Charter House
Charlotte
Mitchell and Jen got out of the limo at the entrance to the Charter House. Mitchell walked up to the driver’s side window and quickly spoke to the driver. When he was done, he offered Jen his arm and headed inside.
The three-story Charter House was, until recently, an exclusive, high-end art studio for the haute rich. When it came under new management, the old building had received a much-needed facelift, and had diversified its activities to include an art gallery, offices, and a floor solely dedicated to auctions.
As soon as they stepped inside the warm building, Mitchell realized that he was no longer in his comfort zone. He could see several politicians in the crowd, several professional athletes, and at least three media personalities with their camera crews in tow, hovering around for an interview. Everyone in the room was well dressed in suits and outfits that would have quickly bankrupted Mitchell.
Jen could see the uncomfortable look on Mitchell’s face, so she slipped her arm into his and gently pulled him toward a sculpture on the far wall. Along the way, they both helped themselves to a flute of expensive champagne.
“So, Jen, what exactly is your interest here tonight? Not that I’m objecting to spending time with you,” said Mitchell, as he sipped his champagne.
“It’s for a pet research project that I’ve been working on for a number of years. I’m hoping to get my hands on several books that are being auctioned off here tonight. They once belonged to the estate of Charles Reid, a member of the board of inquiry into the loss of the British Airship Goliath over Africa in 1931,” explained Jen, with a twinkle in her eyes.
Mitchell shrugged, having never heard of the loss of the Goliath. “What on earth is your interest in a long-lost airship?”
Jen turned and smiled. “Well, for one, they never found more than a few pieces of debris. It was widely rumored at the time that the Goliath had been sabotaged.”
“Curious, I guess,” said Mitchell, toying with her.
“Ryan, I’m a history professor, but ever since I was a student, the Goliath has always held a certain indefinable fascination for me. A lost ship, rumors of sabotage and murder. You know all that cloak-and-dagger stuff. It really fascinates me.”
“Yeah, it’s great fun until someone starts shooting at you,” replied Mitchell.
“Ryan, quit it. I’m serious about this. I want to write a book about it.”
Mitchell took Jen’s hand and looked deep into her striking brown eyes. “If you write about it, I’ll be the first to buy it, even if it means this ex-soldier will need a really expensive dictionary with lots of pictures to help me with the big words that I am sure you’ll use.”
Jen giggled and led Mitchell over to the far side of the gallery to a table where a couple of young people, also dressed in tuxedos, were busy registering people for the auction. She dug in her purse, showed their invites to a girl working at the desk, and was handed a numbered paddle. Turning it over, Jen saw that the number was seventy-five.
Mitchell let out a quiet chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” asked Jen.
“That’s my old army regiment!” exclaimed Mitchell. “The 75th U.S. Army Rangers, I was with them for most of my time in the service. Rangers lead the way,” he said, quoting his regiment’s motto.
Mitchell and Jen joined the growing line of impeccably dressed people heading up the stairs to the second floor. Once there, they moved off to one side and took a seat at the back, deciding to leave the front rows for the more serious buyers in the crowd. Mitchell picked up a program. Thumbing through the booklet, he saw a diverse collection of items going on the auction block, from modern art to antique firearms to several unopened trunks from estate sales.
Mitchell leaned over to Jen and whispered in her ear. “You know, I almost forgot to ask you. What’s the charity we are supporting here tonight?”
“It benefits a local chapter of the Wounded Warrior Project,” replied Jen.
“Damn! I wish I’d known. I would have brought more money,” he said.
Jen tapped his hand. “It’s all right, Ryan, they take all major credit cards here. Besides, if it means that much to you, you can help me win my bid.”
“It’s a deal.”
