Black dragon, p.9
Black Dragon, page 9
“We’ve got a problem. I’ve lost Atsuko,” said Mitchell bitterly. “Also, be careful, there are a whole bunch of women running around in here, made up to look just like her.”
“I know, one just ran past me,” said Fahimah in Mitchell’s earpiece.
“I’m at the front entrance, and she hasn’t passed me yet,” said Jackson.
“Good, I’m coming to you,” said Mitchell as he turned his back on the Atsuko lookalike and tried making his way around a panicked couple who were trying not to step in the deep-red blood spilled all over the slippery granite floor. He had barely moved his feet when he felt something hard strike his back. Turning his head, he saw the doppelganger standing there with a dumbfounded look on her face. Mitchell saw a Taser held in her hand, the wires trailing to the darts lodged into his back, and he could smell the electricity in the air. He sent a right hook straight at the girl’s head, sending her flying backward onto the floor. Reaching behind him, he angrily pulled out the wires and the darts from his back and then looked down for the woman, only to see that, like a ghost, she had already vanished into the crowd. Shaking his head, Mitchell realized he was being toyed with. He was relieved that the liquid-armor vest he was wearing under his tuxedo jacket had performed magnificently. Built with sheer thickening fluid, a new and unique mixture of Polyethylene glycol and silica nanoparticles, it was liquid under normal conditions but instantly thickened and became as hard as ceramic when force was applied, forming body armor on demand around the spots where the darts had struck his back.
The cloud from what he assumed had to be two smoke grenades slowly began to dissipate, allowing Mitchell to see both the staircase and the entrance of the lobby. He saw that the crowd had now split in two. Some were pushing their way to the staircase while the majority were still heading for the exit, covered by Jackson. Mitchell had no doubt in his mind that Atsuko’s kidnappers would try to leave via the front door, mixed in with the surging mass.
Fahimah was nearing the third floor when she heard shots echo down from above. She thought about reaching for the pistol concealed in her purse, but quickly thought otherwise. A Muslim running about with a pistol in her hand will most likely draw fire instead of help. Besides, she knew that she was an analyst, not a real field agent like Mitchell and Jackson. Instead, she swiftly made her way down to the bottom floor and then called for the drivers of the limo and Hummer to be ready in a moment’s notice to leave, should Mitchell call for them. Her heart was racing in her chest. Pausing to catch her breath, Fahimah took a quick look around and saw one of the women dressed like Atsuko Satomi standing near the elevator, looking nervously over her shoulder while she waited for it to arrive. Taking a deep breath to calm her beating heart, Fahimah walked toward the woman, not really sure what she was going to do, only that she had to do something.
The doors to the elevator chimed and then slid open.
“Hey, you, stop!” called out Fahimah as the woman went to enter the elevator.
Turning her head slightly, the double saw Fahimah barely five meters from her. In a flash, she dropped her purse, brought up a small .22 caliber pistol, and fired it straight at Fahimah. At this range, she couldn’t miss.
In Fahimah’s mind, she saw the pistol and nothing else. Less than a second later, she doubled over from the impact of the bullet hitting her midsection. She never heard the sound of the pistol firing, or the screams of the terrified guests, only the sound of her heart rhythmically beating in her ears as she tumbled down onto the cold, granite-tiled floor. Pain and fear filled her body and mind. Gasping for air, it felt as if her chest was held in a vise that was slowly pushing the life out of her. Fahimah struggled to turn her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the elevator doors sliding shut. The image forever burnt into her mind was the look of regret on her attacker’s face as the doors closed. As she struggled to breathe, Fahimah’s world began to narrow into an ever-constricting tunnel. A second later, she blacked out.
