It was time and I was ready. I positioned Mighty Chair directly in front of the door, then withdrew the bolt. “It’s open.”

“That’s a good boy,” Dickie said as the door swung open. He filled the doorway, a smug look on his face. His jacket was unbuttoned, his feet spaced widely apart. I moved Chair forward a few inches, lining it up.

“I told you we’d be back,” Russell said, looking over his smaller partner’s shoulder, gloating. “Now come on out…”

Even I was surprised at how calm I was. “Cher,” I said, “arm bar, please.” I pushed the control lever forward. Chair’s retractable arm, its metal fingers balled into a fist, shot straight out of the armrest. It slammed directly into Dick’s honkers. It must have been a direct hit because he responded with a deep nasal “Hooooonck” as he looked down in utter surprise, put his hands over his balls, much too late, then folded over from his waist like a jewelry box being shut. My hand pressed against the top of his head and I shoved him backward hard, sending him reeling directly into Russell. Russell bounced off a sink on the far wall. Both of them sprawled to the ground in a tangle.

Corbin was curled into a fetal position on the bathroom floor, his hands between his legs, moaning in pain. Russell managed to free himself and was trying to regain his footing. “Stop!” he screamed at me, reaching under his jacket, clearly going for his weapon.

I grabbed hold of his leg just behind his knee and yanked it. Russell went sprawling backward, his head clunking off the edge of the sink. He went down as if Iron Mike had nailed him.

Both agents were writhing on the floor as I headed out the door. I couldn’t resist one final statement. The last they saw of me was Chair’s extendible arm pointing straight up in the air, its middle “finger” held high.

Hack was in the corridor. “Go,” he said, pushing open the rear door for me. As the door closed slowly, I heard him shouting, “Hey! What’s going on in … What the hell! Where’d he go?”

For several seconds I savored that thought—until I realized I was now officially a federal fugitive, subject to prosecution “to the full extent of the law.” That part wasn’t so funny. This wasn’t a sitcom. I had assaulted two federal officers. There were serious consequences for my actions. It was time to start adapting and adjusting. First, I had to get back to Van. I remembered a primary rule from the E&E course at Bragg: when on the run, don’t run. Running attracts attention, and that is precisely what you don’t want. Move slowly, move steadily, use whatever natural cover exists.

When possible, I stuck to alleys and lanes; when I had to be on the sidewalk, I took my time, stopping regularly in front of store windows to check the reflection. There didn’t seem to be any immediate reaction to my escape. No police cars or military vehicles came racing through the streets with sirens blaring, and I didn’t see troops fanning out to find me. When I thought about it, that made sense. There was no reason for me to be considered a high-value target; I was just another name on the list. In fact, the more I thought about it, I doubted Dick and Frannie would even report my escape. They would look pretty inept being taken out by a cripple in a wheelchair. Jokes would follow. More likely they would report they hadn’t been able to locate me, then keep after me without additional support. For the next few weeks Corbin would be cursing me every time he took a piss, but a sore Dick wasn’t enough to make me an agency priority. My name would be added to whatever lists were being circulated among law enforcement and military personnel in case I was stopped at a street check or for a minor violation. But if I was smart, careful, and lucky, I should be able to make it to the Canadian border.