A dour-looking African-American gentleman in a tuxedo entered the room, walked over to the podium at the front, and, with a loud bang of his gavel, began the auction. The first item up for bid was a sculpture that did not garner a lot of attention, but with a few well-placed quips from the suddenly energetic auctioneer, the crowd came to life and the serious bidding began in earnest. Soon the auctioneer had his rhythm. He played the crowd for all they were worth. The man was a consummate master at getting the people to bid outrageous amounts for items they did not really need, nor want.
“I’ve never been to an auction before, but if I had to, I’d say this guy’s good,” said Mitchell to Jen.
“It doesn’t hurt that several of the local news outlets are here tonight, covering the event,” Jen said, motioning her head over at a reporter waiting with her camera crew to talk with the people once the auction was over.
“What item are we after?” asked Mitchell, like a kid waiting for his turn at bat.
“We’re up next,” replied Jen, sitting up in her chair to get a better look at the stage.
Mitchell leafed through his brochure until he found the next item. It was a set of three books from an estate sale.
“Okay, here goes,” said Mitchell, getting into the spirit of the evening.
The bidding started at two hundred dollars. Jen instantly raised her paddle.
The auctioneer raised an eyebrow at the paltry bid, shook his head, and asked if anyone wished to raise the price. An elderly woman sitting up front who had not bid on anything so far tonight raised the bid to three hundred.
Not to be outdone, Jen instantly raised it to five.
Most people in the room did not seem to care about the seemingly insignificant items up for bid and began to chat amongst themselves.
The auctioneer looked down at the woman in the front row and tried cajoling her to bid higher. Unfortunately, it worked all too well, and soon the bid stood at one thousand dollars.
The room grew silent as some of the disinterested buyers watched with fascination as the old woman and Jen sparred over some moldy looking books. The bidding soon topped five thousand dollars.
“Damn, this is exactly what I was hoping to avoid,” said Jen, biting her lip. “That woman has no need for those books; she is just pushing the bid higher to look good in front of her wealthy friends.”
“Well, I for one don’t like being outdone by anyone, even if it is for charity,” said Mitchell as he gently took the paddle out of Jen’s hand. Mitchell stood and yelled, “Ten thousand dollars.”
The auctioneer’s face lit up. He looked down at the woman, hoping that she might take the bait. She hesitated for a second, chatted with a friend sitting beside her, and slowly looked over her shoulder at the imposing-looking man who had just upped the bid. When she saw Mitchell standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking like a man spoiling for a fight, the woman shook her head in defeat.
The auctioneer’s gavel smashed down and with that, Mitchell and Jen became the owners of three books.
Mitchell handed the paddle back to Jen with a look on his face as if he had just won the state lottery.
“Ryan, you didn’t have to do that,” said Jen, more than a little surprised at Mitchell’s bold move.
“You said I could help,” said Mitchell with a shrug, “so I helped.”
“I didn’t expect you to spend that kind of money. It’s just a set of books. I could have looked elsewhere for my material.”
Mitchell shook his head. “No way. Tonight, I am your escort. You wanted those books, and I wanted to donate to the Wounded Warrior charity. I know several ex-servicemen and women who rely on that charity and honestly, Jen, I don’t give a damn about the money; I can always make
more of it in my line of business. All in all, I think things turned out quite well tonight.”
Jen slipped her arm into Mitchell’s, leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. You’re a unique man, Ryan Mitchell. I truly do appreciate your help here tonight.”
Mitchell did not say a word. He just sat there and enjoyed the moment. For the first time in a long time, Mitchell found himself not thinking about his job. He was truly enjoying his time with Jen.
A short while later, the auction concluded with the sale of a set of paintings by local African-American artists that were the highlight of the auction, and, with a player from the Hornets sitting in the front row bidding for the first time tonight, they fetched over one hundred thousand dollars. With a loud bang of the gavel, the auction finished. The crowd congratulated themselves and slowly headed downstairs for more post-auction drinks. Everyone wanted a chance to mingle with the local celebrities and, more importantly, to be seen by the media.