Pushed back against the glass doors, Jackson fought against being swept outside as the sea of people rushed past him and out into the open. He could hear sirens in the distance, but they would arrive too late to help, of that he had no doubt. Towering over most of the patrons, Jackson tried to spot Atsuko in the throng of panicked guests, but it was proving fruitless. He had already seen three women who looked just like her, but none of them looked to have been in any distress. At the back of the crowd, he spotted Mitchell fighting his way through the mob. Raising his hand to wave, Jackson noticed a young Asian woman in a dark gray suit step out of the onrushing swarm. Before he could react, she jammed a handheld Taser into his right thigh. In less than a second, his muscles constricted throughout his body. Burning pain seemed everywhere. White light filled his vision as Jackson dropped to the floor, his body covered in sweat. He could feel his leg still twitching involuntarily from where he had been struck.
“Jesus, Nate, are you all right?” asked a voice, barely audible over the sound of the stampeding people’s feet rushing past Jackson’s head.
When he opened his eyes, Jackson at first saw a blur and then slowly his eyes focused on Mitchell pulling him away from the rush of people. Mitchell propped his friend up against the wall.
“Some Asian girl stepped out of the crowd and used a Taser on me,” mumbled Jackson as he fought to control his ragged breathing. He had never been subjected to a Taser before; it even hurt to breathe. In that instant, he knew he would never again make light of the time Mitchell had been attacked by a thug with a Taser in Charleston.
“Seems to be a lot of that happening here tonight,” replied Mitchell as he quickly undid Jackson’s bow tie and the first couple of buttons on his dress shirt, allowing him to breathe easier.
“Have you found Miss Satomi?” asked Jackson, starting to feel a fraction of a bit better now that he could breathe.
Mitchell looked over his shoulder and said, “No, no I haven’t, and I don’t think that this was the work of some amateur eco-terrorists, either.”
A new voice filled both Mitchell and Jackson’s earpieces. “Agent down! I repeat agent down!” Both men recognized the voice of Bill Masters, the limo driver.
Dread filled Mitchell’s heart. “Report, Bill,” said Mitchell, knowing there could only be one response.
“Miss Nazaria has been shot. I’m with her on the third floor. An ambulance is on its way,” succinctly reported Masters.
Their simple assignment had degenerated into a bloody nightmare. Atsuko had been kidnapped, Matsuda and his men lay dead on the floor of the lobby, and now Fahimah had been shot. Everyone involved had grossly underestimated the opposition, and it had cost them dearly. Mitchell felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. Someone was going to pay, and he intended to collect.
Mitchell felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking over, he saw Jackson grimace as he tried standing. “I’ll head below and check on Fahimah. You find Miss Satomi before it’s too late.” Leaning his back against the wall, Jackson just needed a few more seconds before he could move about on his own.
With a nod, Mitchell patted his friend on the shoulder. Then with anger swelling in his heart, he charged into the crowd, pushing people aside until he stood in the open. The cool night air felt refreshing on his face. Turning on his heel, he could see people streaming to the exit on Independence Avenue while a few others made their way along the pathways beside the Haupt Garden. Some of the terrified guests lay on the ground, struggling to breathe, suffering from the effects of smoke inhalation. All around him, mayhem reigned. Looking back over his shoulder, Mitchell could see a couple of mounted police officers making their way through the panicked mob of people streaming away from the gallery. No matter where he looked, he couldn’t see Atsuko. His rage began to boil up inside him. He couldn’t believe how badly things had gone tonight, when he unexpectedly heard the sound of a motorcycle engine coming toward him. Like the Red Sea parting for Moses, the crowd moved aside as two black-and-yellow motorcycles, driven by a pair of riders dressed in all-black leather clothing, their faces hidden under shiny black helmets, raced through the crowd and came to a sliding halt in front of a group of women. Almost right away, two of the women jumped on the back of the idling bikes. Mitchell swore one of the women was Atsuko Satomi. She was no longer wearing her gray jacket but a black one. No wonder he had lost her in the crowd. He sprinted after the two bikes.
