by Mark Allen
Nick vacated the stood and headed back toward the dance floor, where Luna had resumed her solo gyrations, shoulders moving, hips swaying, feet tapping. He snapped his finger at his brother. “Let’s go, Paul.”
“Let’s go.” The two brothers made their way back toward the stage, presumably to keep careful tabs and lustful eyes on Luna.
Kane looked at Fred. “Nice guys. Regulars, I assume?”
The barkeep nodded. “Local boys, and they’ve got some pull around these parts, so nobody messes with them. They’ve been trying to get into Luna’s pants for years, but she ain’t having none of it.”
“I like her better already.”
“She’s a good kid,” Fred said. “But mess around with her, and Nick and Paul, otherwise known as Jackass and Dumbshit, will be looking to make your life miserable.”
Glancing at the dance floor, where Luna moved with natural grace and sensuality, Kane thought she might just be worth the fight. But then he remembered why he was here and shook his head. “Think I’ll just mind my own business.”
Fred shrugged. “Your loss.”
“Any other trouble I should know about so I can steer clear?”
Fred pondered the question for a few moments and then nodded. “Yeah, reckon you should probably know about Mad Mike.” He pointed at Kane’s Budweiser. “You gonna nurse that beer all night like a pansy, or were you planning on buying another one?”
“I’m just having the one. Gotta drive.”
“Just because you buy another beer doesn’t mean you have to drink it.”
“How about I buy it, you drink it,” Kane said, “and then you tell me about Mad Mike.”
“Now, that sounds like a swell plan to me.” Fred helped himself to a Labatt’s Blue, flipped the cap into the trash, drained half the bottle in one long pull, and let out a contented sigh. “Man, that hits the spot. Much appreciated, pal.”
“Mad Mike?” Kane prompted.
“Cannibal hermit,” Fred said matter-of-factly.
“Say what?”
“You heard me. Mad Mike is a hermit and a cannibal. Least, that’s what they say.”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“Negative. Now, if you run into Mad Mike, he might pull your leg. Pull it right off, and eat it like a drumstick.”
Kane shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Ernie was right, Fred. You sure got some wild stories.”
“They’re not stories.” Fred looked offended. “There really is a bear named Gasper up in the woods, and there really is a cannibal hermit out there too.”
“You’ve seen him?”
Fred shuffled his feet and waxed defensive. “Well, not seen him, per se. But other people have, and everyone ‘round these parts knows he lives somewhere up in the woods.”
“Probably shacking up with a sasquatch,” Kane said.
Fred either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “You’ll know it’s him,” he continued, “because he’s got a giant wolf for a pet.”
“Thought there weren’t any wolves in the Adirondacks?”
“So they say,” Fred replied. “But they’re full of crap.”
“So wolves and bear and cannibals.” Kane grinned. “Oh, my.”
“Kiss my ass,” Fred retorted, but he delivered it with a good-natured smile.
The band stopped playing just in time for a woman’s voice to cut through the bar: “Get your hands off me!”
Kane’s head came around in time to see Luna yank her arm out of Nick’s grasp. He reached out and grabbed it again. Even from where he sat, Kane could see the man’s fingers sinking cruelly into her flesh.
She pulled away again, his fingermarks stark red on her skin. “Are you deaf, asshole? Don’t touch me.”
All eyes watched the drama. Kane glanced at the other patrons and deduced from their body language that nobody intended to intervene. He sighed inwardly. Unless he was mistaken, the forecast called for some busted knuckles and broken bones in the very near future. No way could he sit this one out if things got any rougher.
Speaking loud enough for the whole bar to hear, Nick took a step toward Luna and said, “I think you’re forgetting who runs this town, girl.”
Standing by like some dimwitted enforcer, Paul muttered, “Forgetting, girl.”
“I don’t give a crap who your daddy is,” Luna retorted. “Doesn’t mean I have to let you play grab-ass.”
“You know what?” Nick said. “I think you’re right. Time to stop playing grab-ass and start playing something a lot more fun.” He slapped a hand on the seat of her jeans, jerked her close, and rubbed his crotch against her.
“Fun!” Paul nearly slobbered the words, mouth hanging open in an excited hangdog grin that revealed his teeth. He stepped behind Luna and began thrusting against her backside. Cackling like fiends, the two brothers dry-humped her right there on the dance floor, bouncing her back and forth between them like a human pinball.
Not a soul in the bar moved to help.
Kane couldn’t believe it.
What the hell kind of town is this?
Moving with fluid speed and predatory grace, he pushed away from the bar and climbed the steps before anyone even registered that he was in motion.