Mitchell and Jen grabbed a couple more flutes of champagne and found a quiet corner to be by themselves.
“Now what?” asked Mitchell, looking around the room.
“In about half an hour, they will ask people to pay for their items,” said Jen.
Mitchell looked at his watch. It was getting late, but he felt as if he were getting his second wind. The smell of Jen’s perfume was intoxicating and inviting. He was about to say something, when he eyed the woman who had been bidding against them. She locked eyes on them and started walking over.
“I hope we haven’t ticked off the wrong person,” said Mitchell, only half-joking, into Jen’s ear.
“Good evening,” said the woman, extending her hand.
“Good evening,” replied Jen as she took the woman’s white-gloved hand and lightly shook it.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your purchase tonight, dear,” said the dignified-looking African-American woman, who appeared to be in her early seventies. She was dressed in a long, dark blue dress and wore a pair of diamonds in her ears that were larger than most women’s engagement rings.
“Thank you,” said Jen, with a flash of her pearly white teeth.
“I didn’t really want those old books, but I just wanted to help out. However, after seeing your boyfriend glaring at me, I was too afraid to keep going,” explained the woman.
Mitchell and Jen exchanged a smirk between them.
“I am sorry about that, ma’am,” said Mitchell, as he delicately shook the woman’s gloved hand. “I sometimes get a little too competitive for my own good.”
“Well, it’s nice to know the money will be going to those veterans who truly need it,” said the woman, as she turned to leave.
Mitchell stepped forward. “Ma’am, if you truly do care, they accept donations all year round. If you look over at the entrance, there’s a table set up specifically for that purpose over there,” said Mitchell, pointing to the table.
“Oh, right you are,” said the woman as she fumbled with her purse. “Your bid was ten thousand, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Jen.
“I didn’t catch your name. Mister…?”
Mitchell felt awful for forgetting his manners “Mitchell. My name is Ryan Mitchell, and my friend’s name is Miss Jennifer March.”
“Very well, Mister Mitchell, Miss March. I, too, can be competitive when the mood strikes me,” said the woman, as she fished out her checkbook. “Would you mind coming with me, dear?” said the woman to Jen, as she took her by the arm and walked with her over to the waiting table.
Jen returned a few minutes later with an astonished look on her face.
“What is it?” asked Mitchell inquisitively.
“She…she donated twenty thousand dollars,” stammered Jen.
Mitchell was suitably impressed. “Who was she?”
Jen shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, but you seem to be able to bring out the competitive side in people, Ryan, I’ll give you that.”
They were about to look around for one last drink when the auctioneer announced that people could pay for their items, or make arrangements to do so in the next forty-eight hours. Mitchell and Jen decided to pay now with Mitchell’s credit card, and collect the items later the next day. When they arrived to pay, Jen eyed the smallest of the three books, picked it up, and with a giddy smile, excitedly exclaimed that the book was no less than the personal diary of Charles Reid. She held on to the book like a teenage girl getting the latest vampire romance novel. She left instructions for the delivery of the other two books, while Mitchell paid for their items.
Mitchell could see the obvious excitement written across Jen’s face. “I can see it was money well spent,” said Mitchell, as he took Jen’s arm and led her to the entrance of the building. Jen was far too engrossed in the diary to acknowledge Mitchell. He left her inside the building and stepped outside into the cool night air to look for their limo. Mitchell was a little peeved when he could not see their limo anywhere. Checking his watch, he realized that he had arranged for it to arrive in ten minutes’ time. Quickly, he stepped back inside the warm interior of the building.
He found Jen still with her nose deep in the book. Mitchell smiled when he realized that she was enthralled with their purchase; it was going to take some sweet talk to get her back out into the real world. “The limo isn’t there yet. It should be here in another ten minutes,” said Mitchell, trying to get Jen’s attention.
“Uh-huh,” replied Jen, without looking up.
