“Stay down, asshole …!”
I was about to twist out from under the boot when I felt the blunt muzzle of a G-11 press against the nape of my neck.
“I said, stay down!”
I managed to nod my head and lie still, choking on the dust from the floor as I gasped for air, while I heard a cacophony of voices around me:
“Okay, we got him.”
“Check the bathroom!”
“Somebody find a switch! Get some lights on in here!” A second later the room was flooded with light from the ceiling fixture.
“Bathroom’s clear, Sarge! He’s alone.”
“Bell, check the desk. Look and see if he’s got it.”
Sounds of papers been rifled through on my desk, then the snap of the disk drive being ejected. “Right here, Sarge. He’s got it on his screen now.”
“Good deal. You and Todd pack up the CPU. Take all the disks you can find … grab all those papers, too. Find a box or something.”
“Right, Sarge …”
“Romeo Charlie, this is Golf Bravo, do you copy, over …”
“Stay down, buddy. Just stay cool …”
My arms were yanked behind my back as, for the second time that night, a pair of plastic handcuffs were slipped around my wrists and tightened. The boot lifted from my back, but the rifle stayed in place.
“Man, this place smells like shit …”
“Belongs to a reporter, what do you expect?”
Laughter. “Shaddup, you guys … ten-four, Romeo Charlie. Premises secured, no one else present. Ten-fifteen-bravo, Charlie, over …”
I lay still on the floor, but I turned my head to see what was going on at my desk. A couple of troopers were dismantling my computer, one of them holding the CPU in his hands as the other disconnected the cables. A third soldier had found an empty carton and was shoving the manuscript of my novel into it; when he was done, he grabbed the cord of my telephone, ripped it straight out of the wall jack, and threw the phone into the box. Can’t be too careful about these subversive telephones.
“What are you guys doing here?” I demanded. “Why are you-?”
“Shut up,” the trooper behind me said.
I ignored him. “What am I being charged with? What’s-”
“Shut up.” The boot returned to my back, pinning me flat against the floor. “When we want you to talk, we’ll tell you, okay? Now shut your mouth.”
“Ten-four, Romeo Charlie. Ten-twenty-four and we’ll be seeing you soon. Golf Bravo over and out … okay, guys, let’s get out of here before the neighbors catch on.”
The boot and the gun muzzle rose from my back, then two pairs of hands grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet. “Okay, dickhead,” one of the troopers murmured, “let’s go catch a baseball game.”
If I had any doubts about where I was headed, they were laid to rest by that comment.
I remained silent as I let them march me out the front door of my apartment. Another ERA soldier was standing on the second-story landing, his rifle propped against his hip. The sheet-metal door leading into the newspaper office was still shut; whoever had ordered this raid had apparently drawn the line at breaking and entering the Big Muddy Inquirer. Afraid of the adverse publicity, I suppose.
I was still wondering how they had managed to enter the building without triggering the alarms when we got down to the first floor. Another trooper was standing next to the alarm panel, the PT in his hands hardwired to its innards. He had managed to decode and disable the security system. He barely glanced at me as I was pulled out onto the sidewalk.
Geyer Street was empty except for the two gray Piranhas idling at the curb, their turret-mounted water cannons rotated toward the sidewalks on either side of the street. If there’s anything more scary than seeing a couple of armored cars parked at your front door, I hope I never live to see it, but if the ERA had been anticipating a neighborhood riot over the arrest of a deadbeat reporter, they were disappointed. The sidewalks were empty, and no wonder; anyone with common sense was staying inside, peering through the slats of their window shades at what was going on.
A tow truck was parked in front of the two LAVs, its forklift gears whining as the front end of John’s Deimos was raised off the street. They were taking everything that mattered-computers, John’s car, telephones, even the manuscript of an unpublished book. No cops in sight, though, and that was a little puzzling. After all the local talent that had converged on Clancy’s after John’s murder, it was surprising to see that there were no police cruisers in sight, especially since I was apparently being busted for having stolen the micro-CD from the evidence bag …
A cold chill raced down my spine as the realization hit me: this was entirely an ERA operation. Keeping SLPD in the dark about this raid, in fact, was likely a top priority; the squad leader had probably been using a scrambled frequency when he had called back to headquarters to report his team’s success.
A soldier opened the rear hatches of the first Piranha, then the two grunts who had escorted me down the stairs pushed me into the armored car. Two more climbed in behind them; one of them went forward into the narrow driver’s compartment up front, while the other climbed a short ladder to the turret behind the water cannon.
The rear hatches were slammed shut again as the two soldiers sat me down on one of the fold-down seats. One of them sat next to me; the other took a seat directly across the narrow aisle. They rested their G-11s across their knees and said nothing; after a few moments, one of them found a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his flak vest.
“I guess it would be too much to ask if you wouldn’t smoke,” I said. “It’s kinda stuffy in here as it is.”
The two troopers stared at each other, then broke up laughing. Their name badges read B. MULLENS and B. HEFLER. Bob and Bob, the Gestapo Twins.
“No, it’s not too much to ask,” said Bob Mullens as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it off the bottom of the pack. From his voice, I recognized him as the guy who had stuck a gun against the back of my head. “Hell, you can ask for anything you want …”
How about a slow, painful death from lung cancer? I didn’t say anything; Mullens blew some smoke in my direction and favored me with a shit-eating grin, but when that didn’t get a rise out of me he settled back against the padded back of his seat.
“Son,” he drawled, “you are in a world of shit.”
Hefler gave a high-pitched laugh at his partner’s bit of wisdom. “Yeah, man,” he said, “you’re going to hell in a bucket.”
Ask a silly question, get some stupid clichés. I silently stared at the metal floor beneath my feet, trying to figure out what was happening to me. After a minute we heard the driver shift gears; the vehicle lurched forward on its tandem wheels, diesel engines growling as the Piranha began to trundle down the street.
I was going to hell in a bucket, and I can’t say I enjoyed the ride.
PART THREE
11
(Friday, 12:01 A.M.)
It was a short, bumpy ride from Soulard to Busch Stadium, little more than a sprint down Broadway, but the LAV’s driver seemed hell-bent on finding every pothole in the tortured asphalt and driving through it at top speed. My new pals Bob and Bob got a kick out of watching me try to remain seated with my hands cuffed behind my back. I rocked back and forth, my shoulder muscles aching a little with each unanticipated turn and jar the Piranha took; they thought it was pretty funny.
It’s amazing how little it takes to amuse some people. I suppose they had already chewed up their rubber balls and tug-toys.