It took a moment to work out what; all he initially had was a feeling of wrongness. But why? He was only a few hundred yards from home. Then he realised the cause.
A young man with dusty blond hair stood not far ahead, talking on a phone. Nothing unusual about that — except that when he had glanced in Eddie’s direction, his eyes had met the Englishman’s and displayed recognition, an involuntary split-second confirmation that somebody he was expecting had arrived. Then he looked away, but too quickly.
The mystery man wasn’t a mugger. He was waiting specifically for Eddie. And he had an oddly clean-cut air that felt out of place for a street criminal, a neat, conservative haircut and casual clothes that looked brand-new.
Eddie didn’t know him, but the face was somehow familiar. He had seen him before, though couldn’t place when or where. He kept walking, but tensed, ready to respond to anything that might happen.
The man seemed to pick up on his wariness. He pocketed his phone and stepped to the centre of the sidewalk. There was a parked van to one side, a wall to the other. If Eddie got closer, he would be caught in a channel, the only escape routes being either to retreat the way he had come — or go through his adversary.
He chose the latter. The man was younger than him — late twenties — and taller, but the former SAS soldier was confident he could handle him.
The other man’s eyes locked on to him as he reached the van — then flicked to something behind him.
Eddie spun as he heard the sudden scuff of someone breaking into a run, seeing another young man charging at him. The first ambusher rushed to catch him in a pincer—
The Englishman dropped the bag and swiped the top off the cup — then flung its contents into the running man’s face. ‘No soup for you!’
The jambalaya was still hot enough to hurt. The second man let out a yelp as he wiped his eyes — only for the sound to become a choked screech as Eddie’s foot slammed firmly into his groin. He collapsed on the pavement.
Eddie whirled to face the blond, but a lunging fist caught the side of his face. He reeled as the blow jarred his skull, recovering just in time to intercept a second blow with his arm.
He straightened and faced his opponent, who shifted his stance. The younger man had clearly expected an easy victory, but now that he had a real fight on his hands, he was stepping up his game.
One of the man’s feet lanced at Eddie’s kneecap. He jinked away, an elbow barking against the van’s side. Fists shot at him, left high then right low; he swatted away the first, but the second punch caught his side. He let out a grunt of pain. Satisfaction on his attacker’s face, then he darted forward to deliver another blow—
Eddie caught his arm with both hands. Before the younger man could react, he forced it downwards and twisted the elbow, hard. The joint crackled. The man started to cry out — but was silenced as Eddie head-butted him in the face, mashing the cartilage in his nose with a gushing squirt of blood.
The Englishman threw him against the wall. The second man tried to stand. Eddie kicked his head, then turned to run—
Something stabbed into the back of his leg — and a searing pain tore through his body as all his muscles locked solid.
He fell, paralysed and helpless as a Taser’s agonising charge burned into his thigh. Through clenched eyes he saw a third, older man emerge from the van’s side door and stand over him, shouting orders to his companions. They dragged him across the sidewalk and threw him into the vehicle. The stun-gun shut off, the pain fading, but Eddie had no time to move before his attackers delivered several brutal revenge-fuelled kicks, then secured his wrists and ankles with zip-ties.
The third man slammed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat. The van peeled away with a skirl of overstressed tyres.
Eddie struggled to break loose, but the plastic strips were unyielding. ‘Get off me, you fuckers!’
‘Shut him up,’ ordered the driver, looking back. Late forties, American, narrow eyes and a small, mean mouth.
‘You come and shut me up, you fucking shithead! I’ll—’ The words choked in his throat as the first man reactivated the Taser, another excruciating jolt of electricity blazing through him. A piece of rag was forced into his mouth, then a length of duct tape slapped roughly across his cheeks to hold it in place. The blond glared down at him. Eddie realised where he had seen him before — Little Italy, a month earlier, mistaking him for the Nazi who had attacked Nina. Whatever the men wanted, they had been following him for some time.
The current ceased, but all Eddie could do was scream muffled obscenities as the van disappeared into the crowded streets of New York.
The cursor continued to blink relentlessly, still fixed in place on the laptop’s screen.
Nina stared at it, then sighed. Maybe she would feel more productive after lunch. Which reminded her: where was her lunch?
She looked at the clock on the menu bar. Even allowing for the detour to the soup store, Eddie was late. That wasn’t like him; as an ex-military man, timekeeping was engrained into him at almost a cellular level, and if there had been some problem en route he would have phoned. So where was he?
A knock at the front door. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, going to answer it.
She reached for the lock — then hesitated. Why would Eddie knock? He had keys. It was possible that his hands were full… but the New Yorker’s innate security-consciousness prompted her to look through the peephole.
It wasn’t Eddie.
Standing in the hallway were a tall, short-haired black man and a white woman with a dark bob and unflattering thick-framed glasses, both smartly dressed in light clothing. She didn’t recognise either. ‘Yeah?’ she called. ‘Who is it?’
‘Dr Wilde?’ said the woman. ‘We need to talk to you about your husband.’
Worry filled her. ‘What about my husband? Is he okay?’ Were they cops? Had they come to tell her that something had happened to Eddie?
‘Can we talk to you, please?’
Again, she was about to release the lock when caution returned. If they were cops, they would have identified themselves by now. She put the chain on the door and opened it a crack. ‘Who are you? What’s—’
Nina leapt away in fright as the door was kicked open, the chain ripping from the wood. The man advanced on her, drawing a gun. The woman followed him inside. ‘Stay where you are, Dr Wilde,’ she snapped. ‘Shut up and you won’t get hurt.’
Another two men filed into the apartment behind them. ‘What the hell is this?’ Nina managed to say, outrage pushing through her fear. ‘What do you want?’
‘Come with us,’ said the man with the gun.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she replied. ‘Get the fuck out of my house!’
One of the other men twitched in distaste at the obscenity. The woman ignored it, producing a tablet computer. ‘You will come with us, or your husband suffers. Look.’ She switched on the device.
Ice ran through Nina’s veins as she saw the image on the screen. It was Eddie, pinned to the floor by two men, his hands bound behind his back and tape covering his mouth.
‘Hit him,’ said the woman. In response, the men punched their prisoner in the stomach. There was no sound, but Nina could almost hear the impacts. Eddie writhed in pain, cheeks blowing out as he struggled to breathe behind his gag.
‘No!’ she cried, horrified. ‘Let him go!’
‘If you come with us and do what you’re told, he’ll be safe,’ said the gunman. He gestured towards the open door. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Not until you—’
The woman cut her off. ‘Hit him again.’ The screen displayed another blow, this one to Eddie’s face. Blood oozed from his nostrils.