Mitchell stood there, watching people leave in expensive-looking cars that he had only read about in car collector magazines. There was a steady stream of people leaving, when three men dressed in jeans and long, black-leather jackets appeared from out of nowhere, pushed their way inside and started looking around. Mitchell saw the serious and determined look on their faces; he knew something was wrong. Clearly, none of them were patrons of the arts. Mitchell watched as they walked over to the auctioneer and swore under his breath as the man pointed the three men in their direction. From the way the men moved purposefully toward them, Mitchell judged them as being either ex-police or former military. He did not like the way the men’s jackets bulged, the telltale sign of concealed weapons. Quickly looking around for another way out, Mitchell was frustrated to see other patrons idly waiting around for their rides, blocking their only exit.
The men stopped in front of Mitchell; the closest man was easily over two meters tall, and built like a linebacker. He stood there, looking menacingly down at Mitchell. Ryan was quickly running scenarios in his head and contemplating possible escape routes, when another man came inside and joined them. Mitchell tensed and cursed under his breath. It was the mercenary from the Philippines.
“Good evening again, Mister Mitchell and Miss March. How nice that you decided to get together after all the unpleasantness of our last encounter,” said David Teplov, with a cold smile.
Jen’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t even have to look up to know who stood with them. Instantly, she recognized the voice of the man who had tried to kidnap her.
Mitchell ground his teeth together. He had been planning to BS his way out of the auction house, but as soon as he saw Teplov, he knew they were trapped.
“Ryan, what’s going on? Why are these men here?” asked Jen, feeling very scared.
“Now, Miss March, just stay calm and come with us,” said Teplov.
Mitchell stepped between Teplov and Jen. “I think we’d rather stay here and have another drink,” said Mitchell, as he quickly checked out the competition. He was not carrying a gun, but all of the thugs were most likely armed, and by the cold looks on their faces, they were no doubt proficient in the application of violence.
Jen’s heart started to race as one of Teplov’s men brought out a pistol and aimed it right at Mitchell’s heart.
“Don’t try any foolish heroics, Mister Mitchell,” said Teplov with a nod. “Just quietly move outside with us.”
/> Mitchell realized that any commotion would instantly result in his and Jen’s deaths. Reaching back, Mitchell took Jen by the hand and followed one of the men out the door, closely trailed by the man with the pistol. His mind raced. What could he do? Mitchell knew that he probably could take out the man behind him if he were fast enough, but that left the other men, and Jen would most likely be killed before he could take down anyone else. He squeezed Jen’s hand and pulled her closer to him.
Jen grabbed Mitchell’s arm. “What’s going on, Ryan?” she said, fear creeping into her voice. “They’re after me again, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know; just stay calm, and we’ll be okay,” said Mitchell, trying to keep things composed. He watched as one of the killers spoke into a small Motorola. A moment later, a white Chevrolet van seemed to appear out of nowhere and came to a screeching halt in front of the auction house. No sooner had the van stopped when the passenger-side door was flung open. Mitchell and Jen were motioned to the idling vehicle. One of the men painfully thrust his pistol hard into Mitchell’s back as a warning not to try anything, or they would both die. Before Mitchell could say a word, Teplov reached over and roughly grabbed Jen by the arm, pulling her away from Mitchell. With an evil glint in his eye, he threw her into the back of the darkened van.
Mitchell’s heart skipped a beat as Jen disappeared from sight. Anger ripped through him; he had to do something. In the instant before Mitchell could even move to help, his world exploded in searing white light and pain. The man behind him had jammed a police-issue Taser into Mitchell’s back, causing electricity to instantly race throughout his body. His muscles involuntarily contracted, causing him agonizing pain as his legs buckled out from underneath him. He tumbled down onto the pavement, jerking from side to side from the searing current still coursing through him. Mitchell tried to focus, but all he could see were brilliant flashes of white light in his mind as he suffered through the painful electrical assault on his body. Mercifully, five seconds after it began, the attack was over.
