PAPA DON'T 'LOW

Part 2 of 4

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright © 1992

 

Papa liked to walk the mile to his apartment; it was the only exercise he ever got any more.  And okay, sure, it was late—it always was when he came home—but not that late.

Still, the kid who jumped him wasn't worrying about the rules.  Papa was walking past the corner park when something hard and rough closed about his throat, yanking him back, and steel flashed in the dark.

Old reflexes took over.  Papa kicked back, heard something crack, and the steel went wide as the mugger groaned and loosened his hold—just a little, but enough for Papa to drop down, straightening his legs as he bowed and pulled—sending the mugger flying over his head.  Papa hung on to the arm, and the man slammed down on the ground with a howl—then howled again as Papa bent his arm back and yelled for the police.

By the time they got there, the man was very ready to talk.  Why not?  He'd already told everything, and had been outraged to find out that Papa couldn't really do anything about the dislocated shoulder.

But he didn't really have anything worth saying.  Someone had paid him five K to beat up Papa—"Want me to kill him, too?"  "We're not fussy."—and promised him more afterward.  Other than that, Papa couldn't really hold a grudge—the poor guy had been maimed in battle by the Hothri, and couldn't remember directions for more than a few hours any more.  Too proud to go for Vets' Aid, too, so he eked out a living any way he could.  Papa struck a deal.  He didn't press charges, and the mugger went to live in the Vets' Home.

He didn't stop walking home.  But he did start carrying his sidearm again.

 

* * * * *

 

The foreman called Alice over as she came in the door, before her clock-chime had even faded.  With heart pounding, she came over.  What had the boss-lady found out?

"Bertha's sick, over in Quality.  We can put that trainee on your job; you go fill in for Bertha, okay?"

Alice stared, appalled.  "But I don't know anything about quality control!"

The fore shrugged.  "What's to know?  You look at the gadget as it comes along, look at the diagnostics, and let it go by."

"But how'll I know if there's anything wrong with it?"

"Wrong?"  The fore's tone somehow managed to convey both the extreme improbability of the event, coupled with the imbecility of Alice.  "The diagnostics will tell you, of course!  Now, get going."

Alice tried for a little bit more information when she arrived at her station, but the other checkpointers only shrugged and said pretty much the same.

"Nothing to tell," Alberta assured her.  "If there's anything wrong, the screen will light up with red danger calls."

"But how about if it's something the machines can't see?"

Alberta gave her a look that implied there was something wrong with her.  "Well, if you see anything wrong that the machines don't catch, tell me, will ya?  It'll be a first."

Alice's face flamed, and she felt as though she were dwindling right there and then, but she plucked up her courage and asked, "Don't the screens tell you anything else?"

Alberta shrugged.  "Well, they'll light up in yellow if there's something questionable, and they'll light up in blue for something that's wrong but doesn't matter.  So what it comes down to is, you only scrap the item if the screen shows red."

Alice stared, not believing her ears.

Alberta finally noticed.  "Well, it's not as though we had much choice, lamebrain.  After all, each of us has to pass four hundred items each day—and there's one coming down the line every thirty seconds!  How long do you think you'll keep your job if you stop the line every time there's a yellow flash?"

"I don't know," Alice answered.  "I really don't know."

But she found out very quickly.  The yellow letters flashed for every fifth gadget, it seemed, usually in the words "CASTING FLAW," and the blue showed once an hour.  If she had pulled each one, she could never have sent four hundred to packing.  Three hundred, maybe, but not four.  She almost pulled the first one off the conveyor, but at the last moment, she remembered Pepe telling her to just find out as much as she could for him, so she glanced at the other checkers, to take her cue from them.

Two others had yellow words on their screens, but they stood by, arms folded, looking bored, and reached out at the last second to punch the button that routed the item off to packing.  Alice swallowed heavily, and punched her button, too.

Fifteen minutes later, every checker's screen had flashed yellow at least once, and not a single item had been pulled off the line.  Alberta had been right—they didn't stop for anything but red.

So Alice held back, and let the item go by.

 

* * * * *

 

Papa didn't like talking to strange admirals.

He sat down at the little table, trying to hide his wariness.

A full admiral didn't usually meet with a colonel, even a quartermaster, in a restaurant—a small, very expensive restaurant.  And certainly not with a civilian in a very expensive suit beside him, a civilian who had iron-gray hair and iron-gray eyes, and whose finger gleamed with a watch worth two months of Papa's pay.

