Kingdom of Darkness

22

The sickly metallic taste of blood was the first thing Eddie registered as he clawed his way back to consciousness. It was heavy on his tongue, coating his teeth…

Sharp pain blazed through his nerves, shocking him awake. The tip of his tongue had found a corner missing from one of his upper incisors, exposing the sensitive dentine beneath. ‘Arse-cocking fuck!’ he gasped.

A concerned face appeared before him: Zane. ‘Eddie! Are you okay?’

Eddie tried to come up with an answer. As well as the cracked tooth, his lips were swollen where Santos had kicked him, and a crusty blockage in one nostril suggested that his nose had been bleeding. Dull throbs from his torso were reminders of other impacts from the Argentinian’s boots. ‘Been better,’ he croaked, ‘but my dentist’ll be in a fucking good mood next time he sees me.’ He gave the Israeli a pained smile, the natural gap between his two front teeth now joined by a fresh one. ‘What about you?’

Zane showed him the side of his head. Rivulets of now-dried blood had run down around his left ear from a cut under his curly hair. ‘It hurts,’ he said, ‘but I think I’m okay.’

‘Needs washing, though.’ Eddie took in their surroundings, finding that he was on a bench inside a bare and dirty jail cell. Thick metal bars made up one whole wall. Beyond them was a short corridor with an open door at the end, through which he could see the police station’s main office. He sat up. ‘Oi! We need some water. Agua, por favor!’

A chair scraped, and heavy footsteps clomped towards the door. There was a gurgle of liquid, then Santos filled the frame, holding a plastic cup. ‘You want water?’ he said, moving to the bars. ‘Here!’ He tossed the cup’s contents over the two prisoners.

Zane was quick enough to catch some. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, wiping the cut.

Eddie rubbed his wet face, then ran his hand back over his short hair. ‘Okay, now how about some shampoo?’ Santos grunted in dark humour.

‘Eduardo?’ called an agitated male voice. Santos responded, and after a moment Pablo Silva came into the corridor. He gave the battered prisoners a nervous look, then spoke to the police chief. Eddie couldn’t pick out much of the muted Spanish discussion, but gathered that the mayor was extremely unhappy about the situation.

Santos was less concerned, chewing on a fresh cigar. He clapped a heavy hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘Vamos a hablar con Kroll, eh?’ Eddie tried not to display any visible reaction to the Nazi leader’s name. The two Argentinians returned to the office, closing the door.

‘We’re definitely in the right place,’ said Eddie. ‘You heard him mention Kroll, yeah?’

‘I did,’ Zane replied. ‘If I can call in a confirmation, the Mossad will send a full team here.’

‘Yeah, but somehow I don’t think we’ll get our one phone call.’

‘Nor do I.’ Santos and Silva were talking in the office, a third man’s voice echoing from a speakerphone. ‘I think that’s Kroll!’ Zane strained to listen, but the closed door was as much of a barrier to comprehension as the language. ‘What do you think they’re saying?’

Eddie gave him a grim look. ‘Nothing good.’

He was right.

The door opened again ten minutes later. Silva had gone, Santos now accompanied by the two younger officers, Vargas and Miranda. ‘You letting us go?’ said Eddie, knowing full well that was not the case. He and Zane stood, readying themselves for action.

Santos, though, was being cautious. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered, unholstering his gun. ‘Hands against the wall.’

The two captives reluctantly complied. As Vargas also drew his weapon, Miranda unlocked the cell door. ‘You, the tall one,’ said the police chief. ‘Put your right hand behind your back.’ Zane hesitated, then did as he was instructed. Miranda entered the cell and fastened a handcuff bracelet around his wrist. ‘Now your left hand.’

The second cuff clicked shut. Santos pushed Miranda out of the way. He gripped the handcuffs and squeezed until the metal cut into the skin. Zane flinched in pain. Santos stepped back — then struck the base of Zane’s neck a vicious blow with his gun. The Israeli collapsed to his knees.

Eddie whirled, but found Vargas’s pistol pointed at him. He froze, helpless, as Santos hit Zane again, following it with a kick to his abdomen. The Mossad agent curled up in agony.

Santos turned his gun on the other prisoner. ‘Now you, English. Right hand behind your back.’

‘Get fucked,’ Eddie growled.