Mitchell moaned in agony. Wracked with pain, he rolled over, only to see his attacker jump into the waiting van. Blinking his eyes to clear the white dots still clouding his vision, Mitchell could have sworn that Teplov smiled and waved at Mitchell before slamming the door shut. With an earsplitting squeal of its tires, the vehicle raced off into traffic, leaving Mitchell gasping for breath on the cold sidewalk.
From inside the building came a tall black man wearing a tuxedo, who quickly helped Mitchell to his feet. “Are you all right? Do you need help?” asked the man as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
Mitchell looked into the traffic and saw that the white van was fading away as it blended in with all the other traffic heading east on Central Avenue. Clumsily, Mitchell pushed away from the man helping him and staggered like a drunk toward the busy road. Taking a deep breath, Mitchell sought to calm his nerves and clear his aching head and body. The cold night air filled his lungs. He knew he had to act fast if he was going to help Jen. Mitchell saw an older, blond-haired rocker trying to look and act much younger than he was. He was waiting with two young models hanging off him, while a sleek black BMW Z4 was driven over by a valet.
The car came smoothly to a halt in front of the auction house, its twin turbo-charged engine purring away as only a finely tuned, high-performance automobile could.
Mitchell instantly decided on his course of action. Groggily launching himself forward before the star could even leave the sidewalk, Mitchell whipped out his company ID and lied, “Police, I need your car.”
The rocker hesitated and with that small window of opportunity, Mitchell jumped into the idling car. He slammed the door behind him and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car leaped forward. Mitchell changed gears as fast as he could as the car sped away; he never heard the man cursing him from the sidewalk as he raced into traffic. The three-hundred-horsepower engine roared to life. Mitchell drove the car like a man possessed, quickly weaving in and out of traffic as he tried to spot the escaping white van lost to him in the busy nighttime traffic. The 1980s hit song Rebel Yell blared from the car’s sound system as Mitchell floored the accelerator.
Pain wracked his entire body. He had never been Tasered before. It even hurt to breathe, but Mitchell shook his head to clear the cobwebs, dug deep inside, and tried to shut out the pain as he changed gears and sped after the van. The traffic was heavy, but Mitchell just ignored it and drove down the middle of the road, disregarding the cars swerving to get out of his way. Red lights did not even slow Mitchell; he simply jammed his hand on the horn and charged headlong through the steady stream of cars, hoping not to hit, or get hit by, anyone.
Jen lay scared and miserable on the floor of the van as it drove east. Her heart was racing wildly. She fought to stifle a scream of fear; she could feel the cold metal from a pistol jammed against the side of her head. It was happening all over again. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? None of this made any sense to her. She closed her eyes, said a silent prayer and wondered how Mitchell was doing, and if he were even still alive.
With a sharp blast of the horn, Mitchell changed gears and whipped around a car that was doing the posted speed. The more he drove, the more enraged he became. He cursed himself for being caught off guard without a sidearm; it was a mistake he vowed never to repeat. Even though he was streaking through the traffic, Mitchell still had not seen the white van and was beginning to feel in his gut that somehow he had screwed up, that somewhere they had turned off and that he had lost Jen to the hired killers. A car suddenly stopped in front of him; Mitchell’s heart leaped into his throat. He barely had time to swerve around the car into the blaring horns of the oncoming traffic. Mitchell continued to speed his way down the middle of the road. An oncoming black SUV honked its horn. A second later, the driver’s side mirror on Mitchell’s car exploded into thousands of tiny fragments as the two cars narrowly missed hitting one another.
A few hundred meters in front of him, Mitchell saw the van. With a loud roar of the engine, Mitchell jammed the car into fifth gear and sped after the van, hoping to close the distance before the vehicle had the opportunity to turn off onto a side street.
