Marty blasted his horn and four Explorer doors opened.  All on the passenger sides.  Apparently chauffeurs weren’t required to handle confrontations.  Four dark suits approached together.  Though they didn’t march in unison, they were part of the same outfit.  Whatever that was.

Marty lifted the bomber jacket and beret over the chair and set them on the floor behind him.  He auto-locked the doors and cracked a window.  “Get out of the way, jackass!”

Ignoring his request, the first suit tapped on his window and flashed a badge.  “Martin Bish?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Come with us, Mr. Bish, and no one gets hurt.  We’ll assume responsibility for your vehicle.”

“The hell you will!” he replied, and revved his engine. 

The suit rose and stood post.

Marty checked his rear view mirror and located a sentinel behind his car.  Another held position on the passenger side.  The fourth waited, hands neatly folded across his crotch, in front of the Saturn.  If Marty was going to leave it was going to cost him jail time and a replacement bumper.  Without reopening his window, he inquired, “What do you want?”

“Mr. Bish, your presence has been requested at our headquarters.  We’re merely the messengers.”

Headquarters?  He wanted to see the badge again.  The suit complied, pressing his ID against the Aura’s windshield.  Marty studied it carefully.  Badge #336.  O.C.D., whatever that meant.  The driver assumed it didn’t stand for obsessive compulsive disorder.  Name: Johnson.  Was it a requirement of secret societies to recruit people named Johnson, Smith, and Brown?  What happened if a Lipshitz applied and didn’t fulfill the generic name prerequisite?

“Who wants to see Mr. Bish?” Marty asked.

The suit wasn’t at liberty to reveal that information.  Marty floored the clutch and the gas, but the quartet didn’t flinch.  Maybe the O.C.D. were castoffs from the British palace guard?  He had no discernable accent, but he was also devoid of any personality, as far as Marty was concerned.  He yawned.  It had been a full day.

The lead suit tapped on the glass again.  “Mr. Bish, I recommend you open your window.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Martin detected an unusual aroma; though it was an outdoor parking lot, the gasoline fumes were strong.  Had the bastard behind him stuffed something in the exhaust pipe?  Marty reached towards his glove compartment.  “I should warn you, I have a licensed gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

The tailored man grinned.  “Is that a threat, Mr. Bish?”

“You take it however you want.  Now get out of my way.”

The foursome shared smiles and pulled out their own automatics.  Marty popped the clutch and jerked forward like he had never driven a manual transmission.  The engine stalled.

Before he could crank it over, all four of his tires blew out.  Suit Four slammed his gun butt on the hood, dented it enough to reach a hand underneath, and popped it open.  Numbers two and three shattered the rear windshield and passenger side windows.  At least that let some of the carbon monoxide out.  The airbags still hadn’t deployed.  Yet.

Marty held his hands over his head.  “I’m unarmed!  Don’t shoot!”

Their foreman reached in and flipped a switch to unlock the Saturn.  He pulled Marty by his collar, all the while maintaining his monotone.  “Mr. Bish, you should wear your seatbelt.  For safety.”

Martin winced.  He was escorted to the lead Explorer and nudged into the backseat.  The suited man was kind enough to fasten Marty’s seatbelt.

Marty pleaded, “Okay, okay, I’m cooperating!  Can someone tell me where this headquarters is?”

“You’ll be there in a flash.”

Marty felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck and as promised, everything went white.