Chapter 2
Xavier
The second I entered the bar, gazes swung toward me, and unease raced up my spine. Conversations went quiet.
Not in a polite way. The dangerous way.
The silence made everything else louder.
A dart thudded into cork. Cue balls smashed at the pool table.
An extremely old man slurped his beer at the far end of the bar.
Even the crooked television mounted above a cigarette machine seemed too loud, alternating between flashes of horse racing odds and football highlights.
Every eye in the Rusty Swagman was on me.
Coming to the Outback, I'd expected heat, flies, and dust. When I'd made a snap decision to pull over at this bar, the outside facade had me expecting something as rough as some of the hovels I’d visited in third-world countries.
But I hadn’t been prepared for a room full of men who looked like they'd snap me in half without blinking. Men who seemed to be considering how they'd do it.
It was only after I'd stepped inside and removed my sunglasses that I’d wondered if I should have kept driving once I'd realized I had no phone reception.
But I'd traveled eight thousand miles to be here, and I needed to find Frank Branson.
I certainly hadn't expected my simple question to be met with such a weird response.
The barman stared at me like I was a talking horse. He flicked a grubby dish towel over his shoulder, and his gaze held a flicker of warning. His jaw tightened.
Behind me, chairs scraped back.
"You want a drink or not, mate?" The barman dragged out the word “mate” like I wasn't his mate at all and never would be. His question completely dodged the one I'd asked.
I didn't answer straight away. Instead, I looked around, wondering whether I should get the hell out of there.
Two men argued over darts near the wall.
Four men surrounded a large wine barrel, drinking beer and demolishing a basket of very yellow hot chips covered in tomato sauce.
Another four stood at the pool table, their hair messy and their clothing grubby, all holding half-drunk glasses of beer.
"Hello. You want a beer or what?" The bartender's brows thumped together.
"I do. I'll have whatever he's having." I nodded at the wrinkled man at the end of the bar as he downed an entire beer in one go.
I pulled out a barstool and sat, placing my sunglasses on the timber bar top.
The pub was old. Proper old. Probably sixty years of spilled beer soaked into wooden floors worn smooth by boots.
I was fairly confident these floors had felt their share of spilled blood from bar fights.
The walls were a patchwork of yellowed photographs and faded race-day posters.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the greasy tang of tomato sauce, and stale sweat.
Somewhere near the back, someone burped too loudly, the sound sharp and ugly.
The barman returned with the beer. "Fourteen bucks."
I pulled out my wallet and held forward a fifty-dollar note. "You didn't answer my question." I kept my voice even. Polite. Controlled.
He snapped the note from my fingers. "No. I didn't."
What the hell? His response, along with the creepy vibes racing through me, convinced me that the barman and just about everyone in this place knew exactly who Frank Branson was. For some reason, they were all protecting him.
Maybe they thought I wanted Frank to settle a debt that needed repaying.
I decided to take my question to someone else. A woman in a cowboy hat sat at the opposite end of the bar, but as soon as I glanced her way, she lowered her head. All I saw was the top of her hat. Clearly, she wasn't interested in speaking to me.
The barman dropped my change on the counter, then served the old man at the end of the bar another beer. The man raised the full glass in a toast to the barman, then, as he took a drink, his gaze came to me. He didn't look away.
I picked up my drink and moved toward the old man. I placed my beer down and sat in the spare barstool beside him. He turned his head. His face was so weathered it looked like cracked leather. Christ, this guy had to be at least a hundred.
"Excuse me, sir." I raised my voice a touch in case he was hard of hearing. "Do you happen to know Frank Branson?"
The conversation in the bar died completely this time, and a pool cue clattered onto the table.
I swept my gaze toward the men who had been playing. They each turned to me, slowly, deliberately.
A man with a big bushy beard grinned, revealing yellow teeth with a gap on the left side. His smile was far from friendly. "Say that again."
It was clear to me that these people knew Frank, so there was no need to repeat that question. Instead, I met his gaze and asked, "Do you know where I can find Frank Branson?"
The grin faded. "What the fuck do you want with him?" He stepped closer.
"That's none of your business," I replied, keeping my cool. "But I appreciate the concern."
His friend with broad shoulders cracked his knuckles and came to Bushy Beard's side.
The scrawny one among them spat on the floor, missing the fourth man's boots by an inch.