"Good of you to invite me, sir."

"Not at all, not at all, Colonel!  The top brass should stay in contact with their juniors, don't you think?  Outside the office as well as in."

Not that Papa had needed any reminder that the admiral could give him orders—he'd just been making sure.  "Still an honor, sir."  He turned to the civilian.  "Don't believe I've had the pleasure?"

The man gave him a tight-lipped smile.  "Names don't matter here."

They certainly didn't—not when the man's face was as well-known as his company's name—L. C. Lamprey, Chairman of the Board of Industrial Munitions.

"Let's just say I represent the private sector, Colonel."

The alarm bell in Papa's head started clanging, and irritation surged.  He decided to go on the offensive.  "The people we rely on, yes.  The good people in industry who make the armor that protects our boys, the weapons that keep the Hothri from gobbling them up."

Anger flashed in the civilian's eyes, and the admiral said, "No, we can't do without them, Colonel.  We'd go naked into battle, if it weren't for the manufacturers."

"True, sir."  Inspiration nudged him, and Papa decided to stab.  "Of course, it would be much more efficient if the Navy just built its own factories.  Fewer middlemen, greater quality control."

The admiral stared, appalled, and, the civilian's gaze turned to a glare.  "Don't try to threaten me, Colonel!"

"Me, sir?  I don't have anything to do with policy."

"Of course not," the admiral said quickly, but the civilian's gaze was still carving and slicing.  "And the notion is ridiculous.  Why, the expense to the Navy would be intolerable."

"Not really, sir."  Papa began to realize that the idea might be worth exploring.  "We're already paying the same amount to private enterprise—and without their profit margin, we'd actually save money.  An amazing amount, in fact."

"That will be enough!" the civilian snapped.  Papa rounded on him.

"I think that's for the Admiral to say, don't you, mister?  If you want to give orders, find a clerk!"

"That will do, Colonel!" the admiral snapped.  "You will treat this man with all due courtesy!"

"That's what I was doing... sir."

The civilian only narrowed his eyes, but the admiral turned red.  "That will be enough impertinence, Colonel!  Or I'll break you out of your job!"

Papa stared at him, then smiled, just a little.  "Fine."

The admiral stared back, then snapped, "I'll transfer you to the front lines!"

Papa's eyes glowed.  "Thank you—sir!"  He rose and saluted.  "Have I the Admiral's dismissal?"

"Don't be an ass!" the civilian snapped.  "Sit down, you fool!"

Papa spun, caught up the man's snifter, and threw the brandy on his suit.

"Colonel!" the admiral cried, appalled.

But Papa was saying, in cold fury, "Armed Forces personnel do not take orders from any civilians, Mr. Lamprey—especially from men of acceptable physical condition who decline to serve!"

Lamprey's eyes were as void of emotion as outer space.  Slowly, he stood, eye to eye with Papa.  "You will regret that insult sorely, Colonel Stuart—sorely, and at great length."

He turned away and stalked out.

"Do you realize what you've done?" the Admiral said, in a shocked whisper.

Slowly, Papa turned back to his superior officer.  "Oh, yes, sir.  But what, may I ask, were the two of you doing?"

"I don't think that matters, now," the admiral said, rising slowly.  "Report to the stockade, Colonel, and turn yourself in for arrest!"

"Oh, yes, sir, I will," Papa said softly, "and, of course, I'll have to make out a full report as to why."

"I don't think that will be necessary.  My word…"

"...will be evidence at my court-martial," Papa interrupted.  "I'll have to request one, of course."

The admiral stared.  "Do, and you'll be cashiered!"

"Only if the verdict goes against me," Papa assured him.

 

* * * * *

 

By the time he got to the stockade, orders from the admiral were waiting, commanding him to return to his duties.  The guard could only stare as Papa smiled at the paper, then folded it and turned away.  "Uh... Colonel?"

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"May I ask, sir—what you needed here?"

"No, Sergeant.  Seems it's not my business to answer."

 

* * * * *

 

"And that's 'checked by hand!' " Alice told Pepe, still seething.

"Yeah, well, at least a human being made the decision."

"The machine should have made it!  They've got the sensors, they know what's wrong!  We don't!"

Papa shrugged.  "Then they'd just set the machines to only kick out the code red's, anyway.  They can set the warning levels wherever they want, you know.  That much is done by hand."