“Stop those bikes,” yelled Mitchell as loud as he could at the two mounted police officers as he vaulted over a man helping a woman lying on the redbrick pathway. Landing like a sprinter doing the hurdles, Mitchell jumped over a couple more people as he closed in on the bikes.
A head turned. Seeing Mitchell charging his way toward them, one of the women said something to the lead motorbike driver, who looked over and then leaned down over the bike’s handlebar. A second later, she popped the clutch and revved her bike’s engine. Like a horse waiting at the start line of a race, the motorbike leapt forward and then began to weave its way through the throng of people standing about in-between the garden and the other buildings lining the path, closely followed by the bike with Atsuko on it.
Mitchell saw all of the other Asian women, less one, fade away into the crowd. Stepping forward to block Mitchell’s path, her eyes burnt with resolve. She reached behind her back and pulled out a small sword. Gripping it tight between her hands, she balanced her weight between her feet and calmly waited for her opponent to arrive.
Mitchell saw the woman standing there with a sword in her hands and Mitchell swerved to his right, trying to avoid the woman. As fast as he could, he kept running; he had no time to waste with her, not while Atsuko Satomi was still in sight.
With a snarl on her lips, the woman saw the move and ran at Mitchell, intent on stopping him.
Quickly looking over his shoulder, Mitchell tried to see where the two police officers were, but saw that they had stopped to help the people behind him. With only feet to go before he smashed into the woman, Mitchell dug his heels in and stopped sharply, reaching behind his back for his pistol. He drew it and took aim.
Challenging him in Japanese, the woman raised the gleaming blade above her head and then, with a loud cry, she went to bring it down on his head, when Mitchell fired a single shot, killing her. The woman’s body fell to the ground with a smoking hole blown into her forehead. Mitchell regretted killing her. He would have preferred to take her alive, so the police could have interrogated her, but there had been no time, and she had been hell-bent on killing him. He placed his pistol into a jacket pocket. Mitchell sprinted once more after the escaping bikes. Behind him, one of the police officers heard the shot and hurried to get back onto his horse.
Up ahead, the bikes turned to the left and disappeared from sight behind several tall trees. Mitchell was a distance runner, not a sprinter; his lungs and legs burnt as he ran as fast as he could in his dress shoes. Turning in front of a tall, red-bricked building, Mitchell could see the bikes trying to make their way through a throng of people coming in from Jefferson Drive, all blissfully unaware of the bedlam unfolding mere meters away.
From behind, Mitchell heard the sound of a horse’s hooves steadily clopping loudly on the path as it galloped up behind him.
“Stop, sir,” said an authoritative voice from behind.
Mitchell could see a young police officer chasing after him. He had no time to explain what was going on. Mitchell dug deep in his gut and poured it on, hoping to the catch the two bikes before they made it to the road now barely a few meters away.
“I said stop, sir,” said the rider as he leaned forward on his horse and tried grabbing the collar of Mitchell’s tuxedo jacket with his outstretched hand.
Something inside Mitchell snapped; he had had enough crap for one evening. Turning on a dime, he reached out, grabbed the rider by his arm, and then in one swift move pulled him right off of his horse, sending him tumbling to the grassy ground. Before the officer was aware that he was no longer on his horse, Mitchell had swung himself up into the saddle. Quickly jamming his feet into the stirrups, Mitchell grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and then with a cry of encouragement, he slapped the horse’s flanks and was rewarded with a loud neigh as the horse took off after the bikes.
A passing bystander helped the stunned police officer to his feet. Reaching for his Motorola, he reported that he had been attacked and that a man in a tuxedo had stolen his horse and was heading for the park.
