Chapter 10-Micah
The drive into town takes six minutes and twelve seconds.
I've made it in less.
Tonight, the roads are busy.
Too busy.
Every second the truck isn't moving fast enough feels like a knife scraping down my spine.
My phone sits in the cup holder, surveillance feed still running.
The back door camera freezes for half a second.
Static.
Then movement.
The signal clears.
One of the bastards is dragging Patrick across the floor by his shirt.
Another disappears from the frame.
Towards the main bar.
Towards Sloane.
“Fuck.”
I mash the accelerator harder.
The engine roars.
The tires chirp through the next intersection.
My pulse is steady.
Always steady.
That's what years in Special Operations teaches you.
Heart racing is for afterward.
During?
Everything gets quiet.
Focused.
Cold.
Every possibility runs through my head.
Four hostiles.
Maybe armed.
Civilian inside.
One objective.
Get to Sloane.
The truck fishtails into the gravel lot behind The Watering Hole.
I don't bother shutting the door after I jump out.
It's still swinging open as I sprint toward the service entrance.
The back door's locked.
Good.
She must have locked it.
Then a scream.
Her scream.
Every rational thought disappears.
I hit the door with my shoulder.
Solid.
Old hardwood.
Won't give.
I step back exactly one pace.
Drive my boot forward.
The frame explodes inward with a crack that echoes through the building.
The smell hits me first.
Beer.
Blood.
Fear.
My eyes sweep the room in one practiced motion.
Patrick's almost unconscious against the bar.
Two men turning toward me.
Another reaching for something beneath his jacket.
And my vision tunnels.
A huge son of a bitch with a wicked scar bisecting his face has Sloane pinned against the bar.
One massive hand wrapped around both her wrists.
The other cupping her jaw.
His tongue drags across her cheek.
Slow.
Possessive.
Like she's his.
Everything inside me snaps.
The whole world goes red.
“Who the fuck are you?” Scarface barks.
“No one you know.”
My voice doesn't even sound like mine.
Cold.
Flat.
Dead.
Then I move.
The closest idiot reaches for me.
Mistake.
I trap his wrist, pivot, and drive my elbow straight through his nose.
Bone crunches.
He folds.
Before he hits the floor, I rip the pistol from his waistband and fling it across the room.
Weapon secured.
Next.
Tattoo Neck charges like an angry bull.
Too slow.
The big ones are usually too slow.
I sidestep at the last second, hook his arm, and use his own momentum to launch him shoulder-first into the edge of the pool table.
Wood splinters.
He howls.
Good.
Stay down.
He doesn't.
And that is another mistake.
A boot to his knee ends that discussion.
The joint buckles sideways with an ugly pop.
He’s finished.
Scarface finally realizes I’m not just some cowboy.
“You military?” he snarls.
I don’t answer.
Talking wastes time.
One of his men throws a right hook.
Amateur.
I slip inside his reach and bury three rapid punches into his ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each one lands exactly where I want it.
Floating ribs.
Liver.
Solar plexus.
His breath leaves him in one explosive grunt.
I finish with an uppercut that snaps his head back.
Blood sprays across the bottles behind the bar.
He stumbles.
Doesn’t fall.
Tough bastard.
That’s fine. I’ve dealt with tough bastards before.
I grab the back of his neck and drive his face into the bar top.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Glasses shatter.
His body finally goes limp.
Movement.
To my left.
It’s Scarface.
The one who touched Sloane.
And he still has hold of her.
His hand slides from her face to her shoulder as he shoves her to the side.
Wrong move.
It’s absolutely the wrong fucking move.
Because when I see her wince as her side hits the bar?
In that exact moment, I lose whatever was left of my reason.
“You should've stayed outta this,” he growls.
“No.”
I take one deliberate step forward.
“You should've kept your hands off my girl.”
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Your girl?”
“You okay, Princess?” I ask.
And yeah, the words leave my mouth before I even think them through.
I don't care.
Everyone in the room can hear.
Everyone should hear.
“I-I’m fine,” she whispers, but her voice cracks and I know she’s lying.
Scarface glares at Sloane.
She stumbles back. Gets herself clear of us.
Good girl.
Now I don't have to worry about hurting her.
“You’re gonna pay for this, you fucking loser!”
He swings.
Big.
Wide.
Powerful.
And so fucking predictable.
I crash inside his reach before the punch finishes.
Palm strike to the chin.
Hammer fist to the throat.
Knee into his stomach.
He doubles over.
I seize the back of his head and drive him face-first into one of the thick wooden support posts.
The entire building seems to shake.
He roars.
Still standing.
Stubborn son of a bitch.
I like stubborn.
Means they remember the lesson longer.
He lunges again.
This time I catch his wrist.
Twist.
Hard.
The elbow bends in the wrong direction.
He screams.
I don't let go.
Instead, I pivot behind him, lock his shoulder, and drive him face-first onto the hardwood floor.
The impact rattles every bottle behind the bar.
He tries to rise.
A forearm across the back of his neck ends that idea.
I lean down close enough for only him to hear.
“If you ever come here again, if you look at her, try to breathe the same fucking air as her again...”
I tighten the hold just enough to make him gasp.
“...they'll never find enough pieces of you to bury.”
He stops fighting.
Smart.
Very smart.
The room falls silent.
My own breathing is the only sound.
“Now, get the fuck out.”
Two of the guys able to stand grab their buddies and start to limp outside.
Scarface isn’t done yet.
Cocky.
Stupid.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he says.
I just stare at him.
I don’t blink. But I don’t speak either.
I just watch his face blanch before he retreats.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I watch the door silently for a minute.
“M-Micah?”
I turn so fast my neck protests.
She's standing exactly where he left her.
Shaking.
Eyes huge.
One wrist is already bruising where that bastard grabbed her.
The sight of those fingerprints blooming against her skin nearly sends me after him again.
I manage to resist the impulse.
Barely.
Instead, I walk straight to her.
Slowly, this time.
Making sure she sees me coming.
Making sure she knows...
It's over.
She's safe.
I've got her now.