Three of the pool players had the same fat noses and eyes as black as midnight.
Brothers, maybe. The fourth guy was cut from a different mold, and he was the only one of them who looked just a touch terrified.
The brothers, however, were grinning. They seemed eager. Itching for a fight, as my father would say after many board meetings.
The men who had been playing darts scraped back a couple of chairs and sat facing me, like they were getting ready for a show, and I was the main attraction.
It occurred to me that this was the point where most sensible people would get the hell out of there.
But I've never been very good at backing down.
I stood, and as I angled toward the four men, the old guy at the bar drank his beer like he hadn't heard my question, or maybe he was pretending he hadn't.
"Oy." The bearded brother took another step toward me. "I asked you a question." He snapped his neck side to side with sickening cracks.
I stepped away from the bar and the old guy, giving myself room to move, and glanced at the pool cue on the table. My weapon, should I need it. "And I said it was none of your business."
A ripple of laughter broke out around the room, mocking in tone. Someone hooted. Someone else clapped. The woman at the end was no longer hiding under her cowboy hat. She looked right at me. Her expression was a curious mixture of loathing and fascination.
The bearded man wasn't laughing. "Wrong answer," he snarled.
I glanced toward the door, confident I could beat these assholes to that exit if I needed to. I was both a marathon runner and a mountain climber. These brothers looked damn mean, but I had agility on my side.
The three brothers parted, facing me in a semi-circle. I could easily take on three. Maybe four if the scared one grew a spine. I was screwed if the crowd joined in. But I needed to get my hands on that pool cue first.
The bartender cleared his throat. "Now, guys?—"
"Stay out of it, Pete," the bearded brother snapped.
I raised my hands and took two steps sideways, forcing them to either move around or take a shot. They moved. I took two more steps, getting closer to the pool table. Their friend, the scared one, grabbed his beer and strode away.
Good. Back to three assholes.
I put my back against the pool table. Now, nobody could take me from behind.
I'd been training and competing in fencing since I was six years old. I'd won my share of tournaments, much to my stupid mother's delight, more than mine.
The brother with the broad shoulders leaned forward, and I just about choked on his disgusting beer breath. "You ain't from around here, are ya?"
"No." I stepped to my left a touch, slotting the pool cue into my line of sight. "I'm not."
His eyes flicked over my clothes, my watch. His lip curled. "Figures."
I ran my gaze over his body. Taking in the soft belly, his chipped fingernails, and the scar on the back of his arm that was both raised and hideous.
He strode forward and shoved me.
Not hard. Just enough to test me.
I didn't stumble. I held my ground.
"Bruce," the bartender yelled, "cut it out."
"Fuck off, Pete," Bruce yelled without taking his eyes off me.
"I'm guessing by your reaction that you know Frank Branson,” I said, placing my hand on the pool table, putting the cue within reach. “How about you stop this nonsense and just answer my question?"
A twisted grin rippled across his lips. "How about you stop this nonsense?" He mimicked me and burst out laughing. The brothers joined in.
"Are you related to Frank?" I asked. "Is that why you're protecting him?" I hoped like hell that these bastards weren't Frank's sons.
His eyes bulged, and he clenched his fist and took a swing at my head.
I ducked under the punch, grabbed the pool cue, and jabbed sharp and hard into his ribs.
He stumbled backward, clutching his belly.
That first strike was instinctive. The pool cue was heavy and smooth. Wrong in so many ways. I assessed the balance, length, and weight, knowing this bullshit wasn't over. It was just beginning.
The scrawny one lunged at me. I pivoted and snapped the cue upward, slamming it into his elbow.
"Fuck!" he yelled, stumbling backward.
The pub erupted into laughter.
The men beneath the dartboard cheered.
"Get him!" someone shouted from near the TV.
The bearded brother swung again, aiming for my stomach. I dodged and whipped the pool cue across his knuckles.
Howling, he jerked away. "Son of a bitch!" he roared, shaking his hand.
That would've hurt. I'd been hit in the knuckles many times while competing, and it stung like hell, even with protective gloves on.
"Look, Bruce, I don't want to hurt anyone." I raised my free hand in a peace gesture.
"How the hell do you know my name?" Bruce glared at me.
I cocked my head. “Pete just said your name.”