"And the hand isn't a checker's!  What good did I do, Pepe?  What good?"

"A lot of good."  His voice was soothing—no, admiring.  "You did wonderfully, Alice.  You found out about it, and you didn't blow your cover."

"Oh, yes, I found out!" she exploded.  "And I can't stand it!  You'd think they were manufacturing wallets or something!"

"Wallets made of bad leather, with pockets that would let the cash fall out," Papa reminded her.

"Any company that did that would go out of business!  And I helped them!  What good did I do, Pepe?"

"Let me worry about that," he reassured.

She looked at his face, and saw the grin of a hunting cat.  Even as her heart quailed at the sight, she felt buoyed up.  Still, she had to demand, "Can you stop those yellow letters from coming on my screen?"

"Sure."  His eyeteeth showed.  "All they have to do is code those flaws for red.  By the way, what were these 'items' you were checking?"

She took a deep breath and said, "Reflectors.  For laser cannon.  And they know those reflectors are flawed, but they don't give a damn!"

"Sure," Papa shrugged.  "What difference does it make to them, if the beam doesn't come out of the muzzle?  They're not the ones who're going to be standing in front of a raging Hothri."

"Not even that," Alice snapped.  "I swear they don't even think that far!  All they can see is, sure, this is wrong, but it's not my job to fix it, and if I say anything, I'll just get fired.  They don't even think!"

"Not paid to," Papa murmured.

"But they're paid to produce weapons!  Ones that work!"  Alice scowled.  "It makes me wonder, now, about that Hothri who got past my shots to take my arm."  Her breath caught.  "I could have sworn I had him dead in my sights—at point-blank range!"

"The rifle spat out a slug, didn't it?"

"I wonder.  I was looking at the Hothri, not my rifle."  Alice drew a long, shuddering breath.  "I tell you, Peppy, it makes me so mad I wish I'd never been promoted!"

Oddly, he found her mispronunciation of his name endearing, not irritating.  "Sorry to make you go for it," he murmured.

"Oh, it's not your fault.  Besides," she grumbled, "I suppose I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I'd missed a chance to catch this."

"How did you?"  He judged that she had calmed down enough so that it might be safe to ask.

"I saw it myself," she snapped, "in the test readout from the quality control unit.  But the standards are set so low that the program didn't flag it—and the controller told me if the bosses didn't care enough to set the specs higher, we shouldn't, either.  Oh!"  She jammed her fists into her coat pockets, glaring again.  "Just thinking about it makes my blood boil!  I tell you, Peppy, if you hadn't wanted me to take that job, I would have quit right there and then!"

"And they would have just gone right on making more cannons that would quit working in the middle of combat."  Papa shook his head.  "No, it's much better this way.  You let me take care of it, angel."

"Angel!"  She stared up at him, the job forgotten.

"Why not?  You're guarding all our kids on the line, out there."

"But I'm not...  I can't…"

"Do anything?"  Pepe grinned like a wolf.  "You already did.  But I can't follow it up until tomorrow, and we both need to eat if we're going to be able to keep fighting the baddies.  What restaurant tonight, Fury?"

She smiled, oddly flattered by the nickname.  "How about my place?"

"Oh, no!"  Papa grinned.  "Don't trust me in your cottage, Little Red, if I won't trust myself!  Come on, we'll try Pomona's!"

And he whirled her away to the high life, or at least as much of it as he could afford.  It was a wonderful evening, but she was still disappointed.

 

* * * * *

 

The admiral tried again, of course.  Papa had figured that he would—after all, he had his orders, too.  The fact that they didn't come from anybody military was only incidental.

And of course Papa met with him—after all, orders were orders, even if they did come in a plain unmarked envelope.  Besides, the embankment was beautiful that time of year.  Since it was chilly, though, Papa wore his heavy overcoat, with no valuables, and a wet suit.

"Industry's good is Arista's good, Colonel," the admiral said, "and without the profit incentive, industry is never very productive."

"True."  Papa had read his history, too.  "But if the profit motive gets out of hand, sir, industry lowers costs by cutting quality."

"Competition will take care of that."

"Only if there really is free competition, sir.  And when all the industry is controlled by three companies, it's very easy for them to watch what the others are doing, and all produce substantially the same goods at the same price.  Not that they would, of course."