The automatic did not waver. ‘Do it, or I shoot you.’ Vargas was prepared to fire; his boss was actively looking forward to doing so. Eddie had no choice. More handcuffs clamped painfully hard around his wrists.

Santos examined them, then smiled.

Even knowing the attack was coming, Eddie could do nothing to counter it. Searing pain exploded in his skull as the gun hit him. He crumpled against the wall, trying to dodge the inevitable kick.

He failed. The cop’s boot slammed into his stomach. Eddie doubled up, a sickening dizziness overwhelming him as he gasped for air.

Santos indicated Zane. ‘Put him in my car,’ he told his men. ‘I will take him to the Enklave. The other one…’ A cruel smile. ‘Take him to the cemetery.’

Miranda regarded him first with confusion, then dismay. ‘But — but that is not what we do.’

‘He is not leaving town,’ said Santos. ‘Ever.’

Miranda started to protest, but his words were cut off as Santos slammed him against the bars. ‘That is twice in one day you have challenged me! Do not do it three times, or you will join him!’ His fingers closed around Miranda’s windpipe. ‘Do you understand?’

All the terrified cop could do was nod. Santos blew smoke into his face, then released him. ‘Good. Now, do as I say.’

Vargas and the quivering Miranda dragged Zane from the cell. Santos watched them go, then took a long drag on his cigar. ‘Just you and me now, eh, English?’

‘Fuckin’ wonderful,’ Eddie rasped. ‘So this is how you treat tourists? No wonder that hotel was empty.’

Santos chuckled. ‘We usually run visitors out of town. It is strange, we always find drugs on them, even the respectable ones! But they pay their, ah, “fine” and go, and never come back. You, though…’ His expression turned stony. ‘You came looking for the wrong people, English. When someone does not want to be found, they are willing to pay to make sure nobody does find them.’

‘You know they’re fucking Nazis, right?’ said Eddie. ‘Escaped war criminals?’

A dismissive huff, smoke wafting across the cell. ‘Perón and then El Proceso were happy for them to be here. They want the same thing — strength and power. And I believe that also. Argentina would be much better with a strong government again. Maybe we do not have that in the whole country… but we do have it here. Lago Amargo is my town, English. And I will not let you or anyone else take it from me.’

Vargas reappeared and spoke to him. The corrupt cop nodded, then addressed Eddie once more. ‘Time to go. Your friend wants to see the Enklave, so now he will. As for you, our graveyard is not very beautiful, but you should make the most of it. It is the last place you will see.’ He started for the door — then whipped back around to kick his prisoner hard in the chest. ‘Goodbye, English.’ He walked out, leaving Eddie paralysed by pain.

Vargas and Miranda hauled the Englishman from the cell. They took him outside and shoved him into the back of an elderly Chevrolet police car. Eddie glimpsed a few onlookers before his head was pushed down, but no one moved to help him.

Miranda took the wheel, Vargas pointing his gun at Eddie. ‘You make trouble, I shoot you,’ he snarled as the car set off.

‘We should not be doing this,’ said Miranda. ‘This is wrong! We have never killed anyone before.’

Vargas responded in irate Spanish. ‘Yes, he attacked us,’ Miranda continued, ‘but we were going to arrest them for no reason! El Jefe did not even try to hide drugs on them.’

The young cop’s continued use of English was both confusing and angering his companion. ‘Hable en español, pendejo!’ he barked. Miranda gave Eddie an apologetic glance, but caved in, the argument continuing in Spanish.

The car headed into the hills overlooking the little town. Somewhere up there was the graveyard, in which Eddie would become the latest nameless resident.

Zane was also going into the hills, but along a different route. He had been dumped in the trunk of Santos’s own car, a half-decade-old Mercedes that nevertheless was probably the newest and most luxurious vehicle in the region. After several minutes of jolting along rough tracks, the car stopped. He squinted as the trunk lid opened and dust hit his eyes. ‘Get out,’ ordered Santos, dragging him on to the stony ground.

They were on what had once been the lake’s shore, the water now just a shimmering line in the distance beyond a flat pan of exposed silt. Zane made out indistinct tracks on the surface — had an aircraft landed on the dry lake?

