a viscous blow from a snarling Teplov. His world rapidly shrank into a narrow dark tunnel and then into merciful blackness.
“I owed you that, you son of a bitch,” spat Teplov as he hovered over Mitchell’s body. Hauling off with all his might, Teplov kicked Mitchell in the midsection, sending his body tumbling across the carpeted floor.
“Stop it,” yelled Jen. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her heart filled with rage at Teplov’s cowardly attack on Mitchell. A guard lunged from behind, grabbing Jen by the shoulders, pinning her to her seat.
“Enough,” bellowed Romanov. “Leave him be.”
Turning his head, Teplov glared at Romanov. Gripping his AK tight in his hands, Teplov grudgingly stepped back from Mitchell.