"Of course."  The admiral gave him a whetted glance.  "If they start showing losses, though, they'll stop making weapons."

"But that's a purely hypothetical case, isn't it, sir?"

"Not necessarily."  The admiral turned to face him.  "We have to make sure they have a decent profit margin, Colonel.  After all, even if only five out of ten rifles fire, that's still five rifles."

"Would you want to be holding one of the other five, sir?"

"Of course not," the admiral said impatiently.  "The other five, we throw away.  It's worth it, to keep industry producing."

"Why not just subsidize them, sir?"

"You know the Senate would never stand for that."  Finally, anger began to show.  "They couldn't see any reason to subsidize a profit-making company!"

Neither could Papa.  "Doesn't that depend on their profit margin, sir?  I mean, if they have to cut corners to maintain a healthy percentage, they need a subsidy."

The admiral was reddening.  He couldn't come right out and say Industrial Munitions was raking in a fifty percent profit margin… but he knew that Papa knew it, too.  "What the Senate won't do, we'll have to do, Colonel—or the factories will close down, and we won't have any weapons."

"I wouldn't mind paying more, sir, for reliable equipment.  If they boost quality control, they won't have any problem."

"I don't think that's for you to say, Colonel.  From now on you will accept at least twenty percent of all weapons and equipment that you consider to be defective!  Is that understood?"

Papa wondered if the admiral was on Industrial Munitions' payroll, or just a stockholder.  "No, sir.  Not clear at all.  I can't believe an admiral of the Navy would order me to accept defectives."

"You will do as you are commanded, Colonel—for the good of Arista!"

Papa stared straight into the admiral's reddened eyes and realized he was going to have to play it by the book—for the good of Arista.  "Yes, sir."  He pulled a brace.  "I will implement the order the moment I receive it, sir."

"You have just received it, you impertinent imbecile!"

"Begging the Admiral's pardon, but orders to the Quartermaster must be cut in triplicate on Form A-394-C, sir, and signed by the senior officer."

The admiral just stared at him, turning light purple.  "Why, you insubordinate, goldbricking, malingering, cowardly lackey!  You do as I command you, or there'll be hell to pay!"

Papa felt the rage churning inside him and kept his face carefully wooden.  He decided that there would be hell to pay—and that he'd send the admiral the bill.

 

* * * * *

 

The order never arrived, of course, and Papa made sure his staff kept on sending back the defectives.  And there was no summons to a court martial—Papa had known there wouldn't be.  But it did shake him, knowing that a full admiral, one of the high command, had sold out to the profiteers.  So he did send the admiral the bill.

He stayed late one night, checking out the admiral's requisitions personally—everything for his own porkbarrel use, down to the aftershave and razorblades.  Then he locked himself in the computer room alone, and cut routing slips guaranteeing that every single item that went to that admiral was defective.

It was almost satisfying—but not quite, because he never did hear the admiral squawk.  He couldn't, after all.  He'd made sure there was no trail to show who had cut the routing orders.

But he didn't doubt for a minute that the admiral knew.  Especially after the next attack.

 

* * * * *

 

"Biedermann!"

Alice turned away from the time clock and toward the Fore with a thudding heart.  "Yeah?"

"Boss wants to see you."  The fore jerked her thumb toward the office.

"What for?"

"Not my problem."  The fore shrugged.  "I did see all those rejects you've been piling up."

Alice couldn't pull every code yellow off the line, or she would have been fired for sure—but she had pulled all the blues as well as the reds.  "So I'm up for termination."

"Hope not."  The fore met her gaze.  "You have the lowest absenteeism rate of anyone on the shift.  Besides, you never come drunk, and you don't make trouble.  No, I hope not.  But you're probably in for a dressing-down."

"Thanks."  Alice smiled with warm surprise at the woman's support.  Then she turned toward the office and went in, breathing slowly and deeply.

The under-manager was at her desk, flanked by a clerk who looked up and said, "What's it about?"

"You tell me," Alice said.

The under looked up.  "Biedermann?"

"Yeah."

The under looked down at her screen.  "You have a lot of rejects, Biedermann."

"Not much point in letting the blues go by," Alice answered.  "They'll just come back to us."

"But the yellows won't?"

"I send the yellows for hand-checking."

"That loses a lot of time, Biedermann—and twenty percent of your yellows have to be scrapped.  You know what you're costing the company?"

Alice kept her face rigid.  "A thousand a day?"

