Chapter 414: An Ambush
Sounds of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor. O’Neill, sipping tea in the hotel lobby by the window, turned his head.
The players, having just finished a short break, spilled out. Some were still yawning, others dragging their feet. But Zanetti broke through the cluster, spun on his heels, and barked out,"Come on, hurry up! Don’t look like you’re half asleep — this is no time for afternoon tea!"
Ever since the team’s goals for the season had been firmly set, Zanetti seemed to have rediscovered his drive overnight. His voice carried across the lobby with a commanding energy.
O’Neill checked his watch: 1:55. Perfect. The timing was right. He placed the teacup back on the saucer, folded his newspaper, and slid it neatly into the rack beside his chair before rising.
It was April 7th, just before two in the afternoon. Outside, at the Scottsdale Hotel in South London, a deep blue coach stood parked quietly at the entrance. The silver lettering read "Manchester City", the club crest emblazoned proudly on its side. The bus waited like a sentinel, ready to carry the squad into the lion’s den — literally. Their destination was The Den, home of Millwall.
The players noticed their silent manager by the doorway. Instinctively, their pace quickened; even the laziest stragglers began to jog toward the bus. They didn’t need to be told. His expression alone urged them forward. A few whispered among themselves, confused as to why O’Neill looked so unhappy when they had just secured the Premier League title. Ever since training had resumed after that victory, none of them had seen him laugh.
One by one, the squad filed onto the bus. Mourinho, standing near the steps, counted them off before reporting, "Martin, everyone’s here."
"What about the other staff?" O’Neill asked.
"They left earlier with the equipment."
O’Neill gave a small nod. "Good. Let’s go too."
He was about to step onto the bus when a voice called out behind him:
"Sir! Wait! Mr. O’Neill, hang on a minute!"
Both he and Mourinho turned. Bursting out of the lobby came Sadie Carpenter, head of the official Manchester City Magazine. Her leather notebook clutched in one hand, she half-ran, half-tripped toward them, out of breath and red in the face.
"What’s the matter?" O’Neill asked, his brow furrowing.
The players already seated on the bus craned their necks toward the windows, whispering curiously.
Panting heavily, Sadie bent forward, hands on her knees, before straightening up again. She forced out between breaths: "Very... sorry... could you please give me a lift?"
O’Neill blinked, surprised. "You want me to let a reporter onto the team bus? Sadie, that’s... unusual."
"I know, I know!" Sadie raised both hands, flustered. "I overslept. My colleagues already left without me. They must have thought I’d gone ahead. But my bag — my wallet — it’s all with them. I can’t even take a taxi." Her embarrassment was palpable, her voice breaking into a plea.
O’Neill sighed, studying her. Sadie had often written favorable pieces about him in the press. And now, stranded and humiliated, she looked utterly helpless. Refusing her would feel cruel.
He turned toward the bus, intending to announce it. The players were already leaning out of their seats, curiosity in their eyes.
"What’s going on, boss?" someone asked.
O’Neill gestured toward Sadie. "Official club magazine. She wants to ride with us to The Den. She’s alone and—"
But before he could finish, Mourinho cut him off sharply. "Martin, now’s not the time for an interview. We can’t waste time — and the seats are nearly full already."
The sudden edge in his tone startled all the players.
O’Neill frowned. "José—"
But Mourinho’s face had already darkened. His voice dropped, quieter but more forceful."You know the rule. This is a team bus. No outsiders. Especially not a woman."
There were certain taboos in professional football that could not be ignored in any country. The words carried a weight of superstition that every seasoned player understood. Allowing a woman on the team bus before a match was considered a dire omen — a sign of bad luck. That was why Mourinho had spoken so sharply. Naturally, the rest of the team would also be firmly against letting a woman onto the bus bound for The Den.
"What are you saying?" O’Neill rebuked his assistant, before beckoning to Sadie.
"Thank you very much, Sir! And you too, Sir!" Sadie said gratefully, trying to shake their hands.
