Chapter Twelve
GRIFFIN
Emma was looking for trouble and she found it. No good could have come from her skulking around Legends bar on her own. I bet she knew it, too. Why would she throw herself into a direct line of danger? That’s the question that gnaws at me.
I’ve spent every night since our fiery encounter in the parking lot, keeping an eye on her. Since that evening of bliss, my desire to protect has only become stronger. She changed something in me, and I dare say it’s for the better.
Even with my scrutiny, I haven’t managed to figure out her angle. I understand she wants to be a part of my world, but how can I allow it? What good will come from another Vigilante roaming these streets?
She’s not to blame for her delusions. I stoked her fire and inspired the monster living within. Have I made a mistake?
There isn’t time to think about it now, not while her assailant is stepping through the unlocked door of Legends. I knew he’d come back, but I believed it would be earlier in the night when the bar was busy and Emma couldn’t cause a scene.
At least he’s made it easy for me.
I step out of my beaten-up Buick Regal, kept in storage for occasions such as this, and start crossing the street. There’s barely any movement on the street this late, with most of the bar’s patrons long gone to their drunken slumbers.
Crisp air stings my lungs, and my mind wanders to that fateful night, fourteen years ago, with Vincent Daniels. It was cold then, too. Unseasonably so, I think. It’s funny how history has a way of repeating itself.
I stop at the bar’s door and remove my Walther PPK from its holster. It’s empty. It’s always empty. Hell, I doubt the old girl can shoot anymore, given the lack of use she’s seen over the last decade-and-a-half.
I step inside and see the assailant behind the bar. He’s got Emma’s head in his hands, grinding her face against his groin. Sickening groans of delight escape his thin lips.
I see red.
“That’s right, baby. Work that dick,” he says.
“Please, stop this,” Emma cries out. She’s muttering and whimpering.
With both of them making so much noise, neither hears me approach the bar.
I lean over the bar, and grab Emma’s attacker by the neck. I jerk him back, hook an elbow around his throat, and drag him onto my side of the bar. He chokes and sputters, driving fist after fist against my forearm. With the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I don’t even feel it.
“What are you doing here, little man?” I squeeze as tightly as I can.
He tries to scream, but it chokes in his throat. Emma’s puppy dog eyes meet mine. She’s heaving and gagging, with her knees against her chest. I don’t address her, focusing instead on the man in my grip.
It’s dangerous to be this close to him. He’s wily, erratic, and has an affinity for knives… The thought barely crosses my mind before I feel a sting in my midsection. A guttural roar rips through my core. The fucker’s stabbed me.
I release him, and he stumbles away. He’s huffing oxygen into his lungs, fumbling into a tall table as he goes. The thin, sharp blade’s stuck in my side. That’s going to sting in the morning.
“Griffin,” Emma screams from my side, but I can’t break my attention. My focus stays on the attacker.
“You’re a buzzkill, Griff,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “That’s twice you’ve cockblocked me, and this time I’m going to make you pay for it.”
He draws a second blade from his side. I raise my pistol to his chest.
“Try me then.” Woozy and lightheaded, my words come out weakly.
He raises his hands at the sight of the gun. “What you gonna do, tough guy? Shoot me in a public bar? There are cameras all around this place. You won’t make it down the road before the cops roll up.”
Shit. He’s right. I hadn’t thought about the cameras when I saw what he was doing to Emma. Oh well, I’m in too deep now.
Good God, I wish I had a bullet in this gun.
I tuck the pistol into the holster behind my back. “Then let’s dance.”
There’s a wicked glint in his eye. Unhinged.
Dangerous. Excited by this. He sprints towards me with the knife in hand.
He swings it wildly toward my other side, but I catch his wrist before the blade can connect.
I drive my head forward against the bridge of his nose, and blood gushes down his mouth.
He stumbles and crashes to the floor, his free hand pressed against his face. “You fucker,” he shouts. He doesn’t come in for another attack. He’s up and running, but I can’t let him go.
I grab the handle of the blade, still stuck in my side, and with a hard tug and heavy scream, it’s out. That hurt. I’m getting too old to play this young man’s game.
“Griffin, stop,” Emma says. I ignore her again. She wanted to chase after this prick once, and I did nothing. I won’t let it happen again.
I take a step toward him, but my knee buckles from the pain in my side. I drop to one knee, and when I tilt my head back to the attacker, he’s running to the door, and through it.
No. You won’t get far.
“Emma, stay here,” I demand. In the state she is in, I assume she’ll follow my orders.
I fight through the pain and chase after him.
In the parking lot, the attacker’s already in a 2010 Kia Sorento. His middle finger’s out the driver’s side window, and he’s screaming all manner of obscenities. You can run, but you won’t get far.
I get to my Regal and give chase. My head’s spinning, my body hurts, but the rage is carrying me forward.
He’s hurt Emma for the last time.