Closer by were the weathered remains of a jetty, the wood and stone structure extending out from the old shoreline. The rusted lines of a narrow-gauge railroad track ran to it. He turned his head to follow them, seeing that they led up the rising slope to a tall metal gate, high barbed-wire fences extending into the distance on each side.

The gate was open. An old Jeep was parked just outside, two men walking from it towards the new arrivals.

One was a young blond man whom Zane didn’t recognise. But the other was all too familiar.

Rasche.

Cruel glee crept on to the Nazi’s face at the sight of the handcuffed captive. ‘I saw you in Egypt,’ he said. ‘You killed some of my men.’

‘And I suppose you’re going to kill me,’ Zane replied, fighting to control his tension.

‘In time. But only after you have told us everything we want to know.’

Zane pushed out his chest in defiance. ‘I won’t tell you anything.’

Rasche smiled coldly. ‘Many have said that to me in the past. They were all mistaken. You will be no different, kleiner Jude.’

‘Lech lehizdayen.’

The insult produced only mocking amusement. ‘Many have said that to me too. It is anatomically impossible, I am afraid. But we shall see what is possible with your anatomy. I have seen Jews turned into all sorts of useful things.’

With a roar of fury, Zane jumped up — only to be pistol-whipped back down by Santos. Rasche stepped hard on the fallen man’s neck until vertebrae crackled. ‘The Final Solution did not stop in 1945,’ he said. ‘It was only… paused. We shall start it again, soon enough. Perhaps you will even have the honour of being the first of its new victims.’

Zane choked out each word. ‘You’ll be… dead… before then.’

The Nazi let out a muted laugh. ‘Not by you.’ He drew something from inside his coat.

Not a gun. An SS dagger, a silver skull on its hilt. He stepped back, bent down — and stabbed it into Zane’s thigh. The Israeli screamed.

‘Leitz told me that the man I killed in Alexandria was your friend,’ said Rasche, voice low and gloating. ‘Benjamin Falk, a Mossad Nazi-hunter.’ He twisted the blade, blood running down Zane’s leg. ‘I was aiming at you, but one dead Jew is much like another.’ A last jab, Zane crying out again, then he withdrew the knife. ‘Do not worry — you will join him soon enough.’ He kicked the writhing man, then turned away.

His companion yanked Zane up, jamming a gun into his back and pushing him to the Jeep. ‘What about the other man who was with him?’ Rasche asked Santos.

The Argentinian savoured a mouthful of cigar smoke before replying. ‘If he isn’t dead already, he will be soon.’

Miranda halted the car. Vargas got out and opened the rear door. ‘Move.’

Eddie was pulled out to find himself on a hillside about a mile from the town. The wind had picked up, pale dust swirling up the slope from the dry lake bed.

Vargas turned him around — revealing the cemetery.

The plot was dotted with stunted, twisted trees between the graves. Far in the past, the inhabitants of Lago Amargo had had money to spare on the dead, small tombs and angelic statues standing amongst the gravestones. But the town’s decline over time was easy to see; the markers became smaller, plainer, before stone finally gave way to simple wooden crosses.

‘This is wrong!’ Miranda protested. ‘We are not murderers!’

‘Shut up,’ said Vargas. He pointed at a nearby mound of dirt, dusty tools lying beside it. ‘Get the shovel.’

The young cop threw up his hands. ‘I want no part of this.’

‘Cobarde,’ muttered Vargas. ‘You, English. Get it.’

Eddie’s arms were still cuffed behind his back. ‘How, with my fucking mouth?’

The cop made an exasperated sound. He spoke to Miranda, but the other man shook his head. ‘Don’t try anything,’ said Vargas as he poked his gun against Eddie’s back and fumbled for the handcuff key. He tried to push it into the hole on the left bracelet, metal clinking on metal before it found its home. He turned it, and the cuff came loose. ‘Okay, you’re going to dig—’

Eddie twisted at the waist, using his left elbow to slam the gun away from his body as his right arm whisked around to deliver a punch to Vargas’s face. ‘Dig this!’

It wasn’t as solid a blow as he had hoped, but it was enough to unbalance the Argentinian. Eddie shoulder-barged him, knocking him down.