"More like five.  Why are you so finicky, Biedermann?"

"Isn't that what I'm there for?"

"Guess so."  The under looked up.  "The company wants better quality control.  They want a fore just for that—and you're it."

Alice could only stare.

 

* * * * *

 

"But why?" she said to Pepe that night.  "You can't tell me they weren't trying to foist off duds on the Navy before!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Papa assured her.

She gave him a narrow look.  "No, they'd only plan on it!  So why all of a sudden this push for high quality?"

"Well," Papa mused, "it might be because I just rejected a whole shipment of cannons."

Alice spun to face him, wide-eyed.

Papa shrugged.  "After all, I found flawed castings in the breeches of one out of every five—and the three I tested exploded at the breech after a dozen shells.  Well, one lasted long enough to make a hundred."

"How long did that take, ten minutes?"

"About.  So I told them to re-check the whole load."  Papa grinned.  "You should have seen the salesman's face!"

"I'll bet!  No wonder they want to boost quality control!"

"Yeah.  Saves time and money to do it right the first time.  I'll bet you're going to be getting that load of cannon back, though one piece at a time."

But Alice wasn't really listening anymore.  She turned haunted eyes toward him.  "Peppy, I don't like this.  They weren't supposed to notice me."

He saw the fear and reached out to squeeze her shoulder.  "They won't.  They have no reason to link us up, or even to think about it.  So you're going out with a cashiered soldier.  So what?  Don't most of your fellow workers?  And even if they did, they wouldn't dare try anything.  Don't worry, beautiful."

She looked up at him, startled.  "What did you say?"

"I said they wouldn't try anything.  Well, they might fire you, but that's all.  Come on, let's think of happier things—like shellfish and steak."

She let him whisk her away to a nice restaurant and a bottle of champagne to celebrate her promotion.  She floated through the rest of the evening in a happy daze.  He called her "beautiful" twice more that night, the second when he kissed her at her doorway.

She closed the door behind her, hit the lights, and turned to look at herself in the mirror—nose blue with cold, eyes teary, wisps of hair straying from under her hood.  Beautiful?  No—he had to have been lying.

But she felt very warm inside, anyway.

 

* * * * *

 

Winter had turned the corner, and was heading toward spring—not that Papa would have known it from the weather.  It was still dark when he arrived at his office, dark again by the time he started home.  But he took quick glances at the stars as he strode along toward home and saw that the spring constellations were peeking over the horizon.

Not that he could do much more than peek.  He still walked home, and meant to keep doing it—only fresh air he got anymore—but he had to be alert.  That meant no rubbernecking.

His glance roved over the street ahead, the shop doorways, the windows above.  Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing suspicious ahead.

Behind was another matter.  Two tall, dark figures in Burleigh coats had been following him ever since he had come out of HQ.  He slowed down, they slowed down—he sped up, they sped up.  Not much chance of mistaking—they were shadowing him.

Of course, they weren't being that obvious about it.  They mingled with the crowd, one on one side of the street, the other on the other, always several people between them and a block behind.  If he stopped to look in a shop display, the one visible out of the corner of his eye would already have stopped to read a news screen or pick his way around an icy patch.  And every so often, one of them would disappear, but almost instantly, Papa would see a new man way ahead of him.

It sent the thrill of danger coursing through his nerves—good, good!  It had been too long since he'd been in combat, too long.  He opened his coat, the better to be able to reach the pistol under his arm.  The knowledge that he might die hollowed his stomach—the Colonels of Industry might not be homicidal, but their lieutenants would love to see him dead.

Well, if it happened, it happened.  But there was no point in letting the assassins name the time and place when Papa could force the issue.  He strolled onward, scanning the street ahead, picking out a good alleyway.

When he came up to it, he lurched aside as though he'd stumbled, into the alley, out of sight—where he sprinted for cover: a worn-out sofa waiting for trash pick-up.

Papa would be the trash man.

He waited about three minutes, long enough for his shadows to realize he might get away, long enough for them to race up behind him.

One of them swung into the alleyway, flashlight stabbing out from his silhouette.  Papa squinted against the glare and leveled his pistol, just as the second shadow came up behind the first.  "Hold it right there!"

The shadows froze.

"Lower the light," Papa commanded.  "You know who I am, so you know I'm armed.  And you know I can see you against the street lights behind you.  Lower the light and put your hands up."