O’Neill cut her off. "Stop with the formalities. We’ve been delayed long enough. If you want to thank us, then keep helping the club — by putting in a few good words in the papers."
The Blues’ bus traveled through the crowded London traffic. At this hour, every road leading to The Den was expected to be heavily congested. To outsiders, this match might not have seemed important, but for the Millwall fans who lived nearby, it meant everything. They flocked to The Den from all directions to watch the Premiere League match.
Half the season had already passed, and Millwall were still rooted to the bottom of the league table, battling it out with Tottenham, Bolton Wanderers, Barnsley, and Crystal Palace. Judging by the situation, a good cup run might be their only chance to salvage the season.
Along the way, they could see cars carrying Millwall fans driving past the side of the City team bus. Those fans, wearing in the blue and white Millwall jerseys, would stick their heads out of the cars when they saw the Blues bus. They snarled and bared their teeth at them as they brandished their fists and gave them the middle finger. By making out the shapes of their mouths while they were shouting obscenities, they could understand the meaning of their swearing.
The bus sped on, and as it passed a narrow alley, Sadie instinctively raised his camera—CLICK!—capturing the moment. Out of sight of the CCTV cameras and beyond the reach of the police, a battle erupted between the Millwall hooligans and Manchester City’s Blazing Squad, all for their own twisted sense of glory.
Not only in football, these people were also the black spots of British society, stubborn stains that could hardly be erased. No matter how harshly the government cracked down, hooligans—born from the working-class terraces and rooted deep in the culture of the game—always found a way to survive. They were like shadows that clung to the sport itself. Some outsiders might sympathize, even romanticize them, much as Sadie once had. Others envied their reckless brotherhood, itching to join, to swing fists in the name of their crew and burn with pride for their team’s badge.
Snapping out of her dark thoughts, Sadie blinked. The view outside the window hadn’t changed for some time. Frowning, she leaned forward, then glanced back. The bus wasn’t moving. Neither were the cars ahead nor those crammed behind.
"Hey, what’s going on?" She called to O’Neill at the front.
O’Neill twisted in his seat, gave a helpless shrug. "Don’t know. We’re stuck."
At that moment, one of the staff rose and paced the aisle, scanning the players. Nobody else seemed to notice anything unusual. The squad was scattered in their own worlds—earphones plugged in, eyes shut in shallow naps, murmuring into phones, or chatting idly with their seatmates. For them, it was just another ride to another ground.
But Sadie couldn’t shake off the feeling. Something about this jam was... wrong.
She pressed closer to the glass, trying to catch a better view. From his angle, the road stretched ahead like a frozen river of steel, cars bumper to bumper. Behind them, the same—a wall of vehicles with nowhere to go. Even if the driver had wanted to swerve off down a side street, there was no room.
Until suddenly—
CRASH!
Shards of glass rained down as a brick smashed through one of the windows.
BANG!
The bus lurched as something heavy struck its side. For a split second, everyone inside froze. Then the shouts erupted.
"Oi! What the hell?!"
The players jerked awake, earphones ripped out, phones tumbling to the floor. Some ducked instinctively, others stared wide-eyed at the jagged hole in the window. The staff shouted over the noise, urging everyone to stay low.
Outside, chaos boiled over. Dozens of figures surged out from the alleys and side streets, faces hidden beneath scarves and hoods. Bottles, bricks, and even flares arced through the air toward the stranded bus.
"They’re attacking us!" Sadie gasped, clutching his camera. He could hear the chants now, guttural and violent, swelling in unison—Millwall’s hooligan firm clashing with City’s Blazing Squad.
The driver leaned on the horn, but it was drowned out by the roar of fists hammering the metal frame, boots kicking the doors, and the sharp crack of another window giving way. Smoke began to curl in from a lit flare that clattered against the side, leaving a streak of burning red.
Panic spread through the cabin. Some players shielded their heads with their arms; others crouched in the aisle, swearing under their breath. Sadie’s pulse hammered. This wasn’t just a traffic jam—this was an ambush, laid perfectly, with the bus caught dead center.