“Ouch!” a girl shrieked. “Dumbass, you stepped on my toe!”
“Sorry,” Myron said, still trying to get through.
A big hand landed on Myron’s shoulder and spun him around. Someone pushed him hard from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. Myron got his balance and faced what might have been an open audition for Jersey Shore: The Ten-Year Reunion show. There was a blend of hair mousse and faux tans and plucked eyebrows and waxed chests and poser muscles. They had the tough-guy sneers, a strange look on those who primp and manscape to within an inch of their lives. Punching them in the face would hurt; messing up their hair would hurt even more.
There were four or five or maybe six of them-they tended to blur together into a mass of slippery unpleasantness and overbearing Axe cologne-and they were excited about the possibility of proving what men they were in defending the honor of some girl’s toe.
Still Myron was nothing if not diplomatic. “I’m sorry, guys,” he said. “But this is an emergency.”
One douchebag said, “Whoa, where’s the fire? You see a fire here, Vinny?”
Vinny: “Yeah, where’s the fire? Because I don’t see one. You see one, Slap?”
Before Slap could speak, Myron said, “Yeah, I get it. No fire. Look, again, I’m really sorry, but I’m in big hurry.”
Still Slap had to get involved: “Nope, I don’t see no fire either.”
No time for this. Myron started to move-damn, no sign of Kitty-but the men closed ranks. Douchebag, with his hand still on Myron’s shoulder, went for the vise grip. “Say you’re sorry to Sandra.”
“Uh, what part of ‘I’m really sorry’ confused you?”
“To Sandra,” he said again.
Myron turned to the girl who, judging by her dress and the company she kept, never got enough attention from her daddy. He shook his shoulder to dislodge the annoying hand. “I’m really sorry, Sandra.”
He said this because it was the best course of action. Try to make peace and move on. But Myron knew. He could see it in the red in their faces, the wet in their eyes. The hormones were engaged now. So as he turned back toward the guy who’d first pushed him, Myron was not surprised to see a fist heading toward his face.
Fights normally last mere seconds-and those seconds are chockfull of three things: confusion, chaos, and panic. So when people see a fist heading toward them, they naturally overreact. They try to duck all the way down or fall all the way back. That was a mistake. If you lose your balance or lose sight of your adversary, you end up, of course, in more danger. Good fighters will often throw blows for just this reason-not necessarily to connect but to make the opponent put himself in a more vulnerable position.
So Myron’s move to avoid the blow was a slight one-only a few inches. His right hand was already up. You don’t have to knock the fist away hard with some big karate move. You just need to divert its course a little. That was what Myron did.
Myron’s goal here was simple: Put this guy down with a minimum of fuss or injury. Myron redirected the traveling fist and then, with the same hand already up, he put his index and middle finger together and snapped a dart blow right at the soft hollow of his attacker’s throat. The blow landed flush. Jerzie Boy made a gurgling sound. Both his hands instinctively flew to his throat, leaving him totally exposed. In a normal fight, if there was such a thing, this was where Myron would put him down for good. But that wasn’t what he wanted here. He wanted to get away.
So even before Myron could gauge his next shot, he started past the guy, trying to move swiftly away from the scene. But all avenues of escape were blocked now. The patrons at the crowded club had moved in closer, drawn by the smell of a fight and the base desire to see a fellow human being hurt or maimed.
Another hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Myron brushed it off. Someone dived for his legs, wrapping Myron up by the ankles, attempting a tackle. Myron bent his knees. He used one hand for balance on the floor. With the other, he tucked his fingers down and delivered a palm strike to the man’s nose. The man let go of Myron’s legs. The music stopped now. Someone screamed. Bodies began to topple.
This was not good.
Confusion, chaos, and panic. In a crowded nightclub, those things are both enhanced and ridiculously contagious. Someone nearby gets jostled and panics. He throws a punch. People back up. Spectators who’d been enjoying the relative safety of that passive act realize that they are now in harm’s way. They begin to flee, crashing into others. Pandemonium.
Someone hit Myron in the back of the head. He spun. Someone hit him in the midsection. Myron’s hand instinctively whipped out and grabbed the man’s wrist. You can learn the best fighting techniques and be trained by the best, but there is no substitute for being born with amazing hand-eye coordination. As they used to say in his basketball days, “You can’t teach height.” You also can’t really teach coordination or athleticism or competitive instinct either, try as parents might.
So Myron Bolitar, the superior athlete, was able to snatch a wrist mid-blow. He pulled the man toward him and using that momentum, threw a forearm into the man’s face.
The man went down.
More screams now. More panic. Myron turned, and in the rush of people, he saw the Maybe-Kitty by the door. He started toward her, but she vanished behind an onslaught of bouncers, including two of the guys who’d given Myron a hard time on the way in. The bouncers-and there were a lot of them now-headed straight toward Myron.
Uh-oh.
“Whoa, fellas, slow down here.” Myron lifted his hands, showing that he had no intention of fighting them. As they drew closer, Myron kept his hands up. “Someone else started it.”
One tried to get him in a full nelson, an amateur move if ever there was one. Myron calmly slipped out of it and said, “It’s over, okay? It’s-”
Three more bouncers tackled him hard. Myron hit the floor with a thud. One of the guys from out front climbed on top of him. Someone else kicked Myron’s legs. The guy on top of him tried to put his bloated forearm on Myron’s throat. Myron ducked his chin, blocking it. The guy tried harder, moving his face close enough for Myron to smell the guy’s stale hot-dog breath. Another kick. The face came closer. Myron rolled hard, catching the guy’s face with his elbow. The man cursed and backed off.
As Myron started to rise, he felt something hard and metallic push against the bottom of his rib cage. He had a tenth of a second, maybe two, to wonder what it was. Then Myron’s heart exploded.
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.