"I know every inch of your sorry waste of a life. My boss might want to talk to you, but to me, you're a parasite. A waste of space and air. It makes a person wish the earth really was flat. Then we could take all the people like you, load you in a garbage scow, and push you over the edge and out of everybody's hair."
"If you know where I've been, then you know why I'm back. Let me go and let me do what I came here for. I'll get rid of some very bad people for you."
"How? By blowing up Rodeo Drive?"
"That was a mistake."
"Was it? Thanks for clearing that up. The truth is, I don't give a damn about some Hollywood lawyers' wives and their shoe stores. What I care about is you. What you represent and the kind of trouble you bring with you. You're a walking calamity."
Now I feel it. His heart rate is picking up and there's the slightest whiff of perspiration coming off him. One of the G-men in the front of the van has turned to watch our conversation. He and Wells smile at each other, sharing some private joke.
When Wells speaks again, he does it with the kind of phony casualness that lets everyone in the room know that you're about to tell the bad joke they've all been waiting for. Wells says, "So, what the hell kind of a name is Sandman Slim anyway? You think you're some kind of superhero?"
I turn and look at him, "You lost me there, Tex. I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
"Don't be modest, we've all heard of you. 'Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters.' I have to admit, it's kind of catchy. Did you come up with that or did some Hellion ad firm shit that out for you?"
"Listen, cop. I've never heard that stupid name before. Stop calling me it. And tell me where we're going or I'm getting out."
Wells and the marshal in the front laugh. "I wouldn't try. I'm dead serious when I tell you that I could put a bullet in your head right now and go have a sandwich."
"What kind?"
"What kind of what?"
"What kind of sandwich? What's a murder sandwich taste like? Does it come with extra cheese or chili fries? What tastes better after murder, Coke or Pepsi?"
"You are working my very last nerve, cocksucker."
"I'm going home." I reach across Wells for the door, shoving him back into the seat with my shoulder. The marshal goes for his gun.
When you're facing down multiple attackers, you always want to make the first move. It lets them know that you're ready to fight and that you're crazy enough to get the party started. One rule of thumb in fighting is that crazy can often overcome skill and numbers, because, while a trained fighter might actually enjoy going up against another trained fighter, no one really wants to wrestle with crazy. Crazy doesn't know when it's winning. And crazy doesn't know when to stop. If you can't pull off crazy, if, for instance, you're handcuffed in a small van with six armed assailants, stupid is a decent substitute for crazy.
Wells still has his hand inside his jacket when I slam my elbow into his throat. He freezes, trying to remember how to breathe. Before the boys in the front of the van get any ideas, I swing an elbow up over his head and bring the arm down on the other side, getting the cuffs around his throat. Then I fall back across the seat, pulling Wells on top of me. The G-men in the front of the van have all drawn their guns out by now, but I'm not sweating. If they want to shoot me, they're going to have to blow a lot of holes in the big man first.
"Stand down," shouts Wells. Then, quieter, to me, "That got you far, didn't it, shit-for-brains?"
"It got me your neck. That's a start." I tighten the cuffs across his throat. Just enough so that he can feel it, but not enough to make him pass out. "You're not the first bunch that ever kidnapped me, but you're definitely the least fun."
"Boy, you just attacked a federal officer. I'll have you swinging from your balls at Gitmo."
"Who you going to arrest? I'm already dead." Wells goes for his gun again. I spring forward and slam his head into the door frame, spinning him at the same time so that his body stays between his boys and me. I've got four guns on me and one guy is still driving.
We're somewhere south of L.A., near Culver City. The van turns into the parking lot of what looks like an aircraft assembly plant that hasn't seen action in twenty years. There are diamond-shaped hazardous materials warnings and rusted DOD signs on all the fences and buildings.
The van slams to a stop and the side door opens. I tighten the cuffs on Wells's neck and pull him back to use as a shield against whatever is coming into the van.
A woman in a crisply tailored power suit leans her head inside.
"I can come back later if you two gentlemen need a moment alone," she says.
I let up on Wells's neck, but still keep hold of him.
"He's the one getting grabby," says Wells.
The woman nods. "That's what he does. All those years in the Abyss have left him with some impulse control issues. It's all in his file." She looks at me. "Let Marshal Wells up right now. No one is going to shoot you. And, Larson, uncuff this man. You look like a couple of third graders."
"Sorry. Who are you again?" I ask.