Then she realized that a thirtyish woman was running down West Eleventh Street toward them, carrying a dark green backpack in her left hand. They were gesturing for her to come to them and get into the vehicle, though she didn't appear to see them yet. Halfway down the block behind her, a man in a tan flight jacket was running, calling out.
"Kristen, wait I just want to talk—"
The running woman glanced over her shoulder at him and, at that moment collided with Bartlett's flunky. As she recoiled from the impact the red‑haired woman seized her left arm.
"Kirby, come," the woman said. "You're not well. We'll take you back."
"No!" she yelled, and twisted free of the woman's grasp. But now the Japanese guy had grabbed her other arm.
"It's going to be all right," he said as he caught the top of her head and started shoving her through the open door of the Navigator. "You shouldn't go out alone."
At that moment the man in the tan flight jacket reached the scene. It was Stone, but he'd been moments too late.
He stretched his arm into the Lincoln and tried to take the girl's hand. "Kristen, don't go with them. I just need to talk—"
"You don't need to do anything, pal," the man called Ken declared. "Except get out of the way."
He chopped the side of Stone's neck with an open hand, sending him sprawling backwards onto the pavement, flight jacket askew.