No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  There were no CCTV cameras on poles, no cop cars nearby, no bystanders to witness the one-sided beating. But then the brothers knew this. The spot they had chosen was deliberate. They had seen Shaw, Daisy and Callie go inside the bar. Better to hang in the shadows of the parking lot and wait. There was no one coming to help Shaw, and Daisy would just be a burden in a fist-fight.

  Shaw looked at the three brothers.

  Dogs and bullies hunted in packs.

  “Okay,” Shaw said.

  “Okay, what?” Billy asked.

  “Let's get this done. I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” Shaw replied.

  “Hospital bed more like it,” Rory sniggered.

  Billy let go of Daisy and pushed her towards Shaw.

  “Take her, you can have her. She ain’t nothing special,” Billy laughed.

  “Get in the truck Daisy and wait for me,” Shaw said, without taking his eyes off the three brothers. Daisy looked confused.

  “They’ll hurt you.” Daisy turned back to Billy. “You’re pathetic. So you’ve been paying off my workers so they don’t come back?” she snarled, fury in her eyes.

  Billy said nothing, just smiled at the ground.

  “You’re scum. All of you are scum!”

  Shaw said again in a calm voice, “Daisy, please just get in the truck.” Shaw didn’t want the situation to get out of control. He could mitigate some of the damage, but Daisy was the unknown variable. He needed to remove her from the equation otherwise her distraction could get him killed.

  Daisy turned to Shaw and he nodded. He saw something change in her face. An understanding, a respect for him, almost appreciative.

  She walked towards the Dodge, unlocked the door and got in.

  Shaw looked after her, then turned back to the three brothers. They closed in around him. “Okay,” he said. “It’s just us.”

  Jed came first, dumb and predictable, all wide-eyed throwing a haymaker like he was pitching at Fenway Park. Shaw stepped in, blocked the punch then drove his elbow into his jaw dropping him like the sack of shit he was. Shaw stepped back and pivoted just as Rory rolled towards him throwing wild punches. Shaw switched stance then drove the top of his foot up and out in a compact front-kick, driving it deep and hard into Rory’s groin, cutting the man’s sperm-count in half permanently. Rory screamed and collapsed in a tangle of pain, tears and expletives.

  Shaw stepped back and surveyed the damage. Street-fighting was never clean, choreographed, or precise like the movies. Martial arts taught you technique, survival and fear taught you adaptive brutality.

  Billy hadn’t moved. He never did. He preferred to watch as his brothers did the dirty work for him. But now both were curled-up, writhing on the ground.

  “So now it’s just you and me.” Shaw looked at him.

  “Well, see that’s where you’re wrong again.” Billy Morgan jerked his head and gave a short whistle through his teeth, and things got a whole lot worse for Shaw.

  Something big detached itself from the shadows between two cars and moved towards them.

  The man was huge, well over six feet and built like a locomotive. He wore a singlet, soiled and stained, rough jeans and massive work boots. He lumbered forward towards Shaw like Frankenstein. His head was a huge bald cannonball, raked with scar-tissue and pitted like the moon. His face was pushed in, like it was made from clay by uncaring hands, a nose flat from being broken numerous times. He had crooked yellowed teeth and drool dripped from the corners of thick lips that were twisted in a cruel smile.

  His arms hung like a gorilla, the skin bulging, vascular and corded. He flexed massive hands that were knotted and calloused like old tree roots. He was as huge and as ugly as a troll from some child’s nightmare, given birth to in a boiler, raised in the backwoods by apes, kept in a cage with attack dogs until he was called upon when needed.

  Billy nodded at Shaw then turned to the giant. “This is Ox. Ox, meet the guy you’re going to put into the intensive care unit for a very, very long time.”

  The giant made a deep guttural sound, in between a hideous laugh and dog-like snarl.

  Shaw stepped back, keeping his distance as the giant closed on him.

  Then he heard a sound that he had heard a million times before, the sound of smooth oiled metal.

