Papal Plunder

THREE

THREE

“SIR, PLEASE. I...” — those are the only words I manage to get out before s**t hits the fan for them. I’ve been told that I have freakishly quick reflexes. Some genetic thing. Personally, I think it has more to do with sheer luck and obsessive preparation in anticipation for situations like these. Surprise often helps—and engineering surprise in others is something I have come to relish in the field.

He goes for the more dramatic—and also more telegraphed—option. It is almost identical to the backhand he delivered a few moments ago. Except now the pistol would exponentially increase the impact and damage to my face. He makes like a racquetball player, pulling his right hand into him and then quickly sweeping it towards me, like a backhand. His hand makes it most of the way to my head. He is close enough that I would almost be able to kick him in the groin. I don’t though. I have the guy behind me and—thanks to the chain—very limited kicking space available. Instead, in one motion, I grab his oncoming arm with both hands, one at the wrist and one just above the elbow. I put a lot of force in my heels to stand up as quickly as possible, then rotate around and back on my left foot, swiveling the right as far back as the ankle chain would allow. This shoots the metal chair backwards—hopefully catching the other guy off guard as well.

I adjust my grip by the surprised man’s wrist just as he instinctively tries to pull his arm back again. But the commitment he’s already put into his swing, the addition of force from my other hand above the elbow, and the added momentum from the swivel causes him to lose his balance forwards and give a step forward with his left foot. His entire weight rotates around the other foot as he tries to find balance with the left. I take advantage of this, and rotate the hand and wrist and elbow under my control back around in the opposite direction—a large sweep on my part, designed to do a lot of damage. His arm remains half bent, not straight. This brings enormous leverage.

In an aikido class, or an online video, this would probably have had the other guy flying through the air as if by some mystical force radiating from touch. But, being unprepared, he definitely does not whirlwind around his arm and gracefully roll off to the side, ready for another attack.

Instead, before he could properly react, physics and biology obey natural law—causing muscle and sinew and cartilage to rip to shreds in his shoulder and elbow. His own reflexes—in an attempt to avoid pain and extreme damage—lifts him almost vertically in the air in the opposite direction before gravity takes over. He lands on his back right by and almost on my left foot. I follow him down in a crouch in order to maintain my own balance as well as to keep control of the wrist with the hand that still held the pistol.

When he lands, the back of his head thuds against the concrete floor—hard enough for another reflex jerk upwards. But then I am right there on top of him and my elbow steam-rolls into his face, right into an eye socket. This smacks his head against the concrete again and the other eye glazes over, this one destroyed. The arm and hand under my control, which up to now have tried to recoil, go limp and I easily remove the pistol from his grip. Why is it so light?!

Maybe four seconds in total have passed. The man in his thobe, the sweaty and snotty one by the table, scrambles and barks things in panicked Arabic. I don’t look at him as I stand up, but I know he’ll be making a run for it. The problem he has to solve is that the door is on the opposite side of the room.

My attention shifts to the guy getting the orders.