bolt of pain shot through his cranium. He was hovering in that netherworld of being drunk and hung over at the same time: both, yet neither.
Slowly he stood, holding onto the bench, and it vaguely came back to him. The Guilford Bar—a watering hole in the financial district where i-bankers and hedge fund managers went when they had the need to get seriously plowed, which in their line of work was often, if not daily. After that, Jarrod remembered nothing.
After a few deep breaths, Jarrod looked around and had no clue where he was. At least he had his overcoat on, given the chilly spring night.
A naked streetlight illuminated an intersection in some kind of industrial area. Old low-rise brick buildings lined the street, and Jarrod supposed they were warehouses of some kind.
He could have easily used his phone to launch Uber and get out of there , but he was too groggy to focus on the tiny screen. He shuffled off aimlessly in search of a cab.
He’d made it about two blocks with no sign of civilization, but then he came to the entrance of a down-market bar. He tried the door, but it was locked, closed for the night. He resumed his trek and had passed a second bar when a voice behind him said, “Got a light?”
Startled, he turned and saw a shadowy figure wearing a leather jacket, an earring, and a buzz cut.
“I said, you have light?”
“Afraid not. I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad. One of life’s leetle pleshures.”
Through the fog, Jarrod detected an Eastern European accent on the twenty-something voice as it said, “Nice watch.”
Jarrod turned to get away and was brought up short by a second leather-jacketed figure—a shorter and more wiry version than the first. The one blocking his path had a cigarette in his lips that bobbled as he said, “The watch. Now.”
Jarrod turned back to the bigger thug and saw his hand going inside his jacket.
It was a peculiar thing about agency training. You could be in an alcoholic haze, and it would still kick in automatically. He’d practiced it uncountable times at the Farm. “Never let them pull it out,” said the instructor. “Whether it’s a knife or a gun, you have a split second to turn the situation to your favor, so don’t hesitate. If you take time to think, you’re dead. So your reaction has to be so fast it’s instinctual.”
And that’s what happened.
In one fluid movement, Jarrod stepped forward, grabbed the mugger’s forearm, and shoved it deeper into the jacket, catching him off balance. Simultaneously, Stryker brought his right elbow back and launched it into the thug’s trachea with a sickening crunch .
“Get ’em off their feet,” was the second prime directive. He was unaware what the wiry one behind him was trying to pull, so he whirled around with his leg extended in a soccer-style kick. He got lucky and connected on the thug’s ankle, and the momentum dominoed into the other ankle, knocking the wiry one down like a ten pin. After hitting the concrete, the wiry one tried to rise again, but the toe of Jarrod’s Gucci loafer slammed into his nasal cartilage, and twin geysers of blood erupted from his nostrils.
As the big one was rolling on the ground and clutching his throat and the wiry one was screaming in some foreign tongue through a bloody face, Jarrod took off running.
Six blocks later, chest heaving, he stopped and leaned against a lamppost, thinking that was one helluva way to sober up. Adrenaline apparently purged the alcohol from his system, and he was amazed at the clarity of his mind.
As his breathing came under control, the path he had to follow to avert the looming disaster was laid out before him with pristine clarity, and why he hadn’t seen it before was a source of supreme bemusement to him.
Then—the heavens be praised—a cab came around the corner, and he hailed it.
There wasn’t a minute to lose.
*
Caucasus Mountains
Kabardino-Balkaria Republic
The Caucasus Mountain Range runs from the
Slowly he stood, holding onto the bench, and it vaguely came back to him. The Guilford Bar—a watering hole in the financial district where i-bankers and hedge fund managers went when they had the need to get seriously plowed, which in their line of work was often, if not daily. After that, Jarrod remembered nothing.
After a few deep breaths, Jarrod looked around and had no clue where he was. At least he had his overcoat on, given the chilly spring night.
A naked streetlight illuminated an intersection in some kind of industrial area. Old low-rise brick buildings lined the street, and Jarrod supposed they were warehouses of some kind.
He could have easily used his phone to launch Uber and get out of there , but he was too groggy to focus on the tiny screen. He shuffled off aimlessly in search of a cab.
He’d made it about two blocks with no sign of civilization, but then he came to the entrance of a down-market bar. He tried the door, but it was locked, closed for the night. He resumed his trek and had passed a second bar when a voice behind him said, “Got a light?”
Startled, he turned and saw a shadowy figure wearing a leather jacket, an earring, and a buzz cut.
“I said, you have light?”
“Afraid not. I don’t smoke.”
“Too bad. One of life’s leetle pleshures.”
Through the fog, Jarrod detected an Eastern European accent on the twenty-something voice as it said, “Nice watch.”
Jarrod turned to get away and was brought up short by a second leather-jacketed figure—a shorter and more wiry version than the first. The one blocking his path had a cigarette in his lips that bobbled as he said, “The watch. Now.”
Jarrod turned back to the bigger thug and saw his hand going inside his jacket.
It was a peculiar thing about agency training. You could be in an alcoholic haze, and it would still kick in automatically. He’d practiced it uncountable times at the Farm. “Never let them pull it out,” said the instructor. “Whether it’s a knife or a gun, you have a split second to turn the situation to your favor, so don’t hesitate. If you take time to think, you’re dead. So your reaction has to be so fast it’s instinctual.”
And that’s what happened.
In one fluid movement, Jarrod stepped forward, grabbed the mugger’s forearm, and shoved it deeper into the jacket, catching him off balance. Simultaneously, Stryker brought his right elbow back and launched it into the thug’s trachea with a sickening crunch .
“Get ’em off their feet,” was the second prime directive. He was unaware what the wiry one behind him was trying to pull, so he whirled around with his leg extended in a soccer-style kick. He got lucky and connected on the thug’s ankle, and the momentum dominoed into the other ankle, knocking the wiry one down like a ten pin. After hitting the concrete, the wiry one tried to rise again, but the toe of Jarrod’s Gucci loafer slammed into his nasal cartilage, and twin geysers of blood erupted from his nostrils.
As the big one was rolling on the ground and clutching his throat and the wiry one was screaming in some foreign tongue through a bloody face, Jarrod took off running.
Six blocks later, chest heaving, he stopped and leaned against a lamppost, thinking that was one helluva way to sober up. Adrenaline apparently purged the alcohol from his system, and he was amazed at the clarity of his mind.
As his breathing came under control, the path he had to follow to avert the looming disaster was laid out before him with pristine clarity, and why he hadn’t seen it before was a source of supreme bemusement to him.
Then—the heavens be praised—a cab came around the corner, and he hailed it.
There wasn’t a minute to lose.
*
Caucasus Mountains
Kabardino-Balkaria Republic
The Caucasus Mountain Range runs from the
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