He started to reach …

“Don’t.” I was completely calm. Calmness equals control; a lack of emotion in your voice is far more threatening to someone than screaming at them. Long as it’s backed with a gun, of course. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.” The first hour of the first day of Special Ops training, we had been taught the importance of establishing and maintaining total control. Drill Sergeant Millard Dearing had reminded us every day, “The choices you make at the beginning will determine the actions you’ll have to take at the end.”

Corbin’s right hand began edging toward the door pocket.

“Do it, and I swear to God I will put a bullet in your head.”

He lifted his hand. “You shoot me and Russell’ll shoot your girlfriend.”

“Maybe. But how is that gonna help you?” He dropped his hand in his lap. “Good. Now here are the new rules. You do exactly what I tell you to do and you’ll be fine. You’ll end up back in D.C. and they’ll give you another assignment and eventually they’ll forget all about this one. You’ll get to be a wise old agent, telling stories around the book burnings. But try to be a hero today…” I frowned. “I will kill you.”

Corbin had lost his bravado, so he retreated to threats. “You know what they’ll do to you if you shoot a federal agent, right?”

“Yes I do, Dick. I most certainly do. Exactly the same thing that they’re going to do to me if I don’t shoot a federal agent. Either way, I’m fucked if I get caught. But you, you’ve got a choice to make. You can be a live agent or a dead hero.”

Corbin entwined his fingers in front of him and snapped them back, running scenarios in his mind. I was way ahead of him. There wasn’t one of them in which he emerged in a better situation. Even if he got his gun, what was he going to do with it? Shoot the guy driving the van?

“You ever check out my background?” I asked him. Watching him while driving was difficult. I needed to change that equation, take him out of the game at least temporarily.

“No. Why? What was I going to find out, you’re some kind of bumper chairs champion?”

“Yeah, well, you know.” I sneaked a quick glance at him. “You scared, Dickie?”

“Of you?” He half laughed, half sneered. “You kidding me?”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do,” I said, still evenly and firmly. “Hold out your right hand with your palm facing down and spread your fingers.” He hesitated. For the first time I raised my voice. “Don’t fuck with me. Do it now.”

Corbin turned slightly in his seat and did exactly as directed. He fought to stop his hand from shaking. In one move I took hold of the steering wheel knob with my gun hand, then with my right hand I grabbed Corbin’s trigger finger. I pressed down hard on his knuckle with my thumb while yanking the finger upward. An oldie but goodie. It sounded like a piece of kindling crackling in a fire, followed instantly by Dick’s agonized scream. “What the fuck! Oh, Jesus Christ, that fucking hurts! You broke my fucking finger.”