AJ smiled and nodded, then looked at the floor.
“What? Is there a problem, Archer?”
AJ raised his head. He took a moment to look around, taking in the scenery of the command center that Briggs called his lab. He then threw his hands up. “The problem,” he said, trying to sound calm, “is that I still don’t have the first clue what is going on here.” He jerked his thumb back at the curved multimedia wall. “What’s with all this? And recording my every word? Why is everything here so strange? You still haven’t told me what this company actually does, nor have you told me what my assignment is.”
Briggs nodded. “All perfectly fair questions,” he said, as if trying to calm an upset child. “You’ll have your answers, trust me.” He glanced at his watch. “But right now, we have a meeting to go to. There is someone waiting who would like to meet you.”
Chapter Eight
“William Foster?”
Will flinched, but did not acknowledge the call from the man in the gray trench coat approaching him. He casually logged off the computer, stood up from his chair, and began to walk away. He hoped that logging off would be enough to conceal Julie’s identity, but when it came to anonymity and computers, he had his doubts.
A hand came down on his left shoulder from behind, stopping his progress toward the exit.
“Thank God we found you. You’ve had us all very worried. You’re quite ill, Mr. Foster. Come with me sir, we need to get you back to the hospital… for treatment.”
Using his best college German, Will feigned incomprehension. “Ich heiβe Hendrick Wrobel. Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte.”
“Ach, sehe ich. Moment mal. Erzählen Sie mich dann, Herr Wrobel, von welchem Staat sind Sie,” the man in the gray trench coat replied.
Will turned. So much for that idea, he thought. “Fuck off, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The smirk on the German man’s face transformed into a scowl. His sinewy fingers tightened, crumpling Will’s barn jacket inside his clenched fist.
Will’s thighs began to tremble.
“Mr. Foster, please don’t make this difficult, after all, you’re not well and we wouldn’t want to have to call an ambulance for you,” said the man, giving Will a shake.
Will looked down and checked the other man’s stance. A voice inside his head reminded him that there’s no such thing as fighting dirty when you’re fighting for your life. He steeled himself and then drove his knee squarely into the other man’s groin. The bounty hunter’s eyes bulged, and he barked a hoarse, unintelligible expletive. Then, like a condemned building collapsing after the crash of the wrecking ball, Raimond Zurn fell to his knees.
Will stepped out onto the street, trying to breathe. Trying to think. He turned left instinctively, back toward the direction of Wenceslas Square, and he ran. He kept his eyes forward, scanning faces in the crowd. It was unlikely the man in the gray trench coat was working alone. He tried to resist the urge to check for a trail, but fear overpowered. He looked over his shoulder and traded glances with a hulk of a man in a black motorcycle jacket moving toward the entrance of the cybercafé.
Commotion erupted behind him, as the brute in the motorcycle jacket launched into pursuit. Will kicked up his speed into a full sprint. The street was a sea of pedestrians, forcing him to dodge and swivel as he ran, impeding his forward progress. He glanced over his shoulder; his lead was dwindling. He was not surprised. Foster men were like draft horses, built for power, not for speed. It was inevitable. He would have to turn and fight.
As he entered Wenceslas Square, he heard heavy, pounding footsteps behind him. Allowing himself to be tackled would be a disastrous mistake. It was time to make the switch from defense to offense. He took two braking strides, spun one hundred and eighty degrees, and assumed a wrestler’s ready pose — knees bent, feet wide, arms up and poised for grappling.
The look of surprise on his pursuer’s face affirmed his tactical instincts. Instead of making the take down, his foe was forced to dodge right, narrowly skirting Will’s grasp. Unlike the guy he had faced in the Internet café, this assailant was a monster. With a tree trunk neck, shaved head, and massive shoulders, he looked like a cage warrior from the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Will frowned as the other man slowed his forward momentum by running a tight arc around him and then, with surprising agility, whirled to face him.
Udo Zurn looked into the American’s eyes and saw exactly what he wanted. Fear. He did not need a weapon to win this fight. He could pound the American into a useless, bloody pulp and toss him into a garbage dumpster without breaking a sweat. Unfortunately, his brother Raimond had been firm and explicit — their employer’s orders were to deliver the American alive and unharmed. Where was the sport in that? He grimaced in annoyance and reached inside the flap of his unzipped motorcycle jacket. His fingers found the contoured plastic grip and closed around it.
The spectators, who had already begun to aggregate, uttered a collective gasp as he pulled out his weapon of obligation. Since he was not above showmanship, he squeezed the trigger and let the crackling, purple arc of current announce to the crowd that he clutched not a pistol, but a stun gun. One zap and the fight would be over. One million volts of electricity would transform the American into a limp, helpless pile of flesh and bone on the pavement.
Udo smirked and in heavily accented English said, “When you think of this day, remember that Udo, not God, gave you this pain.”
As the word “pain” rolled off his tongue, he lunged at Will Foster’s chest.
If not for the eight years of high school and college wrestling practice, Will would have been down for the count. Instead, his reflexes took over, twisting his body clear of the crackling electrodes. The smell of charred fibers on his coat sleeve wafted through the air, lingering evidence of the near miss.
He circled, trying to maintain six feet of separation from his long-armed foe. In a position of weakness, the key was to keep moving. Dart and feint. Keep your opponent off-balance and guessing. To gain the upper hand, he would need to grapple, but a traditional takedown would be risky. Even if he were successful at grabbing the German’s legs and upending him, his own back would be exposed and vulnerable during the take down. His only chance was to wait for his adversary to make a mistake. Then, and only then, could he grapple.
An unbroken chain of onlookers now encircled them, hesitantly enjoying the unusual spectacle. After a minute of circling, Udo made a second lunge at him, followed by a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth — each time shocking nothing but air as Will darted about like a hummingbird. Udo’s face twisted in frustration, and with a throaty growl, he charged. Will rotated his torso parallel to the vector of attack. As the German sailed past, he pounced, like a lion clawing the flank of a stampeding cape buffalo. The two bodies crashed to the ground as one, with Udo absorbing the brunt of the impact. Will wrapped his left arm around the big man’s neck from behind, fashioning a headlock. In his peripheral vision, he noted that Udo was still clutching the stun gun in his outstretched right hand, so he grabbed Udo’s wrist. Udo tried to roll over and free his left arm, which was now pinned beneath his chest, but Will’s legs were extended outward in a wide inverted “V,” giving him just enough leverage to exert control. The stun gun arced and sparked as Will dragged Udo’s hand across the pavement. Rough as sandpaper, the textured concrete tore the skin from the big German’s knuckles. As soon as he felt the tendons in Udo’s wrist slack, he smashed the hand on the pavement. The tactic worked, and the taser popped loose and skidded across the ground. Udo jerked violently to reach it, dragging Will with him. Still maintaining his headlock, Will crabbed his lower body to the right, giving him a better angle to reach the stun gun with his right hand. Both men’s fingers pawed at the plastic handle, but Will found a grip first. He tightened his headlock and then arched his back to lift his foe’s chest off the ground, exposing a target. Then, he slammed the shiny protruding silver electrodes into the brute’s sternum and squeezed the trigger.