  The sound a handgun makes when you rack the slide and cycle a round into the chamber.

  They all turned, even the giant.

  Daisy McAlister appeared out of the gloom. In her outstretched hands she held a Glock 9mm handgun pointed directly at Billy Morgan’s head.

  “Don’t move,” she said through gritted teeth. “If one of you so much as blinks I’ll shoot you. Do you understand me?”

  Billy Morgan raised his hands. Jed Morgan staggered to his feet, groggy and rubbing his jaw. Rory was still in pain on the ground, but he looked up at Shaw. “I’m going to kill you,” he wheezed.

  “I said don’t fucking move!” Daisy pressed forward, the barrel of the gun sweeping between the three brothers and the giant who just stood looking at her like a halfwit.

  “Now come on Daisy, we were just having some fun,” Billy replied. He wasn’t too concerned with Jed and Rory, they would live.

  Daisy ignored him and motioned to Shaw. “Let’s go,” she said, keeping the gun trained on the group.

  Shaw ducked past Billy Morgan and stood beside Daisy. “The key’s in the ignition, start it up,” she said, her eyes never leaving the group.

  Shaw nodded, jogged a few yards to the Dodge parked near the entrance of the lot. He slid into the driver's seat, fired up the engine, backed out of the slot and reversed all the way back to where Daisy stood, lining up the passenger door with her shoulder. He reached across and pushed open the passenger door so she could slide in quickly.

  Daisy backed up while covering all three brothers with the gun until she could feel the car door against her butt, then she moved around to the opening without looking behind her. She glared at Billy Morgan and settled the gun on his face. “Stay away from my ranch. Stay away from my family. Stay away from anyone I employ.” She slid fast into the seat, pulled her legs in, and slammed the door.

  Shaw hit the gas hard. The Dodge leapt forward, skidding before fish-tailing out of a hard turn onto the street then accelerated away.

  * * *

  For about a mile Shaw said nothing. He kept checking the rearview mirror as they sped out of town, the darkness the only thing following them.

  He turned to Daisy. The gun was in her hands on her lap, her finger off the trigger. She was ashen-faced and her shoulders were trembling. It had taken every ounce of courage for her to do what she had done. She had carried her Winchester around the ranch only as a deterrent to strangers like Shaw. Shooting vermin or putting down a sick cow on a farm was different to pointing a loaded handgun at another human being with the intent of pulling the trigger. She just faced the very possibility of shooting a person tonight, in self-defence she could later claim.

  Shaw had seen guys who were crack shots on the combat range unload a full magazine in seconds and hit dead-center with every round. But they would freeze when they had to draw their weapon for the first time for real on the street. Their hands would tremble, their aim would waver and they would break out in a cold sweat from fear. Shooting paper targets was one thing. Shooting living flesh and blood was something completely different.

  “Jesus, I didn’t know you carried a gun,” Shaw said, keeping the truck on the speed limit. Dark hemmed in all around them, the headlights kept a steady beam on the asphalt.

  “I keep it under the driver's seat, as protection. It’s all legal. I have a permit.” Her voice was distant and hollow. She stared straight ahead out of the windshield.

  Shaw squirmed in the seat realizing that he had been sitting on a loaded gun all the time he had been driving around town today. He hadn’t told Daisy about being pulled over by the police either. He shook his head. He had told the cop there were no weapons in the car. If the
cop had done a search Shaw would probably be spending the night in the jailhouse right now.

  “Daisy, I’m going to reach for the gun. I just want to put it away. Is that okay?”

  Daisy said nothing for a moment, then she nodded.

  Shaw took one hand off the wheel and slowly reached across her thigh and took the gun off her lap. “That’s good.” He said reassuringly. “We’re doing fine.”

  They passed the gas station and the diner, the bright neon lights punctured the night, a welcoming sign that they were nearly home. The diner was open, a few cars were parked out front. Shaw could see people sitting inside and waitresses shuffling back and forth.

  Callie! Damn!