Yelling as loud as he could, Mitchell called on the people in his way to move aside. Seeing a screaming lunatic on a horse galloping toward them, the crowd instinctively began to split apart, allowing Mitchell’s horse to ride straight through them. Mitchell looked up over the horse’s bobbing head, he saw the two bikes race straight across Jefferson Drive and then, without slowing down, they kept on going straight into the park. With a pat of encouragement on the horse’s neck, Mitchell tried to close the growing gap between himself and the speeding motorbikes. Having ridden a horse for years growing up on a farm in Minnesota, Mitchell was more than comfortable in the saddle. As he approached the crossing, people dashed out of his way as his horse galloped across the busy street, ignoring the blare of car horns and hurled insults of the drivers as it raced after the bikes. Over the jumbled noise of the angered drivers, Mitchell could hear the welcome sound of sirens converging from all over the National Mall.
High above the National Mall, a dark gray helicopter swooped out of the night sky, racing after the fleeing motorbikes. The co-pilot, seeing Mitchell on horseback chasing after them, relayed the information to both the drivers, who turned their heads in unison and looked back. With a quick nod at the driver of the second bike, the lead bike peeled away and turned back toward Mitchell, while the motorbike with Atsuko on it kept going.
Mitchell heard the roar of helicopter’s engine as it flew right over him. He looked up into the air and saw a darkened shape, like a prehistoric beast, fly out of the dark to the far end of the park. A few seconds later, it began to slow down for a landing. Mitchell swore; he had no doubt that they intended to place Atsuko on board and make their getaway in the helicopter before the police could arrive in force to stop them.
Mitchell was surprised to see that one of the bikes had turned about and was now racing straight at him. He could see that the passenger sitting behind the driver had a pistol in her hand. Reaching into his tuxedo jacket pocket, he pulled out his pistol and then leaned as far forward as he could on his horse, giving his opponent less of a target to shoot at. Mitchell lined up the onrushing bike on his right side so he could get a clearer shot. People who had gone for a pleasant nighttime stroll in the park scrambled out of the way as the two adversaries, like knights at a tournament in mediaeval England, charged toward one another. He took a deep breath, looked over his pistol’s sights and then waited. He knew firing from a charging horse was a crapshoot at best, but he had no other choice.
Within seconds, they were barely twenty meters apart. The bike’s passenger fired first. The shot missed, but not by much. Mitchell heard the bullet snap through the air as it sailed right over his head. Waiting one more second until the bike was barely a few meters away, Mitchell aimed and then pulled the trigger. Hit in the chest, the driver let go of the handlebar and then slid down the side of the racing bike. Propelled on by its own speeding momentum, the bike sped past Mitchell, and then a second later began to wobble uncontrollably as the driver fell from the motorbike onto the grassy field. The passenger hit the ground, rolling end over end, until she came to a stop when she plowed into a young couple walking their dog.
Turning his attention to the other bike, Mitchell swore as the bike came to a sliding halt. In a flash, the driver and Atsuko were off the bike and into an open door on the side of the helicopter. With a curse on his lips, Mitchell pulled back hard on his horse’s reins just as the helicopter revved its powerful engine and began to rise effortlessly up from the ground, its rotors sending grass and dirt swirling up into the air, blinding Mitchell. He brought up his hand to block the rotor wash. Mitchell looked up into the night sky at the helicopter banked hard over, began to pick up speed, and then quickly vanished from sight. Climbing down from his borrowed horse, Mitchell let out a cry of rage and anger. He was furious at the people who had taken Atsuko and had shot Fahimah. He was pissed at those who had screwed up the intelligence information, and more than that, he was furious at himself for letting it all happen.
He placed his pistol back into its holster in the small of his back. Mitchell decided to check on the bike’s passenger; perhaps she could be persuaded to shed some light on what the hell was going on. Red and white lights cut through the night as several police cruisers raced out onto the open field. Seeing the bike, with its driver laying facedown on the ground, Mitchell looked about trying to find the passenger among the growing crowd of onlookers, many of whom had their phones out and were excitedly chatting among themselves or were busy recording the grisly scene. Nothing like an accident or a shooting to bring out the morbid curiosity of people, thought Mitchell.
