Chris Jordan - Torn

Eldon gets up, looking resolute. He still won’t look me in the eye-is he ashamed? He should be!-but he has the appearance of a man who has come to a difficult decision. “We need to call Ruler Weems,” he tells his wife. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Not on the regular phone,” she warns him. “He said never to use the regular phone.”

“I know that! I’m not a fool. I’ll use the Iridium. Ruler Weems thinks the satellite phones are still safe.”

“I’m sorry!” Missy whimpers, bursting into tears.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop it. I can’t think if you’re blubbering.”

“I’m s-s-so afraid they’re going to kill us. You know what they’re like, Eldon. They won’t h-hesitate.”

He sighs and then embraces his wife, who shudders against him like a terrified child. “Stop it now. Just stop,” he says soothingly. “Nobody is going to kill us.”

“How do you k-k-know?”

For the first time Eldon Barlow looks directly at me, with eyes as cool as chips of black ice. “Because they want to kill her.”

The holding cell isn’t a whole lot smaller than his so-called domicile unit. Similarly furnished in what he’s come to think of as ‘postmodern monk,’ except in the holding cell the bed, chair, and small desk are bolted to the floor. Bare lightbulb out of reach in a metal cage. No windows. A single door, heavy steel, equipped with a viewing slot. No shower, of course, just a remote-flush stainless steel toilet commode of the type common to modern detention centers. You want it flushed, you have to ask the guard nicely.

The four security hacks who wrestled him into the cell-Ron Gouda wasn’t in a mood to be manhandled-called it “Gitmo,” making jokes about waterboarding him. Very funny. Hilarious. But the good news, they didn’t seem to have a clue about his real identity, even if they didn’t believe his “I was just out driving around” explanation of what he, a mere visitor, was doing in a restricted residential area.

He’s in the holding cell for maybe fifteen minutes-his watch has been confiscated-when the viewing slot in the door slides up.

“Mr. Gouda?”

In character, Shane responds like an outraged citizen. “Hey, are you guys nuts? Get me out of here! What kind of resort is this? You think I paid five grand to get arrested for driving around?”

“Hello, Mr. Gouda. Very nice to meetcha. I have Taser, you know what Taser is?”

Shane’s feigned indignation turns to a cold sweat. The man on the other side of the door speaks with an Eastern European accent, and with a forceful authority. Has to be the big enforcer that Maggie mentioned, Bagrat Kavashi, CEO of BK Security, suspected assassin and all-round bad guy. But Gouda wouldn’t have any idea who Kavashi is, nor would he be overly impressed or frightened by what he would consider to be rent-a-cops.

“Yeah, Taser, sure, so what?” Shane says, approaching the door, trying to get a clear view of who he’s speaking to. “Don’t tase me, bro, right? Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” says Kavashi. “Back away from door, Mr. Gouda.”

Meester Goo-dah. Distinct accent, but no problem making himself understood. All Shane can see is a dark mustache and a killer smile.

“Seat on bed,” says the mustache. “Hends on knees.”

Sit on bed, hands on knees.

“Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me?” Shane barks, feeling Gouda’s rage. “Get me a phone so I can call my lawyer!”

“Seat on bed, be good boy, we talk.”

“You the good cop, is that it? I already met your bad cops.”

“I am good cop, yes. Seat on bed.”

Shane sits on the bed, big hands on his bony knees. The door opens. Kavashi steps into the cell, a rakishly handsome man, and with no more ceremony that he might swat a fly, fires an X26 police-issue Taser directly into Shane’s chest.

Fifty thousand volts of electromuscular disruption turn the former FBI special agent into a quivering jellyfish. Neuromuscular incapacitation occurs the instant the darts enter his flesh and continues for ten seconds, or an eternity, whichever comes first. At the academy some of the instructors referred to tasering as ‘giving the perp a lift,’ as in ‘lifted into heaven,’ because the subject typically feels as if he’s dying. Lighting up every muscle and nerve in the human body tends to do that.

By the time Shane recovers from the near-death experience-way, way worse than he ever imagined-the darts have been yanked free from his chest. He’s flat on his back, gasping for breath, and Kavashi is grinning down at him from a distance of maybe ten feet, too far for a lunge even if Shane felt himself capable of such, which he doesn’t. He has all the strength of a kitten. Besides that, he can’t think straight.

“Stay down,” Kavashi suggests. “Be good boy or next time I pull three times.”

Shane’s brain is processing the experience through a deep layer of fuzzy cotton, but even so he knows what “pull three times” means. Pull once on the trigger and the jolt lasts ten seconds. Pull twice more, after the darts have entered the flesh, and the chaotic electromuscular disruptions last for thirty seconds, or possibly longer, until the battery completely discharges.

Forever, in other words.

“You didn’t piss pants,” Kavashi points out, keeping the reloaded Taser aimed at the middle part of his body. “Next time I give you personal promise, you piss pants.”

Shane can’t think of what Ron Gouda might say at a time like this, so he doesn’t say anything, he just stares at Kavashi with bugged-out eyes. The security chief has effectively established dominance and Shane can’t fight it, not until his head clears and his strength returns.

“So, Mr. Ron Gouda from Dayton, Ohio, you are fake person. Carry fake ID like terrorist. Is that what you do, come to nice town of Conklin to be terrorist?”

“What are you taking about?” Shane manages to say. Every muscle on his upper body feels weak, whipped.

“You come to study our books, make yourself into a better person? You come to listen and learn? I don’t think so. They find stupid man where he has no business to be, first thought, maybe you want to break into big house, steal things. So I run a Google search on Mr. Ron Gouda of Dayton, Ohio, and you know what I find? Interesting item with nice photograph. Mr. Ron Gouda belongs to Shriners, helps raise money for sick kids. They put his photo in the newspaper, holding big check for new hospital. What a nice man, Mr. Gouda. Short, but nice.”

“It’s a mistake. Another Ron Gouda.”

“Two men with same name, both owning the same company?”

There’s something about having his cover totally blown that makes the blood flow to Shane’s brain. “Okay, you got me,” he says, holding up his shaky hands. “My name is David Johnson, okay? From L.A. I borrowed Gouda’s name so I could get inside, check on my wife.”

“Your wife is here, too?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. But I think she’s having an affair with one of your members. I don’t even know his name, but he’s a rich guy with his own personal jet. Linda always had a thing for pilots.”

The gun never wavers as Kavashi backs up a couple of feet. Still well within Taser range, but now way beyond even the wildest lunge on Shane’s part. The security chief seems genuinely amused by Shane’s new story.

“Man from L.A. with slut for wife, what do you do for a living? What is your job?”

“I’m a cop,” Shane says. “LAPD.”

When making it up on the fly, best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

Kavashi takes a seat in the bolted chair, nodding his head, as if in appreciation. “Very good story, Mr. David Johnson. Cop with cheating wife, maybe I believe you someday. But not today. Today I believe you are man who used to be FBI. Big man, six foot four, beard like you, eyes like you. Randall Shane, yes?”