  They had just up and left her back at the bar.

  “She’ll be fine,” Daisy said, reading Shaw’s thoughts as they passed the diner.

  I know, but will you be?

  16

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  They sat in the bunkhouse, the fire crackled and threw warm orange across their faces. Daisy was perched on the old couch in front of the wood burner, a blanket thrown over her shoulders, knees drawn under her. Shaw sat on the rug across from her. They had not stopped driving until they reached the ranch. It was nearly midnight. While Daisy was checking that the homestead and the stables were secure, Shaw had stripped the Glock she had given him and reassembled it.

  Old habits.

  It was perfectly clean and oiled, like it had never been fired.

  Now it sat on the kitchenette counter, all fifteen rounds in the magazine, magazine reinserted, but no round in the chamber. Civilian ready, how he preferred. Next to it was his book, the bus ticket sticking out marking a page, Colorado looking more distant.

  “I’ve never pointed a handgun at anyone, let alone one of the Morgans,” she replied, her eyes watching the flames as they danced and flickered. It was best to let her talk. Shaw wanted to know more, a lot more now that things had happened like they had. It was important to let someone talk. Let them control the flow of information rather than turn this into an interrogation.

  Daisy had gotten a text from Callie wondering where they had gone. Daisy replied, telling her she had suddenly fallen ill and asked Shaw to take her home. Callie replied with a sad-faced emoji and said they would catch-up tomorrow, and to tell Shaw she had found another guy to have fun with and for Shaw not to be too heart-broken.

  He wasn’t.

  Daisy looked at Shaw. “I’m sorry for what happened. Really.”

  “Nothing happened, thanks to you. I didn’t fancy fighting some ape anyway. It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ve never had anyone for a long time stand up for me. No one. It has always been just me and my mother, like against the world.”

  “What did Billy Morgan want?” Shaw asked.

  “Just the usual crap he goes on with. He told me that I should reconsider his father's offer on the ranch and that I shouldn’t be holding out for a better one.”

  “Can I ask how much?”

  “No amount of money will be enough," she replied harshly, her anger flaring again. She could turn from an apologetic young woman, in shock from pointing a gun at a man’s head, to a wild woman full of rage when the subject involved her family or the ranch. Such grounded values were rare today. She was extremely protective of tradition and the family’s heritage. She had opened up on the drive home, telling Shaw of the feud between the Morgans and the McAlisters, covering the same ground that Callie had, but he didn’t tell her that.

  “Thank you,” she said again. A smile this time. She was slowly getting back to her old self and Shaw liked it when she smiled.

  “For what?”

  “For coming after me when I took off out of the bar. For stepping in when you saw Billy Morgan had my arm. You were outnumbered. You didn’t need to step in. No one around here would have done a god-damn thing. They would have kept out, walked on by, done nothing because it was the Morgans.”

  Shaw got up, opened the door on the wood burner and threw in another log. More heat radiated into the room. He had all the doors and windows locked and secured. He came back and sat on the couch next to Daisy.

  “What do you think they will do?” she asked.

  “Bullies typically retreat, go to ground for a while to lick their wounds then regroup, work out a way to retaliate. That’s the way they think.”

  “I didn’t mean to pull you into this,” she turned to Shaw, her thigh touching his, crossing that space people usually reserved for intimacy. Shaw didn’t move or flinch, he just looked into her eyes.

  “Stay,” she whispered, then she stretched her neck and kissed him, full on the mouth, slowly at first, testing the waters, judging the response.

  Soft lips on his. Her gentle inhale drawing his breath into her mouth.

  She pushed forward, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, her arms and hands coming forward around Shaw’s neck, pulling him closer.

  He could feel the hardness of her breasts crushed against his chest. There was a hunger there, in her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. An appetite that had been starved for years now rising to the surface.

  But he didn’t kiss back.

  “What’s wrong?” Daisy pulled back momentarily.

  “You don’t have to thank me like this, Daisy. I don’t expect anything from you,” he said quietly.

