Hostage

He and Ashton had avoided talking about the obvious, that Vaughan might still be with the car, that the perpetrator might have gotten away and left her incapacitated.

Or dead.

As Retro reached for the handle to open the driver’s side door of his cruiser, something that felt like a baseball bat came down hard on his left shoulder, just below his neck. He blacked out momentarily, dropping to one knee, balancing himself with his left palm against the gravel to keep from going down completely. He reached for his pistol, but the holster was empty.

“Looking for this?”

Retro turned and glanced up and saw a tall skinny man yanking the magazine out of the 9mm semi-automatic. The man tapped the cartridges loose and flicked them away one at a time like cigarette butts, and then he whizzed the gun out onto the street and tossed the empty magazine toward the gate. There were two other guys standing beside him, one to his left and the other to his right. They all wore jeans and dirty t-shirts and grimy ball caps. Like some kind of uniform.

“You’re trespassing,” the one on the left said.

He was holding a rusty old length of pipe or something, probably the weapon he’d used to put Retro on the ground, slapping it against his palm in an effort to look menacing. It was about fourteen inches long with a rounded end that gradually tapered down toward the handle.

Retro’s vision was blurry, and it took him a few seconds to focus and recognize the tool. It was a wrench designed to tighten and loosen the bungs on fifty-five gallon drums. Retro had used one many times when he’d worked at the plant.

“You guys are the ones who are trespassing,” Retro said. “I have a strong feeling that some of the discarded drug paraphernalia in there belongs to you, and now you’ve added assault on a police officer to the list of charges. You’re under arrest.”

The three men started laughing.

“How are we under arrest?” the one on the right said. “You think you can take all three of us with your bare hands?”

At forty-two, Retro still wore the same size uniform as he did when he graduated from the academy. He ran three miles before breakfast every day, and he’d been working out with free weights since he was a teenager. He was strong and quick and agile, and he was an expert at exploiting the most vulnerable areas of the human anatomy. These guys were a lot younger than him, but they were thin and pale and weak. They’d ruined themselves with drugs and alcohol and bad eating habits.

He stood and faced the men, locking eyes with the one in the middle. “Not a problem,” he said. “In about thirty seconds, you’re going to wish you’d let me take you to jail.”

The man with the drum wrench rushed forward and swung at Retro’s face like he was trying to hit a homerun. Retro ducked, heard the heavy tool whisper by over his head, and then he whipped around and delivered a fast and crushing uppercut that probably broke a couple of the man’s ribs.

Retro expected the guy to double over in pain and call it quits at that point. But he didn’t. He was tougher than he looked. He grunted, but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he didn’t walk away. If anything, he seemed more determined than ever. There was fire in his eyes. He was angry. Whatever drug he’d been injecting into his veins was keeping him charged up and going strong, but before he could regain his balance and go for another swing with the wrench, Retro tenderized his left knee with a ferocious side kick, forcing the joint inward at an outrageous angle. The man shouted out in agony as he collapsed to the pavement, his weapon slipping from his hand and clanging away harmlessly under the police car.

Retro was ready for the other guys, but they never came. They just stood there with their mouths open for a few seconds, and then the one who’d taken Retro’s pistol slapped the other one on the arm and the two of them took off running.

Retro brushed himself off, retrieved the pistol and the magazine and the bullets, reassembled everything and slid the gun into his holster. He handcuffed the drum wrench guy, climbed into his police car and radioed for an ambulance, got back out and crouched down and pulled a wallet out of the assailant’s back pocket.

“How long have you and your friends been squatting at the plant?” Retro said.

The man was writhing in agony, tears streaming down his face, his left lower extremity crunched and mangled and pointing inward like a toppled V.

“You broke my leg,” he said.

“I didn’t break your leg. I tore all the tendons and ligaments in your knee. There’s a difference.”

“It hurts. Can’t you see that I’m in pain?”

“I gave you a chance to surrender peacefully, and you came at me with that skull buster you were holding. Not very smart. But then it looks like you’ve been making bad decisions for a long time.”

“I need a doctor.”

“Help is on the way, but it’s going to be a few minutes. Right now would be a good time for you to start cooperating.”

“I need something for pain. You hear me? I need something for pain!”