Disclaimer: This installment contains graphic, bloody violence, though not nearly as much as you’ll find in the next one. Additionally there is much figurative dick-wagging and male bravado.
Continued from Part 1.
She spoke again, her voice harsh and unyielding, little ambiguity in what she said: “If you touch me, you’ll be sorry.”
A collective oooooh filled the car, and the men leaned in close to her. Closer than she wanted them. They all smiled cruelly, and some laughed at her defiance. The blond with the glasses spoke again: “Is that so?” His hand reached out to her face and he ran it down the side of her cheek, drawing icy fingers slowly along her skin. As he savored the look of disgust he saw in her eyes, his friends laughed and jeered. “I’m not sorry I’m doing this. Do any of you guys feel sorry?” They all agreed that they did not, and two of them clamped their hands down on her wrists holding her hands against the armrests. Somebody pulled on her hijab. The man with the mustache and the receding hairline opened her purse and dug around for her wallet.
As he rifled through her bag, Ricky rose from his seat. He took the earbuds out of his ears and stuffed his phone into his pocket. In seconds, he was mere feet away from all of them. As the one with the sneer put his hands where they definitely weren’t wanted, a voice cut through the air:
“Get the fuck off of this train or I will throw you off.”
The interloper didn’t have to wait long before all six men were facing him. They stood there, all steely glares, gritted teeth, and determined eyes, many of them shielded behind corrective lenses. Half of the men wore eyeglasses, something Ricky found curious.
There was no mistaking their affiliation. Four of them wore familiar patches or pins on their polo shirts and sweaters. The logo depicted a knight in plate mail armor bearing a cross. One of the guys wore a Confederate flag belt buckle. The sole member of the group not wearing a polo shirt or a sweater vest had a T-shirt under his jacket with the logo of The Sons of the Confederacy, a far-right website and podcast.
Nazis. Ricky hated these guys. And he had given the six of them a chance to get off the train when he thought they were just drunken racist punks. Now that he knew exactly who they were, he was glad they hadn’t taken it.
“You boys with WCS?” The abbreciation was shorthand for White Christian Soldiers, an known hate group. He’d recognized the knight emblem from the last time he’d happened upon a couple mouth-breathers who wore it. White Christian Soldiers were small time, with formal chapters in just a few cities, although they enjoyed a much greater presence online. They’d made SPLC’s Intelligence Report for the first time two years earlier, so there wasn’t much point denying what they were about.
“Who’s asking?” demanded the apparent ringleader, peering at him over the tops of his glasses.
“Me, asshole. I’m asking. Last time I saw that patch you’re wearing was while I was kicking the shit out of a couple of your Nazi friends.” He paused for effect, then said, “Probably still got a few pieces of them on the bottom of my shoe, and if you want I’ll show you close-up.” He watched carefully for signs of the reaction he was trying to provoke, but other than one guy toward the back whose face tightened up into a mask of anger, he got none.
The ringleader corrected him: “We prefer that you call us Alt-Right.”
“Get off the train now, or the only thing you’ll want me to call you is an ambulance.”
The ringleader turned toward his friends. They shared a look of incredulity that seemed to beg the question Can you believe this guy? Then the ringleader turned back to face his opponent. “We’ll get off the train when we get to our stop, friend.”
“You’ll get off right now.” The emphasis in Ricky’s voice as he spoke the last two words almost shocked him. For greater effect, he took a step forward.
“The doors don’t open while we’re in the Tube.” The ringleader’s expression was still soft, conciliatory even. It was clear he was hoping to diffuse the situation without violence.
“I bet we can make them open. Get your asses to the door.”
Gone were whatever small traces of patience or empathy might have previously been evident in Ricky’s voice, and the six men reacted accordingly . The ones who’d been flanking the young woman’s seat left her side and joined the other four at the front line. They were ready for anything, or so they assumed.
The ringleader’s voice was calm and even. “It’s six against one. There’s no way you can take all of us.”
“Try me, dickhead.”
“Look, it’s your funeral.” Then, because it had just occurred to him to say it, the ringleader went on: “You think you’re the first guy whose ass we kicked tonight? You’re not.”
Ricky was pretty sure any group of whom half the membership wore glasses hadn’t kicked anyone’s ass that night or any other. It wasn’t because guys who wore glasses couldn’t be contemptible, insufferable jerkoffs with inclinations toward violence. These six were proof of that. No, it was because a bunch of guys who liked getting into unnecessary fights would have switched to contact lenses long ago.
The ringleader drew a pocket knife from a sheath on the belt of his Dockers and made a big show of unfolding it. Ricky watched with amusement, considering that as leisurely as the guy drew his weapon, it was a wonder someone hadn’t killed him years ago. Hell, while their ringleader was bringing out the blade he could have easily slammed his foot down on the guy’s kneecap, shattering it. At that point he was pretty sure any overt move on his part would have sent the other five scrambling for cover like cockroaches.
From the corner of his eye, Ricky watched the woman get up from her seat. Whether to attempt to intervene or leave the car for the next one, he didn’t know and it didn’t matter. If escape was her aim, he thought it best to ensure she be allowed to leave without hindrance so he addressed the other five guys: “Hey fellas! Watch this. Your buddy’s gonna stab me right in the chest. Just straight-up murder me. It’s gonna be spectacular.”
When the young woman was sure that the whole gang was focused on the confrontation, she pulled a stun gun out of the pocket of her sweater and jammed it hard into the neck of one of them. It crackled to life, delivering a burst of 200,000 scary, snapping volts and five milliamps of electric current. She held it long enough to ensure she had everyone’s attention, letting her victim flail and writhe before she pulled it away and let him drop.
With everyone distracted, Ricky grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the pocket knife and sent it plunging into the ringleader’s chest. As ribs collapsed and the blade found its target, the pristine white of the man’s polo shirt gave way to deep crimson and the knight-and-cross emblem was lost in the gushing flow. The punctured heart pumped itself to oblivion before the body even hit the floor.
That’s when two of the guys swarmed him, fists moving rapidly in every direction. One hammered Ricky’s chest. Two more pounded his face until Ricky kicked out wildly, a boot finding somebody’s midsection and sending him reeling into the subway doors. The impact jolted them open and the assailant flew out of the train and into the Transbay Tunnel.
With the car now unsealed, the steady and subtle hum of the train became a ferocious roar that completely drowned out the polite pinging of the unauthorized-open-door alarm. Without wasting a second reacting to the loss of his comrade and the sudden barrage of noise, the other guy pulled an ten-inch section of steel pipe from the sleeve of his jacket and lunged for his opponent. Panic and fear burning in his eyes, he swung the weapon with great force. The pipe found its target easily, and his follow-through forced Ricky into the wall of the train car and then down to the ground. As his face bounced against the cold metal floor, he felt blood dripping warm down his neck.
“Stay down,” the guy shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar and the ringing in his opponent’s ears. For good measure, he kicked Ricky hard in the chest with the toe of a moderately-priced brown loafer. The guy’s fingers were skill wrapped tightly around the pipe, and he was ready to raise it for a killing blow in the event that Ricky tried anything. One of his friends joined him and without a word they stomped in unison.
Continued in Part 3.