The white van’s driver was an ex-member of the Charlotte police force who had worked the streets for years, before being expelled for corruption. Now, he did not care where the money came from, only that he was paid well for his services. Carefully threading his way through the traffic, trying not to draw the unwanted attention of any police cruisers, the driver couldn’t wait to get his share of tonight’s profit. Taking a quick look in the driver’s side mirror, he caught a glimpse of an expensive-looking black car weaving its way through the nighttime traffic toward them. The hair on the back of his neck went up; someone was after them. Gritting his teeth, he swore. He told his boss that they should have killed the man. Instead, they had followed orders and only used a Taser on him. Now, the driver had no doubt that he was the man in the car following them. The driver gripped the steering wheel, changed lanes, and sped up.
Mitchell saw the move, changed gears, and rocketed between two cars, missing them by mere inches, until he was only a few car lengths behind the van. As he got closer, it dawned on him that he had not yet thought through what he was going to do next. He didn’t have a gun, and although his car was fast, it would not last very long if the driver of the van decided to play bumper cars with him. Mitchell needed help. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his iPhone and quickly dialed 9-1-1. As soon as the operator came on, Mitchell blurted out where he was, and the make of the van he was following, and got off the line. He needed to concentrate on his driving, not on answering the many questions surely to be asked by the operator.
The white van turned onto a side street; its tires screeching loudly in protest at the sharp turn. Looking in his mirror, the driver cursed when he saw that their tail had also made the turn. The man was good; he had to give him that. The pursuing car’s driver was relentlessly cl
osing in on the back of the van.
“Boss, I hate to spoil the party, but we’ve got company,” yelled the driver over his shoulder. “Behind us, there’s someone driving a black BMW, and he’s been following us for the last couple of blocks.”
Teplov moved to the back of the van and looked out the rear windows; his mood soured as he watched Mitchell change lanes and race around a red minivan until he was right behind them. He shook his head; he knew he should have pushed his employer to allow him to kill Mitchell, but she had been adamant that they avoid the police. That was not going to happen now, as he could hear sirens closing in on them.
All of a sudden from out of nowhere, three police cruisers turned onto the street with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing red and white. They rapidly closed in behind Mitchell’s car and joined in the pursuit.
“No one said this was going to be easy,” said Teplov, shaking his head. Mumbling to himself, he reached down and grabbed an AK-74M, fitted with a grenade launcher underneath the forestock. Making sure the weapon was loaded with a high-explosive round, he steeled himself and then threw the rear doors of the van open. He quickly raised the AK tight into his shoulder.
Mitchell’s eyes focused on the business end of an AK. He did not even think; acting on pure adrenaline and the instinct of self-preservation, Mitchell turned the wheel hard over to the left and floored the gas pedal just as the weapon opened up. Bullets streaked through the air. Mitchell was fast, but not fast enough as rounds chewed through the passenger-side headlight, while the remainder of the burst struck the asphalt instead of the BMW. Speeding up, Mitchell flew past the van, placing himself squarely in front of the vehicle.
Teplov could not believe that he had failed to stop the BMW. Looking back, he saw the police cars close in behind the van. Teplov knew that it was only a matter of minutes before a police chopper joined in the pursuit, making it near to impossible for them to get away. With a smile on his face, he decided to give the authorities something else to worry about tonight besides them. He dropped to one knee, brought up the AK and emptied a full magazine into the nearest police car. The occupants never had a chance, as the glass windshield imploded, spraying glass and bullets into the doomed passengers. The driver died instantly in a hail of bullets, his hands still holding the wheel as his lifeless body slumped over. A second later, the car drifted over into oncoming traffic. With a loud crunch of compacting metal and glass, the front of the police car hit a bus, crumpled in, and was sent flying through the air straight into the next police car, which exploded into a bright-red fireball that shot up into the night sky.
“That’ll do,” said Teplov, as he slammed the rear doors shut. The Russian mercenary handed off his AK and crept to the front of the van. Seeing Mitchell’s BMW right in front of them, his blood began to boil. Swearing at the top of his lungs, he told the driver to smash Mitchell off the road.
