Ghost whined and barked, but he couldn’t come to my rescue. Between the net and the Taser, he was done. I was on my hands and knees, blinking and gagging, my whole body heaving with silent convulsions.

The first man bent close to me. “You can see it, Victor! Look how he reacts. The powder is already doing its work.”

As I fought to control my traumatized diaphragm I struggled to process what they were saying.

The stuff they threw in my face definitely wasn’t poison or some kind of knockout drug. From the smell I think it was garlic. Regular, fine-grain, powdered garlic. Not exactly the kind of thing the bad guys usually throw. What was their follow-up? Tomato sauce and a bay leaf?

I managed to suck in a tiny bit of air with a sound like a deflating bagpipe.

“Let me kill him, Victor,” begged the woman. “For God, for the cause…”

“No! And point that damn gun somewhere else before you shoot one of us.”

Fingers knotted in my hair and then my head was jerked backward. The motion, violent as it was, helped open my airway and I gasped in a huge gulp of air like a swimmer coming up after staying underwater a minute too long.

The man named Victor—obviously the leader—touched the tip of something sharp and heavy under my chin and shifted around so that he could study my face. All I could see was a bleary version of his face. Heavy Slavic features and a thick moustache.

“I … don’t know … who you are…” I wheezed, “but you got the … wrong guy.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. I could see beads of sweat popping out on his brow and running down his cheeks. It wasn’t hot in the room—he was scared. Of me? Or of who he thought I was? He said to his companions, “Nadja, cover him. Be careful with that gun, but if he moves … blow his head off.”

The woman, Nadja, shifted around and pointed the pistol at me in a two-hand grip.

“Iñigo, be ready with the hammer.”

Hammer? Christ, that scared me more than the gun. A gun would at least be quick.

Victor squatted down and leaned so close to me I could smell his breath. It reeked of garlic and tobacco. I wanted to make a joke, something about being mugged by a cooking class, but somehow I didn’t think I had the audience for it. I held my tongue and tried to regulate my breathing.

“He doesn’t look like one of them. His eyes are blue.”

“Then he’s wearing contact lenses,” Nadja fired back. “Peel them off, you’ll see.”