Chapter 6

Chapter 6—More questions than answers

6:03 p.m., Sunday, December 25

Jack carefully closed a razor-sharp combat knife with his thumb, and slid it back into his jacket pocket. He had pulled out and flipped open the blade at the first sign of danger. Now that he was certain that he had thwarted the attack, and that Ice Pick Man did not have a partner with him, Jack began to wind down. “What the hell was this all about?” He wondered,
“Damn it!” Jack muttered under his breath. “That was just too close. I’ve got to be more careful.”
There would be no point in pursuing the man—his attacker sought to kill him, he had no reason to return that favor, at least not for right now. Instead, he just stepped outside the hotel to get a better look at the stranger who had wanted to pierce his heart and lungs.
Amazingly young and fit, Jack observed. Especially to be wielding such an unusual weapon. Sure, an ice pick can be a very deadly weapon. But it was hardly a popular instrument of choice by professionals. Jack had heard that only women and old men used ice picks for anything other than chilling mixed drinks. But he knew that just was not the case.
“Really strange—really strange,” he continued to mutter, taking an additional few steps toward the street, in order to get a better view of the man who had just reached the corner, and had turned west on 34th Street. As Ice-pick Man disappeared behind the corner of the hotel, he glanced back to see if Jack was following.
Jack sensed his heart racing. “This is a bunch of garbage,” he said, again to himself. “Here I am running around with this damn knife. Even a can of mace would work better than this two inch piece of steel.”
Jack waited in front of the hotel long enough for Ice-pick Man to get safely away. “What the hell could this be about?” he asked himself. “That guy must be working for someone. But who could that possibly be? And why would someone want to kill me badly enough to hire a professional—and with an ice pick, of all things? And what idiot would try to pull off something like this, right out in the open? Someone must be pretty damn desperate.”
Only two people should have known that he was coming to New York—his friend, Reginald, and his daughter. Jack had worked with his buddy Reginald on several projects. He knew Reginald to be the consummate professional—someone who would not allow any sensitive information to pass through his lips. The success of jobs such as this depended on total secrecy, and Jack was sure Reginald respected that concept.
“Must be Kate has been talking,” Jack surmised.
“Let me think about this. That fellow was too young to be a typical hired killer. Must be he works for an organization. Now, I would guess that it could be the Russians, or maybe Mossad. … I’ve got to see what that girl of mine has got herself into.”
So, at a brisker than normal pace, and with a new-found intensity, Jack took the first walk light at 34th St., crossing over Eighth Avenue. As he got to the middle of Eighth Avenue, he could not resist the urge to glance west down 34th St., just to be sure Ice-pick Man was not lurking around the corner, seeking to complete the job.
Just as Jack had expected, the man was long gone. He then continued crossing 34th, and headed toward Penn Station. After only a few moments, He heard the familiar voice of his daughter.
“Dad!” Kate called out. “Over here.”