her forehead on the door frame so hard that she saw stars. She was roughly pushed into the car.
“Drive, damn it!” a hoarse voice muttered at her side in a London dialect. He had nauseating breath that stank from alcohol and rotten teeth.
For a second, Irene’s brain was paralyzed from surprise and fear. She didn’t have time to scream before he closed the car door. They had landed in a heap on the floor of the passenger compartment. She couldn’t see her attacker, who was still behind and on top of her. She twisted her head using all her strength, but all she saw of the driver through the window between the rear and the driver’s seat was a thick, shaved neck with a large black tattoo.
What did these men want? Who were they? The man who’d grabbed her started groping her breasts, and she was convinced that he was going to rape her, but when he tried to grab her golden pendant, she realized he was trying to rob her.
Then she became completely calm. He had released his grasp on her upper arms; his left arm was around her neck in a chokehold. Irene tensed her neck muscles and seized that arm with one hand. With all her strength, she rammed the elbow of her other arm into his stomach. The air was completely knocked out of him, and his chokehold loosened immediately. In a split second, Irene twisted out of his grip and struggled to his side. She was grateful that London taxis have generous legroom for passengers. Irene kept a steel grip on the man’s arm, twisted it up behind his back, and forced him down onto his stomach. She locked his other hand by sitting on his back, driving her knee below his shoulder blades and holding his arm against the car floor with her free hand. The slightest move would increase the pressure on his back and inflict terrible pain. He lay completely still.
Everything had happened in a matter of seconds. The fat-necked guy in the front seat hardly had time to figure out what had happened, but something had: That much he understood. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.
He tried to turn his head and look down behind him at the floor of the taxi as he drove. Irene heard a half-suppressed curse, and then the car began to skid. It lurched and the tires screamed. Irene had a hard time keeping her hold on the man underneath her. The car came to a dead stop with a dull thud. The driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt. His head struck the windshield, and he lay draped over the steering wheel.
The man under Irene didn’t move either, and she was afraid that he had stopped breathing. Maybe she had unintentionally pushed too hard on his back when the car had stopped suddenly. It was a dangerous hold, and people had died previously after it was used on them. Irene leaned over, and to her relief, she heard the man breathing, but he appeared to be unconscious.
She managed to get the car door open and was helped out by a man who was hurrying toward her. He used one hand to steady her, and in the other he held a cell phone. “. . . crashed at the corner of Westbourne and Lancaster Gate . . . single-car accident ... ran into a pole . . . a woman is uninjured but the men seem badly off . . . ambulance is probably best. . . .”
When the man turned around to find out what had caused the accident, the woman was no longer there.
Chapter 13
EVEN THOUGH IRENE HAD made up her mind not to awaken with a headache, that was exactly what happened anyway. It wasn’t the fault of the alcohol she’d drunk, but that of the large bump on her head, which pounded and ached and was starting to turn blue. It was proof that last night’s attack had really happened and wasn’t a horrible nightmare. The bump, with a little scrape, was located right at her hairline and wasn’t very visible when she brushed her bangs forward, although then the bangs stuck out oddly.
She had sneaked away from the scene of the accident. Feeling that she didn’t have the energy for a night-long police interrogation, she had managed to find her way to the hotel and climb up the stairs to her room. Despite being shaken by the happenings of the