There was a quick, whispered conference, while Papa waited, strung tight as a lyre, ready to duck and dodge to the old armchair in front of the couch.  But the flashlight beam dipped, and the two shadows lifted their hands slowly.

"Just so you're okay, Colonel," one of the voices said.

"Sure."  Papa smiled without mirth as he slowly stood up, still ready to dodge—but the two silhouettes stood frozen.  "All right, now."  He stepped closer, his pistol glinting in the dark.  "Put your hands on the wall.  Who sent you?"

"Naval Intelligence, Colonel."

Papa stopped.  Then he said, "ID?"

"Inside my coat, on my left."

"Take it out," Papa said.  "Lay it on the ground and back off."

Slowly, the shadow did as Papa said.

"Farther back.  All right, that's good enough."  Papa stepped forward and bent down, still keeping his eyes on the two men.  He picked up the flat, slick case, flipped it open without looking, and finally took a quick glance down, then back up.  That told enough; he looked down, studied the ID, then slowly stood up, lowering his pistol.  "All right, boys, you can put 'em down.  I never like to hang up a friend."

The shadows relaxed visibly.  "No problem, sir.  We shouldn't have alarmed you."

Papa shrugged, stepping into the light to get a good look at the agents' faces.  "You'd have to be almost supernatural to keep me from noticing."

The taller agent nodded.  "An assassination attempt tends to do that."

"So that's why you boys were detailed to me?"

"Yes, sir," said the shorter one.  "HQ figured you wouldn't like the idea of bodyguards, sir."

"Well, they were damn right!"  Papa let some of the irritation show.  "I can take care of anything I come up against, myself!"

"Yes, sir.  With all due respect, sir, there's a real chance the enemy might send half a dozen men after you, sir."

No need to say who the enemy was—and Papa had to admit he didn't like the sound of the odds.  But he glowered and said, "I've had worse than that in combat."

"So have I, sir—but I had a spray-rifle and grenades, not just a pistol."

Papa looked at the man more closely.  "You were in combat?"

"Both of us, sir," said the shorter man.

"Rank?"

"Sergeant, then.  They booted me up to lieutenant when they put me in Intelligence."

"They need you a hell of a lot more on the line than down here protecting a broken-down ex-sergeant from bogeymen!"

"We're hoping to be rotated back, sir.  But we realize what we're doing here is more important."

"More important?" Papa shouted.  "Don't even think it, Lieutenant!   I'm just as expendable as any man on the line!   Every soldier has to take his chances."

"Uh… by your leave, sir."  The shorter agent looked down at the pavement, then up again.  "We can't afford to take chances with your life, sir."

"Every soldier's as important as any other, Lieutenant!"

"Yes, sir.  That's why your life is vital," the taller man said.  "I wound up with a rifle that jammed in combat.  I used it as a club and got a Hothri rifle, and it worked well enough to save my life—but it was close."

"They don't have so many rifles that jam up these days," the shorter man said, and the taller agreed.  "Not since you took over as quartermaster."

The shorter man nodded.  "We figure you've saved ten thousand lives, give or take a thousand, Colonel."

Papa stared, dumbstruck.

"As you said, sir," the taller one said softly, "no soldier's life is any less important than any other.  That's why we have to keep you alive."

"All right, all right!"  Papa turned away.  "You can stick around.  Just don't get in my way, damn it!"

"Yes, sir.  If you can cuss, we're doing our job."

Papa snarled and turned away, stomping down the street, feeling sheepish and somewhat ashamed—but underneath it all, secretly elated.  His mind churned, reeling over what the Intelligence men had said, reviewing the impossible notion of saving ten thousand lives, feeling humbled and exalted at the same time—and absolutely certain that they had to be wrong, that he couldn't be that important.

Which is why he didn't notice the movement in the shadows as he passed the alley... didn't notice until hard hands grabbed him, slamming him against the wall. 

He shouted and lashed out, but iron fingers seized his arms and yanked them up and back while a gag jammed into his mouth.  Another hand darted into his coat, yanked the pistol out, and a voice snapped, "He's wearing armor."

"Under the hood, too," another voice said, and yanked Papa's cowl back to show the helmet.

"We'll go for the spine."  A shadow hulked before him, slamming a fist into his belly, another into his jaw.  He tried not to fold, but hard hands forced him down, and steel glinted in the night, flourishing high...

 

TO BE CONTINUED…