  “I need this,” she said. God, how I really need this.

  She reached for him again, this time harder, more aggressive and he responded. She undid her belt and buttons at the front of her jeans, took his hand and slid it down the front, under her panties. She guided his fingers downwards through a narrow bed of tight bristles until his fingertips came to a fleshy crease that he parted with one finger and delved deeper into a channel of warm slipperiness.

  Daisy groaned hungrily for more. With her own fingers she traced the outline of something large and throbbing along the inside of his thigh. Stroking back and forth, coaxing a lengthening mass that swelled and stretched under the tight denim like it would split the material, some powerful force beneath struggling to be unleashed. She could feel him squirm and she rubbed harder, kneading it like a length of dough, its size growing even more.

  She couldn’t take it any longer, a furnace building from within her own body as her skin rippled and scorched with desire.

  She stood abruptly, pulling him up by the front of his belt with her, towards the heat of the wood burner, their mouths still locked together, hands working with deliberate urgency, pulling, tugging, unbuttoning. A blanket was hastily thrown on the floor together with a scatter of cushions, the heat enveloping their newfound nakedness.

  She paused for a moment and stepped back, her heart thumping like a racehorse. She just wanted to see him completely.

  My god!

  His shoulders, his chest, arms, all interlocked in a beautiful puzzle of muscle and sinew. Not bulky like some steroid-induced gym junkie, but natural, lean, toned, athletic, honed from functional physical work.

  Her eyes lingered longer, moving downwards across a mosaic of cobbled abdominals, perfectly woven.

  Her gaze was drawn inexplicably downwards some more.

  Then her eyes found it. They had to, its size was beyond reason, yet perfect as she stared.

  He was hard and hungry, swollen beyond pain, a rod of granite, thick and engorged.

  Curiosity gave way to yearning. She had to touch it, hold it, feel its weight and hardness in her hand.

  She gasped as she took it, a thick rod freshly forged from the fire, once molten now iron-hard. She started rubbing its length, tight skin moving back and forth over solid vascular flesh, her fingers unable to coil around it completely.

  His hands worked her torso, rough and gentle at the same time, her breasts swollen and hard like cement as he gripped each in turn. He slipped his other arm behind her waist and arched her torso back until she was almost on tip-toes, still holding him like a thick tree branch as though she
was teetering over the edge of an abyss.

  But he held her firmly as he ravaged her breasts with his mouth, his tongue, teeth and lips, biting and sucking at her tender nipples, dark, swollen and skywards, her hand pulling him harder like a stubborn tree root, her other free hand pulling his head downwards. He worked from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of hot wetness over her skin.

  He laid her down carefully on the cushions, her legs wide, pink petals unfurled and glistening, and drove into her.

  17

  Daisy McAlister was a changed person. Like a desert flower, buried below the sand and dirt for years, waiting for the quenching rains to come so she could drink long and hard, and revitalize herself. Now she felt stronger, in bloom, full of vitality. For too long she had remained sheltered, withdrawn, below the surface, in hibernation like that flower.

  And now, from what had happened last night, Ben Shaw had been that quenching rain. But she wanted more. She wanted a monsoon.

  Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows as she busied herself. Fresh coffee was on, steak and eggs were cooking in the pan, and she had set the table out on the veranda. She wanted Shaw to come up to the homestead and eat his meals here from now on. But her mind wasn’t completely made up about him moving up from the bunkhouse. Caution was how she had run her life lately, and she certainly wasn’t going to start throwing it to the wind just yet.

  She stood over the sink and looked out the window. She could see him making his way up the path. She wiped her hands on a dishcloth, checked the eggs and went through the open veranda doors carrying a coffee pot and a jug of cream.

  “You were gone when I woke,” Shaw said as he climbed the stairs, pausing when he saw the round table and two chairs setup near the railing and the effort she had made. White linen tablecloth, nice cutlery, plates with floral designs, cloth napkins folded neatly.