by DL Barbur
“Hey! Let her go!” I yelled. They stopped, then turned and looked at each other.
“Ok,” one of them said with a smirk, and then both let go of the woman.
Something was wrong. The woman ran towards me and I had just enough time to realize the long blond hair was a wig that was askew on her head. Underneath the dress, she wore jeans and combat boots.
She kicked me in the balls.
We frequently practiced defending against groin shots in Krav. I had just enough time to twist my hips a fraction, so the toe of her combat boot glanced off the inside of my thigh and then traveled into my groin, instead of landing squarely. That made the difference between staying on my feet and hitting the ground. Still, I hunched a little and fought to breathe. It felt like a bomb had gone off in my groin.
She made the mistake of trying to kick me in the same place, the same exact way. She teed off for another ball shot, and this time I was ready. I brought my left leg over and intercepted the kick, disrupting her balance. As soon as my left foot hit the ground again, I threw a lunging left jab at her face. I was off balance from the ball shot, so it lacked power, but it still nailed her square between the eyes. The wig slipped off, revealing a bald head underneath and she staggered backward.
Then the two Hammerheads were on me. One threw a wild haymaker, which I ducked under. I came back with an uppercut to the body, but I was off balance and still rocked by the groin kick, so it didn’t land with much force. The other guy slipped in, grabbed me in a bear hug around my arms, and slammed me against a parked car. I tried to stomp on his instep but missed. I head-butted him and was rewarded with a sick crunch as his nose flattened against my forehead, but he hung on, and immediately headbutted me back. I managed to drop my chin, so his forehead slammed into mine.
I fought to get free, but the guy was huge, easily my height, and yoked out with muscles that were the obvious products of free weights and steroids. I felt like my ribs were going to crack under the pressure, and fought to take a breath.
His buddy was trying to maneuver around and throw punches but succeeded only in hitting the guy bear hugging me. The woman ran up and started stomping at my feet and kicking at my shins. I fought to maintain my balance. The last thing I wanted was to get thrown on the ground so they could have a boot party on my head. My arms were pinned to my sides, so I couldn’t access my guns, knives, or sap. I tried to turn so the gun on my right hip was pressed against the car, out of fear one of them would see or feel my pistol.
I was screwed. This couldn’t last much longer. I kept fighting to get free, but I knew it was futile. My only hope was for one of the cops to see what was going on, or for Dalton to show up. I buried my face against the chest of the man bear hugging me, both to keep him from headbutting me again, and make it harder for his buddy to punch me in the face. I tried to lower my weight and spread my legs to keep him from throwing me. The woman teed off and kicked me in the side of the calf and my leg almost buckled.
There was a screech of brakes, and I felt a moment of hope, thinking it was a cop car.
“Move,” I heard somebody say, and the woman and the guy throwing punches stepped back, while the guy clinching with me held on.
I heard a hiss, then I felt two pinches on my right side and leg, and then I felt like my whole body was on fire. I’d been shocked with a Taser before, but that didn’t make it any easier. The guy bear-hugging me groaned. Apparently, he got to feel a little of the effects too.
The ground came up and hit me. My muscles jerked I flopped around as the guy kept shocking me. More hands grabbed my arms, and I felt my hands being bound together. Then I was picked up and thrown into a van that was waiting with its door slid open.
There was a big bald man sitting inside. I had just enough time to recognize Rickson Todd before a black hood was drawn over my face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The van door slid shut and I started kicking, which immediately earned me another ride on the Taser. I felt like my brain was rattling around in my head. I tried to scream, but couldn’t make my mouth work right. All that came out was a low “nnnnnnnnnnnnn” sound. The guy with the Taser let up, and I immediately started to roll. The Taser fired little barbs that were hooked up to the weapon by a thin wire, and I rolled hoping I could pull the barbs out.
He immediately shocked me again, and this time it felt like it lasted forever. My chest seized up and I felt like I was drowning. I tried to struggle to sit up, but couldn’t move.
