I TAP RANDY on the shoulder, and he spins toward me, swinging the broken pool cue like a major-league hitter going after a fastball. I have just enough time to duck, and the stick comes so close to my skull I can feel the wind against my hair. Missing me throws him off balance, and while he’s trying to get his feet set, I drive my fist into the lower part of his rib cage.
He lets out a grunt and attempts to swing back, but his feet are tangled up and his arms are holding the stick all wrong—like a right-handed batter who suddenly tries to hit left-handed without switching the position of his hands. I dodge the blow easily this time, and instead of going for the body, I drive my fist into his mouth. He reels backward, dropping the stick and landing clumsily on his butt.
I have time to see how the others are faring. The man with the crescent wrench is swinging wildly at Carlos, who is quick on his feet, like a lightweight boxer with a long reach. He zips in, hits the guy with a couple of jabs, then slides back out before the guy can put any momentum behind the heavy wrench.
The one with the tire iron swings wildly at Marcos, who barely jumps back in time, but while he’s distracted, Ava drops to the ground and sweeps the guy’s leg with her own. He staggers, not quite falling, but it causes him to lower his defenses. Marcos swoops in with a killer right cross, and the guy drops like an elevator with a broken cable.
Meanwhile, Randy rises up out of the gravel, wiping his hands. He spits out a tooth and smiles at me, showing the bloody gap in his mouth. He looks more pissed than hurt and charges at me.
I grab him, stepping out of the way as I use his momentum to propel him face-first toward a car, which I recognize as Neil Stephenson’s Nissan Sentra. Randy’s head collides with the door, making a loud thud and leaving a dent the size of a salad plate.
Randy tries to stand up, but before he can turn around, I grab his left hand and twist his wrist. He groans in pain, and I contort his arm in a way that will either drive him to the ground or—if he resists the pain—do some damage to ligaments and muscles.
It’s his choice.
Luckily, he makes the first smart move all night and goes down to the ground in a huff. With his chest in the gravel, I pin his arm behind his back. I look up to see Carlos has his guy in a similar position. The other guy—the one who got run over by the freight train of Marcos’s fist—is still out cold.
Randy grunts and looks around with a surprised expression on his face that says, Is the fight really over?
Within a minute, everyone from the bar has filed out into the parking lot to get a look. We don’t bother to tell them to go back inside. As long as they don’t get close, some spectators aren’t going to hurt anything.
Ava fetches handcuffs out of her vehicle, and Carlos and I put them on Randy and his friend. Then we let them sit up to lean against the wheels of my truck with their hands locked behind their backs. The third guy starts to wake up around the time the police arrive. They put Randy and his buddies in the back of a cruiser, and take some time interviewing all of us before hauling them off to jail.
I apologize to Neil for putting a dent in his door with Randy’s head, and the professor surprises me by shrugging it off and saying, “It gives the car character.”
When the hubbub has finally died, the patrons go back inside. Megan waits for me at the doorway. Carlos, Ava, and Marcos all stand with her. As I approach, Carlos gets a phone call and answers it, stepping a few feet away.
“You okay?” Megan asks me.
“My back’s a little sore,” I say, “but I’ll live.”
I’m not trying to be macho. I’m sure I’ll have a welt—and some aches for a few days—but I know it could have been much worse.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Megan says.
“Not your fault,” I say, then gesture to the sign advertising a live performance from Rory Yates. “Besides, you wanted a show.”
She laughs. “Is life with you always this exciting?”
“Not if I can help it,” I say. “I like sitting on the porch and picking my guitar and watching the sun set.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I just need a good woman to sit on the porch with me,” I add. “Maybe she could be reading a book.”
“Sounds lovely,” she says.
“One thing you should know,” I add. “I do get called in at all hours. Crime doesn’t stop at closing time. It’s usually just getting started. It’s hard to make plans.”
“You can say that again,” Carlos interjects, putting his phone away. “Just got a call from Ryan Logan. The raid’s happening at 5:00 a.m.”
“You’re kidding?” I say. It’s already past midnight. “He’s just letting us know now?”
I check my phone and see two calls I missed from Ryan during all the fuss.
Still, when I was arguing with him a few hours ago, he probably knew then that the raid would be happening the next morning. Or he would have known that it was at least likely. He could have given us some kind of heads-up. I hate to think he withheld the information just to get back at me for standing up to him.
“If we want to be there,” Carlos says, “we need to meet up with the team now.”
“You told him we’re coming, didn’t you?”
“I said I’d be there,” he says, “but I told him you just got beaten up and would probably miss it.”
I stare at him, shocked. I open my mouth to tell him of course I want to be a part of the raid—and I did not get beaten up!
Then I remember who I’m talking to.
“Got you,” he says, grinning. “Again.”