I hear someone reach in and unlock my door.

When I open my eyes, I see a pair of knobby hands coming straight for me.

Instantly, my years of defensive training kick in: “ArCon,” short for “arrest and control,” a mishmash of jujitsu and wrestling holds that all law enforcement officers are taught and drilled in.

But it’s a system designed for subduing and handcuffing suspects while on your feet, not defending against an ambush inside your own car. I barely get my hands around my attacker’s wrist and start to twist—when his other hand encircles my neck.

I gag and gurgle, struggle and writhe. But it’s no use. My throat is beginning to burn. My lungs are starting to tighten. I’m feeling light-headed. My vision is tunneling.

Finally, relief—as I’m yanked out of my car and hurled onto the pavement, my bulky camera tumbling onto the road along with me.

Still coughing like mad, I turn onto my side to protect myself from further assault. As every cop knows, the most dangerous position to be in is on your back.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” the man demands, his voice low and husky.

I turn my head slightly to try to get a glimpse of him. But in the faint glow from my car’s dome light, all I can see are his dirty leather work boots. I brace for a kick … that doesn’t come.

But I do get hit with something even worse: the sight of a pair of grubby old Converse sneakers next to him, as well as a pair of green rubber Wellington boots.

Shit. I’m alone. Effectively unarmed. And outnumbered, three to one.

The man snarls again, louder, “I said, what the hell are—”

“What are you?” I demand. “And how stupid can you all be?”

Then I bluff, hoping they’ll back off.

“The cops are onto your little plot, believe me,” I say. “They know everything. Do you all really want to spend the rest of your lives in a six-by-ten cell in a federal supermax? Just walk away. While you still can.”

The three men briefly tense. All share a nervous glance. But just as quickly, their expressions harden. And each takes a step closer to me.

“You’re full of shit,” the second one says—accompanied by the faint metallic flick of a butterfly knife being opened. Which complements the crowbar the third man has.

I feel my pulse rising and my adrenaline starting to kick in. I just know they’re going to attack any second. No way do I have the time to scramble and unlock my glove box and get my gun. So instead, I decide to strike first. And hard.

I twist onto my hands and knees, grab the only weapon I’ve got—my Nikon—then spring to my feet and start swinging.