But the cop still had his gun — and was already recovering. The Yorkshireman ran for the nearest row of gravestones. If he could get behind them, he would have at least partial cover…

Too slow. ‘Bastardo!’ Vargas shouted as he scrambled upright and took aim—

A shot — but it went wide. Eddie glanced back as he reached the first of the markers to see that Miranda had grabbed his partner’s arm. Vargas broke free — then clubbed the smaller man with his gun. Miranda fell against the car.

Eddie bent low and kept running, squinting as more gritty dust blew up the hillside. He swerved around a statue, intending to use it as a shield, but instead had to make a running jump as he almost fell into an open hole behind it, mud and a rusty shovel at the bottom of the half-dug old grave. He swore as he regained his balance on the other side, then hurried on. The next decent cover was a gnarled tree. He ran for it—

Dried bark exploded just behind the Englishman as he reached safety. The pursuing cop fired again, but struck nothing.

Vargas was not a skilled shooter, then; the chances of hitting a small target with a handgun while running were minuscule, but he had still taken the shot, driven by anger and testosterone. He had a second magazine on his belt, though, so playing cat and mouse until he ran out of ammo wasn’t an option. Eddie knew that his only hope of survival was to take the Argentinian down — but how?

He turned into the gritty wind. Lower down the slope, a small, blocky mausoleum stood about thirty yards distant. A plan came to him. Risky, and it depended on Vargas acting on instinct rather than logic, but it was all he had…

Eddie broke cover and ran. Grave markers blurred past. A shot, then another, lead striking stone behind him. Fifteen yards, ten — but the whipcrack of a third shot snapped past barely a foot in his wake. Vargas had got smart and stopped, gun in both hands for greater accuracy. Five yards, but Eddie knew that the next round would be on target—

He threw himself into a dive, thumping down in the dirt just short of the structure. A bullet seared above him. Vargas adjusted his aim and fired again — but hit only soil as Eddie scrambled behind the mausoleum.

Panting, the Englishman jumped up and grabbed a foot-long hunk of stone that had broken from the wall. The cop would take at most twenty seconds to reach the little tomb. Would he go around its right side, or the left? Vargas was right-handed, so coming from that side, rounding the obstacle anticlockwise, would give him the most advantageous positioning; he could lead with his gun as he circled. But doing so would also mean he was facing into the dusty wind at the first corner…

Eddie couldn’t cover both sides of the tomb simultaneously. He had to make a choice, now. He heard the cop approaching, the gear on his belt rattling. Which way would he go?

The Englishman went to the left side, gambling that the enraged Vargas would follow his natural instincts and protect his vision.

Pressing his back against the weathered wall, he held the stone like a baseball bat, ready to swing. The footsteps slowed, the Argentinian uncertain which side to take…

Left.

Eddie waited, arms tensed. Boots crunched on gravel. The gun’s muzzle came into view, Vargas leaning forward to see what was around the corner—

The chunk of stone smashed against his head.

Vargas staggered backwards. The gun went off — but the bullet hit the tomb, ricocheting away. Eddie threw the stone at the other man’s chest. The Argentinian fell on his back.

Eddie was about to dive for the weapon, but instantly changed his plan when he saw it was pointing almost at him — and Vargas still had his finger on the trigger. Instead he darted for the nearest row of gravestones. These were as old as the mausoleum, moss-scabbed stone teeth giving him a degree of protection.

But not much. Vargas shrieked breathless abuse as he ran, firing a couple of wild shots from the ground.

The old tree was just ahead. Eddie swerved to put it between his back and Vargas’s gun as he raced towards the car. It would keep him out of the cop’s sight for a few seconds, but could he turn that to his advantage?

Yes.

Another change of course as he angled to retrace his own steps — and jumped down into the open grave.

The hole was four feet at its deepest, the edges crumbling. Eddie backed against the grave’s end, holding his breath as he listened for Vargas. Angry gasping reached him as the cop lumbered up the hill… then slowed as he found he had lost sight of his target.

Eddie tensed. He knew he could never have reached the car before Vargas spotted him — but did Vargas realise that? If the cop thought the Englishman had gone for the vehicle, then he had a chance. If not…

Vargas set off again, the jangle of his equipment growing louder. How close was he? Eddie couldn’t judge — and didn’t dare raise his head to look. All he knew was that each step was bringing his adversary nearer, nearer…

And past.

