spiking.
Ben took the blue and white toward the rear parking lot.
When he made the corner of the building, he saw Frank, the other bouncer, fly out the back door of the Palace and run toward a knot of people in the southeast corner of the lot, most of them yelling and hooting and scattering at Frank’s approach and the sight of the cruiser.
Then suddenly, Frank wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Ben wasn’t sure if he’d been knocked down or had gotten lost running after some of the hecklers. The source of the noise, however, was now very apparent.
A thin man in a black sleeveless t-shirt was methodically working over Sonny Gramm’s vintage ’68 Mustang with a crowbar. He was wearing a cheap plastic mask, a Halloween Lucifer. The hood of the car looked like a rumpled sheet of aluminum foil. The front windshield, as well as the headlights, was already a memory.
Ben looked around for his backup, hit the siren, and climbed out of the front seat, cutting across the lot at a diagonal and yelling at the guy to put the crowbar down.
It seemed to be a night for hearing problems. The guy ignored Ben and continued pounding the Mustang.
Ben again yelled for the guy to stop. Same results.
He drew his Glock, carefully moving among the parked cars. The guy in the black T-shirt and devil mask was Meth-scrawny and looked to have unlimited reserves of energy. He brought the crowbar down again and again in an unvarying rhythm. The Mustang was well on its way to scrap.
Then three things happened in quick succession.
Ben moved around a blue Taurus and stepped on Frank’s, the bouncer’s, hand. The guy in the black T-shirt suddenly quit with the crowbar action and looked over what was left of the car’s roof and waved. Then Kermit the Frog popped up and punched Ben in the throat.
Ben rolled over and was halfway to his feet when the guy in the Kermit mask hit him again.
As he went down, Ben caught the lower edge of the mask, momentarily pulling it away before it snapped back in place.
Ben lifted his head and then his right arm. The short man in the Kermit mask, however, was already in the middle of his swing, this time bringing a dark object up and over his shoulder and catching Ben’s wrist, knocking the semi-automatic from his hand.
The guy swung again, hard, the object whistling through its trajectory and rattling like a pocketful of loose change when it made contact with Ben’s forearm.
Ben heard himself yell, and then he was on the ground, lightning running the length of his arm and his nerve endings short-circuiting, his fingers instantly going numb.
The guy leaned over and snatched Ben’s Glock. He turned and hollered something to the guy in the black t-shirt and devil mask.
A couple moments later, the two of them took off running.
Ben tried to move his fingers. His arm twitched and jumped.
He had just managed to get to his knees when the backup arrived. He tried to catch their attention, point out the direction the two had taken off in, but there was too much going on.
Lee—Ben couldn’t remember if it was his first or last name— made it over first. Ben gave him the gist, and Lee sprinted back to his patrol car to put in the call to alert other officers about the two men on foot.
Adkin checked on Frank. The EMS people arrived.
Ben put his left arm along the fender of the Taurus and slowly worked to a standing position. Residual pain still ghosted the length of his arm, but nothing seemed to be broken.
At his feet was a large gray athletic sock with a mound of heavy gauge washers spilling from its mouth.
A paramedic examined Ben and said he needed to go back for X-rays, but Ben said it could wait. He asked about the bouncer and was told Frank had a probable concussion and a definite broken jaw. Three patrolmen were working follow-up with witnesses from the crowd who’d been in the lot earlier. Another bagged the sock and washers. Others radioed in, passing on the news that there was no news. The two guys
Ben took the blue and white toward the rear parking lot.
When he made the corner of the building, he saw Frank, the other bouncer, fly out the back door of the Palace and run toward a knot of people in the southeast corner of the lot, most of them yelling and hooting and scattering at Frank’s approach and the sight of the cruiser.
Then suddenly, Frank wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Ben wasn’t sure if he’d been knocked down or had gotten lost running after some of the hecklers. The source of the noise, however, was now very apparent.
A thin man in a black sleeveless t-shirt was methodically working over Sonny Gramm’s vintage ’68 Mustang with a crowbar. He was wearing a cheap plastic mask, a Halloween Lucifer. The hood of the car looked like a rumpled sheet of aluminum foil. The front windshield, as well as the headlights, was already a memory.
Ben looked around for his backup, hit the siren, and climbed out of the front seat, cutting across the lot at a diagonal and yelling at the guy to put the crowbar down.
It seemed to be a night for hearing problems. The guy ignored Ben and continued pounding the Mustang.
Ben again yelled for the guy to stop. Same results.
He drew his Glock, carefully moving among the parked cars. The guy in the black T-shirt and devil mask was Meth-scrawny and looked to have unlimited reserves of energy. He brought the crowbar down again and again in an unvarying rhythm. The Mustang was well on its way to scrap.
Then three things happened in quick succession.
Ben moved around a blue Taurus and stepped on Frank’s, the bouncer’s, hand. The guy in the black T-shirt suddenly quit with the crowbar action and looked over what was left of the car’s roof and waved. Then Kermit the Frog popped up and punched Ben in the throat.
Ben rolled over and was halfway to his feet when the guy in the Kermit mask hit him again.
As he went down, Ben caught the lower edge of the mask, momentarily pulling it away before it snapped back in place.
Ben lifted his head and then his right arm. The short man in the Kermit mask, however, was already in the middle of his swing, this time bringing a dark object up and over his shoulder and catching Ben’s wrist, knocking the semi-automatic from his hand.
The guy swung again, hard, the object whistling through its trajectory and rattling like a pocketful of loose change when it made contact with Ben’s forearm.
Ben heard himself yell, and then he was on the ground, lightning running the length of his arm and his nerve endings short-circuiting, his fingers instantly going numb.
The guy leaned over and snatched Ben’s Glock. He turned and hollered something to the guy in the black t-shirt and devil mask.
A couple moments later, the two of them took off running.
Ben tried to move his fingers. His arm twitched and jumped.
He had just managed to get to his knees when the backup arrived. He tried to catch their attention, point out the direction the two had taken off in, but there was too much going on.
Lee—Ben couldn’t remember if it was his first or last name— made it over first. Ben gave him the gist, and Lee sprinted back to his patrol car to put in the call to alert other officers about the two men on foot.
Adkin checked on Frank. The EMS people arrived.
Ben put his left arm along the fender of the Taurus and slowly worked to a standing position. Residual pain still ghosted the length of his arm, but nothing seemed to be broken.
At his feet was a large gray athletic sock with a mound of heavy gauge washers spilling from its mouth.
A paramedic examined Ben and said he needed to go back for X-rays, but Ben said it could wait. He asked about the bouncer and was told Frank had a probable concussion and a definite broken jaw. Three patrolmen were working follow-up with witnesses from the crowd who’d been in the lot earlier. Another bagged the sock and washers. Others radioed in, passing on the news that there was no news. The two guys
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