Harlan Coben - Live Wire

At least, that was what it felt like. It felt like something in his chest had just gone boom, like someone had placed live wires on every nerve ending, sending his parasympathetic system into total spasm. His legs turned to water. His arms dropped away, unable to offer up the least bit of resistance.

A stun gun.

Myron dropped like a fish on a dock. He looked up and saw Kleavage Kyle grinning down at him. Kyle released the trigger. The pain stopped, but only for a second. With his fellow bouncers surrounding him so no one in the club could see, Kyle dug the stun gun back into Myron’s lower rib cage and zapped him again. Myron’s scream was muffled by a hand closing over his mouth.

“Two million volts,” Kyle whispered.

Myron knew something about stun guns and Tasers. You are only supposed to hold the trigger for a few seconds, no more, so as to incapacitate but not seriously injure. But Kyle, maniacal smile on high, did not let up. He kept the trigger pressed down. The pain increased, became overwhelming. Myron’s whole body started to quake and buck. Kyle kept his finger on the trigger. Even one of the bouncers said, “Uh, Kyle?” But Kyle held on until Myron’s eyes rolled back and there was blackness.

What must have been seconds later, Myron felt someone pick him up and carry him fireman-style over a shoulder. His eyes remained closed, his body limp. He was on the cusp of unconsciousness, but he was still aware of where he was, what was happening to him. His nerve endings were shot. He felt exhausted and shaky. The man carrying him was big and muscular. He heard the club music start up again and a voice over the sound system shouted, “Okay, folks, the freak show is ovah! Let’s get back to the par-tay!”

Myron remained still, letting the man carry him. He didn’t resist. He used the time to regroup, recover, start to plan. A door opened and closed, smothering the music. Myron could feel the brighter light through his closed eyes.

The big man carrying him said, “We should just toss him outside now, right, Kyle? I think he’s had enough, don’t you?”

It was the same voice that said, “Uh, Kyle,” when Myron had been getting zapped. The voice had just a lilt of fear in it. Myron did not like that.

Kyle said, “Put him down, Brian.”

Brian did so with surprising gentleness. Lying on the cold floor, his eyes not yet opened, Myron did some quick calculating and knew what his next steps were: Keep your eyes closed, pretend you’ve totally blacked out-and then slowly start snaking your hand toward the BlackBerry device in your pocket.

Back in the nineties, when cell phones were just starting to become the norm, Myron and Win had developed a techno-savvy and occasionally life-saving mode of communication: When one or the other of them was in trouble (read: Myron), he would hit his speed-dial #1 button on his cell phone and the other (read: Win) would pick up, put the phone on mute, and listen in or rush to or at least help the other. At the time, fifteen years ago, this trick had been cutting edge; today it was about as cutting edge as a Betamax.

That meant, of course, taking it to the next level. Now, with modern breakthroughs, Myron and Win could have each other’s back in a much more efficient way. One of Win’s tech experts had enhanced their BlackBerrys so that they had a special two-way satellite radio that worked even in spots where there was no cell service, as well as both audio and visual recording devices, and a GPS tracker so that one knew exactly where the other was, within four feet, at any given moment-all of which could be activated anytime with the push of a button.

Ergo the snaking hand heading toward the BlackBerry in his pocket. With his eyes closed, he faked a groan so he could roll just enough to get his hand closer to the pocket…

“Looking for this?”

It was Kleavage Kyle. Myron blinked open his eyes. The floor of the room was Formica and maroon. The walls too were maroon. There was one table with what looked liked a box of Kleenex on it. No other furniture. Myron turned his gaze toward Kyle. Kyle was grinning.

He was also holding up Myron’s BlackBerry.

“Thanks,” Myron said. “I was looking for that. You can just toss it over here.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

There were three other bouncers in the room, all with shaved heads, all steroid-and-too-much-gym huge. Myron spotted one who looked a little frightened and figured that had been his carrier, so to speak. The frightened guy said, “I better head back out to the front, make sure everything is okay.”

Kyle said, “You do that, Brian.”

“Seriously, his friend, that hot chick wrestler, knows he’s here.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Kyle said.

“I would,” Myron said.

“Excuse me?”

Myron tried to sit up. “You don’t watch much TV, do you, Kyle? You know that part of the show where they triangulate the cell phone signal and find the guy? Well, that’s what’s happening here. I don’t know how much longer it will take but-”

Holding the BlackBerry up, his expression two steps past smug, Kyle hit the off button and watched the device power down. “You were saying?”

Myron did not reply. Frightened Big Guy left.

“First,” Kyle said, tossing Myron back his wallet, “please escort Mr. Bolitar from the premises. We request that you never return.”

“Even if I promise not to wear a shirt?”

“My two men will escort you out the back entrance.”

This was a curious development-letting him go. Myron decided to play it out, see if it was going to be this easy. He was, to put it kindly, skeptical. The two men helped lift Myron to his feet. “What about my BlackBerry?”

“You can have it back when you exit the premises,” Kyle said.

One man held Myron’s right arm, the other the left. They led him into the corridor. Kyle followed, closing the door behind them. When they were all out of the room, Kyle said, “Okay, good, that should do it. Bring him back in.”

Myron frowned. Kyle opened the same door again. The two men gripped Myron harder and started dragging him back into the room. When Myron resisted, Kyle showed him the stun gun. “You want another two million volts?”

Myron did not. He moved back to the maroon room. “What was that all about?”

“That part was for show,” Kyle said. “Please move to the far corner.” When Myron didn’t obey immediately, he flashed the stun gun. Myron inched backward, not turning his back on Kyle. There was a small table by the door. Kyle and the two bouncers moved toward it. They reached into what looked like a box of tissues and pulled out surgical gloves. Myron watched them slip the gloves onto their hands.

“Let me just state for the record,” Myron said, “that I’m getting a little turned on by the rubber gloves. Will this involve my bending over?”

“Defense mechanism,” Kyle said, snapping the gloves on with a little too much zeal.

“What?”

“You use humor as a defense mechanism. The more frightened you are, the more your mouth flaps.”

Bouncer-cum-therapist, Myron thought, perhaps proving the man’s point.

“So let me explain the situation so even you’ll understand,” Kyle said in a singsong tone. “We call this the beating room. Hence the maroon color. The blood blends in, as you will soon see.”

Kyle stopped and smiled. Myron kept still.

“We just videotaped you leaving this room under your own volition. As you may have guessed, the camera is now off. So that’s the official record-you leaving of your own accord, relatively unharmed. We also have witnesses who will state that you assaulted them, that our response was proportional to the threat you posed, that you initiated the ruckus. We have longtime club patrons and employees who will pretty much sign any statement we put in front of them. No one will back up any claim you have. Any questions?”