With a smile on his face, the driver jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. A second later, the van leaped forward like an enraged bear chasing down its prey.
Mitchell looked through the rearview mirror and saw the van speed up. It closed the distance in the blink of an eye, hitting the rear end of Mitchell’s borrowed BMW, easily destroying the bumper, and crushing in the trunk several feet. Mitchell felt the impact shake the car. Speeding up, Mitchell moved his BMW a car length away. Mitchell saw more red-and-white flashing lights racing toward them. Whatever happened now, Mitchell knew the men in the van were running out of time.
With another loud crunch, Mitchell felt his car being rammed from behind. With his hands grasped tight on the steering wheel, he fought to keep his battered vehicle from spinning about on the slick road. He’d had enough of this crap. The police were not getting there fast enough for him. He slowed down slightly, pulled into the lane beside the van and waited until he was even with the vehicle. He decided that it was now or never and swerved over, striking the van with his much lighter sports car. Sparks flew, like a swarm of fireflies in the night, as the metal crunched in on both vehicles, but mainly on Mitchell’s stolen BMW. He kept the wheel turned over, hoping to force the van into a parked car, and causing it to stop.
“Jesus Christ, Johnson!” screamed Teplov at the driver. “Get us off this street before we all get killed, and get rid of that fucking car if you can. It’s really beginning to piss me off!”
With a grin on his face, the driver applied the brakes and turned his wheel slightly, striking Mitchell’s car on the rear passenger side and causing it to spin around like a child’s toy on the road. Without waiting to see what happened to Mitchell, the driver sped up, aiming to turn down an upcoming street.
Mitchell ground his teeth in anger, as he fought to regain control over his spinning car. Reaching down, he pulled up on the emergency brake, turned the steering wheel hard over, released the brake, and then floored the accelerator as the car’s tires gripped the road, taking off once more in pursuit of the escaping van. Mitchell saw the van just as it turned onto a side street. He sped up and soon found himself weaving in and out of the slow traffic on a one-way street.
“Damn, that bastard is persistent,” yelled the driver over his shoulder. “He’s back and closing in on us, for God’s sake. Teplov, do something, will you?”
“I’ve had my fill of this crap for tonight. Time to finish this off,” snarled Teplov as he got out of his seat, made his way to the back of the van and grabbed his AKM-74 from the man holding it for him. Putting in a fresh thirty-round magazine, he kicked open the rear doors of their van again; cold air rushed inside. He could see Mitchell two cars back. He took careful aim and fired a 40mm high-explosive round into a cab driving right behind them. With a bright yellow flash, the car exploded, sending the hood of the engine cartwheeling skyward, along with hundreds of deadly fragments of shrapnel flying into cars on both sides of the street. Behind the destroyed cab, cars smashed into one another as they slammed on their brakes, trying to avoid the flaming wreckage.
“Yeah, that’ll do nicely,” said Teplov, as he admired the devastation behind them. His work done, he slammed the van’s rear doors closed.
When he saw the cab disintegrate right in front of him, Mitchell never hesitated. With his foot jammed down on the gas pedal, he shot through the burning wreckage, barely missing a mangled piece of engine lying in the middle of the road.
The van’s driver was looking in his rearview mirror when suddenly, from out of a darkened alley, a speeding police cruiser ran straight into the side of the van. Neither driver had been expecting the collision. Inside the van, people were thrown around like rag dolls as the vehicle tumbled over from the force of the impact. The van slid on its side and came to a sudden jarring stop when it plowed into the back of a parked tow truck.
Mitchell saw the collision; his heart missed a beat at the thought of Jen being injured or killed. He quickly geared down, bringing the car to a screeching halt a few meters short of the smoldering wreck. Mitchell leaped out of the BMW even before it had come to a complete halt and darted for the rear doors, praying that Jen was all right.