The noise receded. Eddie cautiously peered out. Vargas had passed about twenty feet away, a large neighbouring gravestone blocking the hole from his view. His back was now to the Yorkshireman as he advanced on the car — but it wouldn’t be long before he realised his prey was not there.

Eddie picked up the rusty spade and climbed out, moving up behind Vargas. The Argentinian stopped, head cocked, listening. Eddie slipped closer.

The cop turned—

The shovel’s rusted head came down on his hand like an axe, the dull clang of metal accompanied by a snap of bone. Vargas screamed, the gun falling from his broken fingers. Eddie swung the spade again — and blood and broken teeth sprayed from the Argentinian’s mouth as the flat of the blade hit him in the face.

He dropped the shovel and forced the cop into a headlock, then dragged him to the open grave and threw him in. ‘You’re fucking lucky I’m not burying you in there,’ he said, kicking loose dirt on to him. Vargas curled up in fear. The Englishman retrieved the gun, then returned to the police car.

Miranda was slumped against it. He looked up as Eddie approached. ‘Where — where is Vargas?’

‘In a grave. Don’t worry, he’s not dead,’ Eddie added as he saw the shock on the young man’s face. ‘He just wishes he was. He won’t be causing any trouble for a while, though.’ He looked at the settlement below, then his gaze snapped back to Miranda. ‘Question is… what about you?’

The wind had picked up by the time Santos returned to town, dust from the dry lake billowing across the streets. Squinting even behind his mirrored sunglasses, he was about to head into the police station when the frantic bleat of a car horn reached him. He peered into the haze. It was the car in which Vargas and Miranda had taken the Englishman to the graveyard — but now only one man was inside.

The vehicle skidded to a halt. ‘What is it?’ Santos demanded as the frightened Miranda jumped out. ‘Where is Vargas?’

‘The — the Englishman,’ Miranda stammered. ‘He got loose and beat the crap out of Vargas! He was gonna do the same to me, but I got away. But he’s coming, he’s coming for you! He’s got a gun — he said he’s going to kill you!’

‘Like hell,’ Santos growled. He stared towards the hills, but the dust obscured all detail. ‘Did you come straight from the graveyard?’ Miranda nodded. ‘Then he can’t have got far. We can stop him before he even reaches the edge of town.’

Miranda’s arrival had drawn attention, people coming out of nearby buildings. Silva emerged from the hotel and jogged to the two cops. ‘What’s going on?’ he called, worried.

‘That English asshole’s still causing trouble,’ Santos replied, before hurrying into the station. He returned carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight.

Silva’s eyes widened. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Taking care of a problem.’ Santos slapped a magazine into the Remington’s receiver and drew back the bolt.

‘But what if someone comes looking for him? What if they tell the federal police or the gendarmerie that he was here?’

‘You’ve done well out of our town’s little secret,’ the police chief growled. ‘Now it’s time for you to help keep it.’

Silva glanced around nervously. More people — including his daughter — were watching. ‘You can’t just kill him!’ he said in a strained whisper. ‘You said you were only going to kick them out of town!’

‘Things have gone beyond that. Now, are you going to help me?’ Santos glared at the mayor, who shrank back. ‘Then get out of my way.’

The police chief ran across the square, rifle in hand. One of the side streets was only short, continuing as a track out of town towards the graveyard. The last building on the street was derelict. He positioned himself behind a crumbling wall to get a view of the entire hillside. There was little cover beyond the occasional tree or boulder; his target would have nowhere to hide.

And the moment he was seen… he was a dead man. Santos was an accomplished shot. The Remington’s magazine held only three bullets, but one would be enough.

He raised the scope to his eye, checking each potential cover spot in turn. No trace of anyone. Dust prickled the back of his neck. Irritated, he wiped it, then resumed his search. The Englishman was out there somewhere…

A loud, echoing clang from behind. The church bell. It chimed again. He frowned. The priest was an old man, easily cowed; if this was some sort of attempt to warn away the visitor, then he would have to pay him a visit and remind him that God did not call the shots in Lago Amargo.

Clang. Clang. The bell continued its tuneless toll. Santos swept his scope over the hillside once more, then raised his head from the rifle for a wider view. Still no sign of Chase, but he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He glanced over his shoulder.

Some of the townsfolk were advancing towards him, twenty or more, Silva and his daughter leading them. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Get back! This is police business. Go back to your homes or you’ll answer to me.’