Finally, the electricity stopped and I fell limp. I felt exhausted, like I’d just run a dozen miles. I hurt all over.
“Yeah. He’s breathing,” I heard a man say.
Barely, I thought. I felt like I was struggling to pull enough air through the thick cloth that was over my face. With each gasping inhalation, the cloth got sucked into my mouth. I felt like I was right on the verge of asphyxiating. I wanted to fight if for no other reason just to make them earn it, but I couldn’t make myself move.
“We disabled the timer on the Taser,” a man’s rough voice said. “I can shock you as long as I want.”
The Taser had a built-in safety feature and shut off the juice after a prescribed period of time. I wasn’t sure what would happen if it was applied indefinitely but I didn’t want to find out. I decided to quit fighting, for the moment.
First, my shoes were pulled off, then I felt my clothes being systematically cut away, probably with EMT shears. In only a couple of minutes, I was naked on the floor of the van. I realized this was probably how the first ambush, back at the house in Hazelwood, was supposed to end. I was lucky that time. Not so much now.
“Here,” I heard one of them say. The van’s window rolled down, there was the clatter of something hitting the street outside, then the window went back up. I guessed that was my radio and phone.
I made one last effort to sit up and was rewarded with a punch to the kidney for my efforts. I gagged and then threw up in my mouth a little bit. I fought to hold the vomit in my mouth, then swallow it, afraid that I’d suffocate if it got all over the bag over my head. I choked it back down and lay there panting. I wanted to resist, just to be defiant, but I knew there was no sense in getting my ass stomped just for the sake of my ego.
They turned on talk radio, as loud as the cheap speakers in the van would go. They were trying to keep me from hearing anything outside. I had no idea where we were. I tried to estimate how long it had been since they threw me in the van, and realized I didn’t really know. It couldn’t have been that long. I guessed we were probably still inside the city limits. The van slowed down and sped up, and took the occasional turn. We stopped completely a couple of times, I guessed for stop lights or stop signs. Then we settled into a steady speed. I wondered if we were on an interstate or state highway.
My hands were bound, I thought with flex-cuffs, and so were my feet. I pulled gently and realized both my hands and my feet were attached to something inside the van, probably a seat post or something similar. So even if I were able to get the door open, I couldn’t fling myself out.
My efforts were rewarded by a kick to the ribs.
“Hold still.”
I lay there and fought a rising panic. I was naked, bound and had a hood over my face that barely allowed me to breathe. Nobody knew where I was. Todd was going to kill me. That was a given. As I lay there, I tried not to imagine all the nasty shit he might want to do to me first.
After that last command, no one spoke. I wasn’t even entirely sure how many people were in the van. This was all calculated to keep me as disoriented and as off balance as possible. It was working. I tried to count my breaths. I figured about fifteen breaths a minute and tried to keep track of how many minutes. I wasn’t sure if it actually gained me anything. It just made me feel like I had a little bit of control and helped me keep the feelings of panic and helplessness at bay.
I had one thing going for me. The longer I stayed quiet and compliant on the floor of the van, the more comfortable
my captors would be with me being there, and more they would subconsciously assume that I would continue to not be a threat. Right now, I had no way out, but it wouldn’t always be that way. I would need to feign compliance, then if an opportunity presented itself, explode. I’d probably die trying, but in some ways that didn’t bother me that much. I just wanted some input on how it happened.
So I tried to get comfortable on the floor of the van, and ignore the voice screaming in the back of my head that I needed to get out now. I tried to rest, and take stock of my body. I hurt all over, but nothing was broken. I tried to shift every now and again ever so slightly, to keep my legs and feet from falling asleep. I realized there was very little chance I was going to get out of this, but if an opportunity presented itself, I didn’t want to blow it because my legs buckled under me due to lack of circulation.