Just before he got there, the back doors spilled open and a man with an AK in his hands fell out onto the road. He looked bruised and disoriented.
Mitchell needed a weapon.
Without hesitation, he dove onto the man, knocking the wind out of him. Both men tumbled to the ground. Mitchell slammed his right fist into the stunned thug’s face, breaking his nose. Hauling off again, Mitchell brought his fist straight down on the man’s jaw, breaking it and knocking him out cold. A loud painful grunt escaped the man’s lips as his body went limp. As he rolled over, Mitchell grabbed the man’s dropped AK, quickly checked that there was a round in the chamber, and then stood with his weapon at the ready. Mitchell flipped the change lever to fully automatic with his thumb, raised the rifle to his shoulder, spun on his heels, and faced the open doors just as another hired killer tried getting out. Mitchell recognized him as the man who had Tasered him. White-hot anger ins
tantly ran through him. The goon saw Mitchell standing there and tried to bring a pistol up, only to be cut down by a quick burst from Mitchell’s weapon. The man staggered back to the side of the overturned van and then slid to the ground, dead. Quickly scanning his surroundings, Mitchell saw no more movement. He peered inside the darkened van and saw another one of their attackers, lying in an unnatural heap. He realized that he must have broken his neck upon impact. His eyes searched for Jen. His heart raced when he could not see her. He was about to dive inside the van, when he heard a moan somewhere in the dark.
“Jen, is that you?” called out Mitchell. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I landed on someone,” replied Jen. “What happened?”
“A police car slammed into your van.”
Relieved that she was alive, Mitchell was about to crawl in and help Jen out when the sound of sirens filled the air, as four police cruisers came to a screeching halt behind Mitchell.
“Drop your weapon and lie down on the ground,” said a commanding voice from one of the police car’s speakers.
Mitchell was still mad as hell, but he knew better than to turn around with an AK in his hands. Slowly, he lowered the weapon and got down as ordered. Seconds later, he felt his arms pulled behind him as handcuffs were locked in place. Mitchell let out a deep breath and tried to focus his mind as he tried to figure out what was going on. Why had someone gone through so much trouble to try to kidnap Jennifer March—twice?
In the dark of an unlit alleyway, David Teplov stood with a handkerchief pressed to his bloodied head. He had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and had crawled away the instant he heard gunfire. He knew that he had failed once more to get his hands on Jennifer March. With a burning hatred building inside him, Teplov silently watched the police as they hauled Mitchell off the ground and placed him in the back of one of their waiting vehicles.
A former member of the Russian Armed Forces, Teplov had a reputation for obtaining the unobtainable for his clients. Glaring at Mitchell sitting in the back of the police car, he ground his teeth and vowed never again to allow his employers to stop him from killing Mitchell on sight. The man had cost him millions in trained fighters, but more than that, he had severely damaged his reputation. He stepped back, walked down the darkened alley, dug out his phone, and called his contact. A few minutes later, a silver-gray Mercedes SUV pulled up. Getting inside, Teplov gave directions to the driver and then sat there silently contemplating his next move. Twice foiled by the same man, Teplov could not afford failure in his line of work. He reluctantly made another call.
Nika Romanov answered. “Do you have what we are after?”
“No,” replied Teplov.
“What do you mean, no?” asked Nika.
“You didn’t tell me that she was going to be with the same American who screwed things up for me in the Philippines.”
The line went silent for a moment.
“So she got away again?” asked Nika, her voice as cold as winter.
“Yes.”
Silence once more.
Nika finally spoke. “I don’t believe in coincidences. That man has meddled in my affairs twice. I do not care what it takes, but I want him dead. Do not fail me again, Teplov. Kill him and anyone else who gets in your way from now on.”
“Gladly,” replied Teplov, relishing the thought of eliminating Mitchell. He vowed to himself that no matter what it took, Mitchell was going to suffer horribly before he died.
10