The civilians stopped. He looked back at the hill, the dust clearing enough to reveal the road winding up to the graveyard.

Nobody was on it — or the surrounding open ground. Suddenly uneasy, he darted the sight from tree to rock to tree. Still no one. But Miranda had told him the Englishman was coming. Where was he?

He looked around again to find the young cop — and froze.

The bell clanged one last time. The townspeople, Miranda amongst them, parted from the centre of the street, clearing a path for a ghostly figure striding out from a dense wall of dust.

Eddie Chase.

Santos started to bring up the rifle, only to freeze again as the Englishman swept open his leather jacket to reveal that he was armed. The gun was in his waistband, but his cold expression warned the police chief that the slightest move would see it drawn without hesitation… and fired.

‘Miranda!’ Santos called. ‘Stop him! You have your gun — shoot him!’

Miranda stared at him, conflicted… then silently retreated out of sight. Dismayed, Santos turned to Silva for help. ‘Pablo! Do something! You’re in this with me — if I go down, so do you!’

The mayor breathed deeply before replying. ‘It… perhaps it’s time this ended, Eduardo. It has gone too far.’

Rage overtook fear. ‘You fucking coward!’ snarled Santos. ‘All of you! You’re cowards! This is my town — without me, you’d have nothing! I protected you!’

‘Protected?’ cried Julieta as the Englishman passed her, his stride relentless. ‘All you’ve ever done is threaten us!’

Santos shook with anger. ‘You bastards! I’ll remember who refused to stand with me, you—’

Eddie stopped about thirty feet from the cop. ‘Oi! Arsehole! It’s not them you want to worry about.’

Santos switched to English. ‘You should not have come back. You should have run away, as fast as you could.’

‘Well, people keep telling me I’m not that bright.’ He took in the cop’s rifle. ‘That a Remington? Decent gun. You should be able to take me down with one shot.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re fast enough.’

Santos hesitated, then turned to face him, keeping the rifle low. ‘What, you think this is a shoot-out? That this is the Wild West and you are a cowboy, like John Wayne?’

Eddie remained still, his dusty jacket flapping stiffly in the wind. ‘Was always more of a Clint Eastwood fan. But it’s up to you. You can either give yourself up so the feds can deal with you, or… draw.’ He moved his right hand fractionally closer to his gun.

Santos caught the movement, his eyes darting between the weapon and Eddie’s face. The Englishman’s expression remained unreadable. The cop licked his lips… then almost imperceptibly began to bring his rifle towards the other man.

Only Eddie’s eyes moved in response, momentarily regarding the Remington before fixing back upon the police chief. Now sweating despite the cold breeze, Santos again ran his tongue around his bone-dry mouth. If he was fast enough, he could get off one shot before his opponent reacted. It might not be a killing wound, but it wouldn’t have to be — if it stopped him from firing, then a second round would finish him…

The rifle’s barrel rose, millimetre by millimetre. Eddie remained statue still. Santos struggled to control his breathing, feeling every beat of his pounding heart. Just a little more, and no matter how fast the Englishman drew his gun, it wouldn’t be enough for him to get off the first shot. He could do it.

He could do it.

He could—

Santos burst into motion. The Remington whipped upwards, the barrel swinging towards Eddie’s chest—

Eddie was faster.

Santos was thrown back against the wall as a bullet ripped through his right shoulder, shattering bone. The rifle flew from his numbed hand and clattered to the ground. He gasped for breath as fire burned across his chest.

The Englishman closed on him, a near-silhouette against the dusty haze. He kicked the Remington away, then loomed over the fallen man, bringing up his gun. Santos felt a terror like nothing he had ever experienced before, not even when fighting in the Malvinas. ‘No, no!’ he gasped, feebly raising his uninjured arm in a pathetic attempt to ward off the shadowy figure. ‘Please, don’t kill me!’ His bladder let go, hot urine soaking his clothing.

The gun remained fixed on his face… then Eddie turned away. ‘You people need a new sheriff,’ he told the townsfolk laconically as he walked back down the street, fading into the drifting dust.

Miranda ran to Santos, his own gun raised. ‘Eduardo Santos,’ he said, almost unable to believe that he was making the challenge, ‘you are under arrest for attempted murder…’