CHAPTER 13:
It was dark outside when I left the world of the cloistered and set out for the parking lot. Although it wasn’t even six o’clock, the night had fallen with a hard finality. The gloom seemed to extend to the heavens; the stars were hidden in murk and there wasn’t even a sighting of the moon to mitigate the night.
Out of respect to the reverend mother I had set my cell phone to vibrate. I was at the far end of the meditation garden when my pocket started buzzing. As I accepted the call, I heard a whooshing sound. My hello was left hanging-much like I was. I was pulled backward by my neck, and my cell phone and bag of gift shop goodies went flying from my hand. I tried to cry “Shit!” but the tightening noose around my neck didn’t even leave me enough wind to curse.
Denied air, I panicked and clawed desperately at the noose. My attackers expected that; loops closed around my wrists and took over the control of my arms. I felt like the steer in a team roping event. I was wrapped up so tight all I was missing was a bow on my head. No air was making it to my lungs. I frantically tried to reach for my gun but was pulled from so many angles I couldn’t even get close to it. The more I struggled, the more the loops dug into me.
There were three of them. The working part of my mind realized I was being taken down with animal-control poles. The rudimentary part of my mind was screaming for flight or fight, but I couldn’t do either. I was in the grips of three animal-control poles, the kind of devices used on a Rottweiler or a pit bull. The poles had been designed to neutralize dogs with fierce teeth and big muscles. I was short those teeth and muscles; worse, I was snared in three places and becoming oxygen deprived. Animal-control poles are made from aircraft-grade aluminum; they resist bending or breaking even under extreme conditions, and the cables are designed to not twist. No hangman could have hoped for a better noose, or three better nooses. Still, I reacted as a panicked animal would, twisting and pulling and struggling.
My attackers were on all sides of me. I tried to strike out at them, swinging with my arms and kicking with my legs, but the poles were too long for me to get to them, and they worked as a team to control me. When I lunged in one direction, they yanked me in another. Time was on their side. Every moment brought me closer to unconsciousness.
The sleeper hold is prohibited by the LAPD, but every officer on the force still knows how to apply it if needed. Get a neck in the crook of your elbow and compress the carotid arteries and jugular vein, and the flow of blood to the brain abruptly ceases. Usually it’s only a few seconds until lights out. Law enforcement describes the result as the “funky chicken” because victims often flop and shake almost like they are doing dance moves.
I was getting close to the chicken dance. My ears felt like I was deep underwater with my ear drums at the point of bursting, and I wasn’t seeing so much as being an unwitting witness to a stream of black dots and silver lines swimming in front of my eyes. The only question was, which would come first: my blacking out from asphyxiation, or my brain becoming so blood starved that I’d start doing the funky chicken?
The neck noose eased slightly, and the change in blood pressure almost made me black out. If I had not been snared on all sides, I would have fallen over. As it was, I dropped to my knees and tried to stay conscious while drawing labored breaths.
My assailants had on the kinds of uniforms worn by animal control: olive pants, dark shirts with badges, and protection gloves. Their animal-control poles wouldn’t have looked out of place to a casual onlooker; they were the telescoping variety and would compact into a neat baton. The only thing different about their official-looking uniforms was their ski masks. It was probably an unnecessary precaution: the darkness was mask enough.
“Steady him,” said the man with the noose around my neck.
The men with the animal-control poles holding my arms did as ordered. It probably looked like they were doing a dance around the maypole; I was the maypole. The animal-control poles, I realized, probably weren’t just for me. They had prepared for Sirius as well. The grip around my neck loosened slightly, and I took in what air I could, sounding like someone in the midst of an asthma attack.
“Make him assume the position.”
My puppet masters evidently knew what the position was. With a few twists and turns, they manipulated my hands behind my back. I wanted to tell them they were making a huge mistake but didn’t have enough wind for my desperate lies.
I had to do something, so I twisted and shook, but I wasn’t a fish on the line: I was a fish on several lines. My shaking wasn’t even a good delay tactic, but more a gesture as impotent as shaking a furious fist at a storming sky. That was all I could do, though.
The man in charge dropped his pole and approached me. He leaned toward me, and I saw tattoos on the inside of both his arms. One looked like a red
“It is time to disabuse the world of the notion that good triumphs over evil, or that the concept of good or evil even exists. The new order is Ragnarok.”
The philosophy behind the words-or lack of it-sounded familiar to me.
The tattooed man continued with his rant: “It is time to lose the shackles of morality.”
“Let’s take the prize and get out of here,” said one of the captors to my side.
“The Prophet’s going to love this,” said the other.
They sounded excited, like kids at a pinata party. It was a shame I was the pinata. All three of the men sounded young, probably early twenties.
The tattooed man reached into his shirt and pulled out a nasty-looking knife. From behind his mask, his eyes were scrutinizing my face.
“Hear no evil,” he said. “But what if we were to leave with another trophy besides his ear?”
“You said that was how it’s done in a bullfight,” said one of his wingmen.
The other added, “You said that would settle the score.”
“Why settle the score when we can finish the battle? What better way to announce Gotterdammerung than by taking his beating heart?”
“We can’t kill a cop,” said one of those holding my arm.
The man with the knife said, “Why not?”
My voice was raspy and raw and little more than a whisper: “Because you’ll be executed for the crime.”
The leader didn’t acknowledge my words. “His death will show that no life is sacrosanct. In the twilight of the gods there are no rules. His spilt blood will avenge the Prophet.”
“You don’t want to do this.” My voice was little more than a hiss. I directed my comments to the two men holding me. “You don’t want to be a party to murder.”
“Hold him tight,” said the man with the knife.
The rack ratcheted up another notch, and my arms were pulled taut. As I tried to come up with a last convincing argument, I heard a scream and the tension from the pole holding my left arm grew slack. To my left, a hundred pounds of fury were tearing into a man’s arm and shaking him savagely.
My partner had arrived. If I’d been left with a voice, I would have screamed my enthusiasm, but I still might not have been heard. Sirius was an avenging fury. His target was screaming like someone being torn apart. Maybe he
The pole remained attached to my left wrist because the automatic locking mechanism had already been activated, but that was fine by me. I was now holding a combination of quarterstaff and nunchucks.
I whipped the pole around and heard a satisfying crack, but the man on my right didn’t loosen his grip. The tattooed man lunged for my pole, but I swept my arm to the side and he missed. Unfortunately, he got a grip on the pole he’d abandoned, and the noose around my neck tightened.
I tried swinging at him, but my range of motion was limited by the grip on my right wrist. Denied one target, I went after the other, hitting my hangman on the right once, twice, and then a third time. Cries came with every blow, but not my freedom. The SOB wouldn’t drop his pole or let go of his grip on my wrist. I was operating on fumes; no air was getting to my lungs.
Starved for air, I changed tactics and instead of trying to resist, I ran in the direction I was being pulled. I