Somehow it was easier to be naked with the hood over my head. Stripping me wasn’t just a way to see if I had any hidden weapons or escape tools. They also wanted me humiliated and off balance, more concerned about the shame of being naked in front of other men than concerned with trying to escape. It didn’t bother me as much as it would some people, but I would have greatly preferred to have some clothes on.
What concerned me more was being barefoot. Like most Americans, the soles of my feet were pretty tender. I wore shoes most of the time, and I didn’t much relish the idea of running off barefoot. If I couldn’t get mine back, this was going to be a problem. I have big feet.
We took a right-hand turn, and I heard the crunch of gravel under the tires as we slowed down. I felt the other men in the van stirring. It sounded like we’d be getting out soon. I forced myself to stay relaxed, experimented with moving my arms and legs as much as I could to make sure they weren’t asleep.
The van door slid open. My legs were cut loose, then my hands. My hands were still bound together, but I was no longer connected to the van. I was dragged out and thrown on the ground. A boot heel ground down on the Achilles tendon of my right leg and I involuntarily let out a yelp, then inwardly cursed myself for it. I clamped my jaws together and resolved not to make any more noises, no matter what they did.
“Get up,” a man said. “If I have to carry you, I’m going to break your ankle.”
I played along. They stood me up and I got my feet under me. I felt myself tensing up as they led me forward. There was a man on either side of me, each with a hand on one of my arms. I shivered, not just because of the cool evening breeze, but because of fear. I wondered if this was it, if they were going to just shoot me in the back of the head and dump me.
I heard a door being pulled open, then I was pushed up a few stairs. I almost stumbled but managed to keep my balance.
They say blind people develop more acute senses to compensate for their lack of eyesight. I didn’t know if the hood had been over my face long enough for that to happen, or if this place just stank. It smelled like old fried food, garbage that needed to be taken out, and sweaty funk. The carpet under my feet felt kind of greasy, and despite all my other concerns, I found myself not wanting to touch it.
They led me a few feet. I got the impression we were in a cramped hallway, mostly from having one guy’s hip jammed into my bare ass, and the other guy’s hip jammed into my bare privates. Then they shoved me through a doorway.
“Sit.” I was shoved down on to a chair. My hands were still zip-tied together, behind my back, and it hurt to sit on them. I sat there as somebody ran another set of zip ties around my bound hands to the chair. Then I heard the “zip” as another set of the plastic ties snugged up around my ankles, binding me to the legs of the chair.
Then I sat. From the occasional rustling noise, I got the impression that someone was in there with me, but I wasn’t sure. From farther away in the building I heard male voices. I was pretty sure one of them was Todd, and there were at least two others. I couldn’t make out words, just the sound of them talking.
I wasn’t sure how long I was there, but it was long enough for my arms and legs to start to ache. My left arm, the one that had been cut the year before, was the worst. The pins and needles started in my hand almost right away. I tried shifting to get comfortable but I was locked down to the chair, and couldn’t move. The chair itself felt flimsy. It was made of wood and creaked under my weight every time I shifted. I had just a little bit of wiggle room with my hands. Zip ties actually made poor restraints. They could be broken open with raw strength, as long as you didn’t mind some cuts. I felt pretty sure I could pop them apart, but right now it would be stupid. I had no idea what was going on around me. There could be five guys standing within feet of me, each with a gun pointed at my head. Busting loose right now was a recipe to be either killed or immediately recaptured.
I had to pee, and considered just letting loose on the floor, but didn’t want to sit in it.
I made myself bide my time. This was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I was good at waiting, but I wasn’t good at being helpless.
Outside, the screen door slammed. I heard a snatch of words I could make out. It was something about “load the others into the van” but I couldn’t hear anything else.
I heard the tread of feet on the carpet.
“How’s he doing?” I was pretty sure it was Todd.
“He’s been pretty still,” another man said. I jumped at how close he was. It seemed like he was only a foot or so away.
