(2)

Chung started forward.

Usually a good man with words, the actor could see a fading cause when it slapped him across the face. Rollin, summoning strength he should not have had, punched Chung hard, knocking him into his companions. He then ran harder, faster and longer than ever before in his life! He could hear the firing of a couple of shots behind him, the bullets pinging against pavement and run-down buildings but missing him clean.

Rollin was on 9th Street before realizing he had somehow lost the men. Still, he needed to contact Jim and the others, let them know he was injured but alert, and pray Willy got away before he too was jumped on.

Swallowing hard, he looked down at his shoulder. His dark suit made the wound nearly invisible – but he felt it. Hot flames of agony that did not decrease, no matter how many drugs Dr. Greene gave him, staggered Rollin.

He felt himself fading and nearly panicked.

Rollin ducked into an alley to gather himself, wondering how he would feel if the doctor's pain killer did not exist, and leaned against a graphitized barrier. His legs gave away and slowly Rollin slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement. His vision was bleary but, despite the pain, his mind was sharp.

Again, he put it down to Dr. Greene's treatment but also his own good health. Rollin had also taken a stimulant offered by Chung. Could that have something to do with it also, despite Greene's medication?

He needed to get to a telephone booth. Rollin did not know if his monitor had been damaged when he was shot but so far his requests for help had been ignored. Obviously Jim Phelps was not hearing him and, from the looks of it, no one could find him.

The dizziness was just starting to fade when he heard a noise, the clink of a bottle alongside the brick wall his back was resting against.

"You look like you could use this more than me." A gruff voice uttered. A man wearing a knit cap and a dirty torn pea-coat sat next to him and presented a half full bottle of wine to Rollin.

"Thanks. No." Rollin said, feeling the beads of perspiration run down his face. "But I need help. A phone."

"There's one over on Winston Street. Three blocks over on our right." The man advised, his breath pungent but his manner kind, "I know it because it's near a soup kitchen I frequent."

Rollin was amazed the man's voice was so clear to him. Street-bum he might be but he also seemed intelligent. Licking his lips, Rollin thought he could either give the man the phone number to he and Cinnamon's hotel room, possibly terminating the mission, or he could try to make it there on his own. "Can you help me up?"

"You sure? You look like you could use some rest and …" The man pulled back, having saw something, "Is that blood?"

Rollin realized his jacket had pulled back, revealing his shirt. He covered it, "I'm fine. I just need to get to a telephone." He gulped, "Help me, please."

"Sure." The man stood warily and as he helped Rollin to his feet he asked, "What did you do? You're dressed too well to be a common thug. You owe someone money?"

Rollin chuckled, despite the situation. "I just got mixed up with the wrong people. I've got to go …" He looked closely at his new friend, "What is your name?"

"Jose." He said, "Friends call me Joe."

"Thanks Joe. I'll pay you back someday. Promise." He then pushed himself out of the alley. Rollin could hear Joe call out to him, telling him to be careful and also offering further aid. As much as Rollin could use his help he could not involve an outsider. The mission was still on and involving an unaware private citizen was out of the question.

Some orders, no matter the situation, could not be disregarded.

Cinnamon stood outside of their hotel, on the sidewalk, smoking another cigarette as she visually scanned the busy street up and down. Rollin was in trouble and he was late.

Jim had notified her that they had lost contact. His monitor picked up a confrontation then it blanked. The only thing they did know was that Rollin was on the move. They just did not know where he was.

Willy and Barney delivered the weapons, evidence in hand, and returned to the warehouse. Chung, Harper and the rest had deserted the place but he was less worried about that than his potentially injured man. They could pick up Steiner's boys later now that they had evidence against the mob figure.

Cinnamon dropped her cigarette and stomped it with the heel of her chic Julie Randoff shoe. She could still hear Jim's last words to her: "Wherever he is the mission is accomplished. He did his job."

As if that was really what was so important, she thought. Rollin was out there somewhere, possibly hurt and alone. She was deeply worried about him, as she often was. Every instinct told Cinnamon to go look for Rollin but Jim told her to stay put. He had Barney and Willy out and on the job while Jim took care of the weapons, framing Steiner, and arranging for quick transportation out of the state.

New York was a very big place.

Cinnamon turned and was about to go back into the hotel when she was suddenly confronted by someone she never expected to see again.

"Hi honey, we have a date." He lifted his coat to show her he was armed and she better not try to scream.

Roughly, Maxwell Steiner grasped Cinnamon's arm and nearly dragged her back into the hotel with him.

To Be Continued ...