The Ninth Orphan Read Online Free Page A

planted its own agents undercover. He didn’t have time to figure it out. In less than a second, Nine turned, dropped the Chinese man with a karate blow to the neck then sprinted for the nearest exit. Gone was his earlier shuffle. He now moved like an athlete.
    The redheaded woman pocketed her cell phone, stood up and pointed at the fleeing Hasid. “Stop that man!” she screamed.
    Hearing the woman, the two policemen who had just walked by ran to intercept Nine. As they were closer to the exit, they both beat him to it. There, they drew their batons and advanced on him. They were surprised when the supposedly old Hasid kept running toward them. Ninja-like, Nine leapt in the air and knocked out the first policeman with a roundhouse kick to the head. He followed this with a power punch to the now unconscious man’s chin to be doubly sure he wouldn’t pose any further problem.
    The other policeman, a particularly beefy individual, looked on in disbelief. He’d never seen anyone move like that before. He raised his baton to strike the offender. Before he could bring it down, Nine glided gracefully to his left and effortlessly swept the man’s feet out from under him. The martial art Nine was using was Teleiotes, a secret fighting style Kentbridge had taught him at the orphanage.
    Before the policeman could recover, Nine employed a sleeper hold, rendering him unconscious. The operative then quickly surveyed his surroundings before sprinting through the gates. Behind him, the young lovers he’d passed earlier looked horrified at the sudden display of violence by the seemingly elderly Jewish man.
    In Kensington High Street, Nine slowed to a walk and merged in with other pedestrians. He approached a stationary black taxi, casually opened its rear passenger door and climbed in, apparently unworried by the distant howl of police sirens.
    Deep down, he was concerned, but his Omega training never allowed him to show fear. Emotions, facial expressions, body language. All had to be kept in check. “Be like the eye of the cyclone and remain calm amidst chaos,” he heard Kentbridge say.
    An aching in his arm reminded Nine of the surgery he’d performed on himself before fleeing the Philippines. He’d almost forgotten about it since arriving in London. The exertions of a few minutes earlier had aggravated it. He hoped the stitches hadn’t torn.
    The taxi headed down Gloucester Road toward the River Thames and soon reached the upmarket neighborhood of South Kensington. As the taxi pulled into the residential street of Cranley Gardens, two police cars followed from the adjoining Old Brompton Road, their sirens howling and lights flashing.
    Inside the taxi, the driver, a portly Welshman, looked in his rear-vision mirror. “Wonder who they're chasing?” he asked.
    Nine ignored the driver whose strong Welsh accent was barely intelligible. The operative was solely focused on a towering Armenian church directly ahead. Saint Yeghiche Church couldn’t be missed. It was something of a local landmark. Nine had noticed it on a previous assignment in London.
    As it drew steadily closer, his hawk-like vision spotted a sign hanging above the church’s entrance. It read: Closed for Maintenance . “Stop here,” he instructed the driver in a heavy Israeli accent.
    The driver stopped directly outside the old building. His customer paid him then climbed out of the taxi and walked as fast as he dared toward the church’s entrance. The driver watched him until he disappeared inside before turning his attention back to his rear vision mirror as the pursuing police cars pulled up behind his taxi. Two or three policemen jumped out of each car and sprinted into the church.
    Inside Saint Yeghiche Church, a senior officer led his men up a narrow, spiral staircase leading to the building’s upper floors. They were slowed by a group of maintenance workers who were descending at the same time.
    As they climbed higher, the policemen were greeted by a