The hood was jerked off my head, and I found myself staring into Rickson Todd’s eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Hello, Dent.” Todd sounded awfully chipper, but then again he wasn’t the one zip-tied to a chair.
I took a second to respond, using the time to look around at my surroundings. I was in a cramped bedroom. A mattress lay on the floor beside me, with dirty tangled sheets on top. There was no other furniture. Clothes lay all over the floor, in piles that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to me. The walls were decorated with a Confederate flag, a picture of Hitler, and pictures of nude models torn out of magazines. I didn’t even know people read magazines like that anymore. I thought it was all online. The centerpiece of the room was a little wooden rack, screwed crookedly to the wall, that held signed baseballs.
“I hoped to capture either you or Dalton. I figured it would be you. I knew you’d fall for that damsel in distress routine. I bet you were surprised when she kicked you in the balls.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d been sitting there, knowing this was coming and had resolved not to take any bait Todd offered. I’d gone to that cold emotionless place, where I was totally goal-oriented and devoid of feelings. All I wanted was an opening to exploit.
Instead of talking, I thought about my surroundings. The hall outside the bedroom door was barely wide enough for a broad-shouldered man. The far wall was covered in cheap paneling. I was pretty sure I was in a single wide trailer home. That actually helped me out quite a bit. Trailer homes had never been as popular in the north-west as they had been in Appalachia where I grew up. In large parts of Portland, they were prohibited by zoning ordinances. I doubted we were in a trailer park. We were most likely on a rural, or semi-rural piece of property in one of the neighboring counties.
“How about we cut through all the bullshit, Dent,” Todd said. “You tell me everything you know about Bolle’s operation, and I’ll let you walk out of here.” He smirked when he said it.
I weighed possible responses, ranging from the anatomically impossible to the succinct and obscene.
“You throw in a million dollars and a pony and you’ve got a deal,” I said, flat and mechanical. Judging by the Confederate flag and picture of Adolf on the wall, this place belonged to one of the West County Hammerheads. So I was in Washington County, probably one of the little pockets of rural poverty that existed out here. The Hammerheads flourished in places like that like germs in a Petri dish.
Todd seemed disappointed that I wasn’t rising to the bait. I don’t know what he expected. I wasn’t p
rone to tears and begging. I wished he’d just go ahead and do whatever it was he was going to do. Visions of having my fingernails pulled out, or electricity applied to my genitals rose up, and I squashed them down as quickly as I could.
“Why me?” I asked. I might as well fish for some information. “Why bother capturing me?”
“You were a target of opportunity. It suits my needs to have Bolle concerned with getting one of his pet dogs back, while I pursue other interests.”
I was surprised he revealed that much to me. He was probably going to kill me.
“I think you may be overestimating my worth to Bolle,” I said. That was actually true. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed Bolle would alter his plans a bit because I’d been captured. I could easily see him writing me off as a combat loss and driving on.
“I think you underestimate your ability to be a pain in the ass,” Todd said. “You’ve got a fairly undistinguished background, but you caused us no end of problems last year.”
“You’re sitting in a trailer home that smells like ass, surrounded by your wannabe Nazi friends, and you want to talk about my undistinguished background?” I said.
He laughed. There was no getting to this guy, so I didn’t know why I was even trying. He reminded me of the jock guys in high school, the ones that scored big on the football field and thought they were entitled to the occasional date rape of a cheerleader. Their arrogance had caused them to underestimate me more than once. They couldn’t conceive of being beaten by some trashy kid who lived in a trailer and wore the same clothes several days a week. They were always surprised when I kicked the shit out of them.
“In all seriousness, Miller, you have some insights we might find valuable. I know there’s a lot of water under the bridge, but it’s not too late to salvage this situation. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way involves some money, a change in your situation for the better. The hard way involves a plane ride to somewhere dry and sandy and lots of quality time with some of my guys who have spent the last ten years making Abdullah the bomb maker tell us all his secrets.”