The Impaler

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O mighty lord! O exalted god of battle!

Thou art brilliant in the bright heavens!

Let me proclaim thy greatness!

Let me bow in humility before thee!

                                                    —Ancient Babylonian prayer

Prologue

Criminal defense attorney Randall Donovan had really stepped in it this time—was in the shit way over his head and sinking fast. The man in the ski mask would not answer, would not even listen to him.

“I’m begging you!” Donovan screamed. “This hasn’t gone so far that there’s no turning back. I don’t know who you are—who your people are—but your beef isn’t with me. I swear, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it!”

Nothing. Only the flashing strobe light above his head; only the deafening pump of eighties music and occasionally what sounded like power tools coming from the next room. He recognized the tune from way-back-when in law school—Depeche Mode or New Order or some other shit band like that—but he couldn’t remember the name of the song or the band that sang the cover; didn’t even know there was a cover until he met the man in the ski mask. For the man in the ski mask had been cranking the two versions back to back for days, and now Randall Donovan knew all the lyrics by heart.

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