He reached the trio just as Luna managed to free her hand and drag her nails across Nick’s cheek, tearing strips of skin from the corner of his nose down to his jaw. The wounds glowed raw-pink for a second before blood filled the welts.
Nick recoiled, then snarled, “You bitch!” His right hand crossed his left shoulder, ready to give her a backhanded slap.
“Bitch!” Paul shouted.
Kane grabbed Nick’s wrist and yanked on it as if starting a lawnmower, using the man’s momentum to spin him away from Luna. As he stumbled around to face Kane, the warrior’s other hand rammed a heel-of-the-palm strike into his solar plexus, driving him backward. Jerked in one direction and shoved in the opposite direction, Nick tripped over his own feet and crashed to the floor.
Paul froze in place, not sure what to do without his brother to lead him. He just stood there looking like a dumb puppy whose master has dropped the leash.
Kane pointed a finger at Paul. “Touch her again, and I’ll break your face,” he warned. “Now, pick up your brother and get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.”
Luna smiled at him. “Little white knight action?”
“No, I just changed my mind about that dance.”
“If you’re still alive three minutes from now, you can have that dance, cowboy.”
Nick climbed to his feet and snarled a curse. “You’re dead, you son of a bitch.”
He charged. Kane let him get close before ducking the wild, badly telegraphed haymaker the man threw. Nick’s fist whistled over his head as Kane fired a short, hard right hook into the guy’s gut, doubling him over with a whooshing gasp as the air exploded from his lungs. Kane then powered upright and shot a knee-strike into Nick’s exposed flank. Everyone in the bar heard the wet crack of a rib snapping. Nick hit the floor again, mewling in pain.
“Dammit, I said, don’t touch me!”
Kane pivoted to see Paul bear-hugging Luna from behind, lifting her off her feet with her arms pinned to her side. He moved to help, but before he got there, she rammed her head back into his nose. Cartilage crackled and crunched as his smashed nostrils spewed blood and snot like strawberry jelly.
Paul didn’t let go. He crushed her tighter, squeezing so hard it looked like he might collapse her ribcage. She kicked up hard between his legs, her heel bashing into his scrotum and driving his balls into his pelvis.
On the stage, the steel guitarist let out a low groan and muttered, “Hot damn, that’s gotta hurt like a sumbitch.”
With a protracted moan that sounded like a dying humpback whale, Paul released Luna and clutched his battered manhood. He slowly sank to his knees, eyes squeezed shut in pain and misery.
Kane walked over and kneed him in the face, making sure his nose wa
s good and broken. The impact flipped Paul over on his back, out cold. “Warned you,” Kane growled.
Luna said, “Cowboy, look out!”
Kane turned to see Nick on his knees, bracing himself with his left hand. With his right, he pulled a snub-nosed .38 revolver from an inside-the-waistband holster. He swung the pistol toward Kane. Murder lit his cold eyes like a neon sign.
Kane closed the gap in two quick strides and kicked the gun out of Nick’s hands, giving him a broken wrist to match his broken rib. The .38 skittered across the dance floor as its owner gritted his teeth in pain.
Kane grabbed Nick by the hair and yanked his head back. “Gonna shoot me in the back, you gutless prick?”
“You’re a dead man,” Nick hissed. “You hear me? You came to the wrong town and messed with the wrong people.”
“I’m not the one on my knees,” Kane reminded him.
“You’re gonna be flat on your back on the coroner’s table, you son of a—”
Kane brought his knee up and slammed it between Nick’s eyes, knocking him out. “Shut the hell up.” He let go of Nick’s hair, and the guy sprawled on the floor, unconscious.
Kane straightened and faced the rest of the bar’s patrons, who had edged closer, clustering around the combat that had just taken place. Well, if you called that combat. More like a beat-down. In addition to the two couples who had been sharing the dance floor with Luna, there were two men who had been drinking in a booth that Kane hadn’t been able to see from the bar. The middle-aged man who had been slumped at the bar had also roused himself and moved closer, all of them forming a circle around Kane and Luna.
Hell, even the no-talent country band was giving him the hairy eyeball.
Old Fred climbed the stairs to the upper level but hung back. He looked at Kane with respect, admiration…and sadness.
Kane scanned the small crowd circling him. Including the band—and not counting Fred—he now faced eleven potential brawlers. Unless some of them had hand-to-hand combat training, Kane could survive those odds. It just meant he would have to fight hard and dirty, with little room for mercy.
No problem.
But there was no way to take down all eleven unscathed. They would get their licks in, no doubt about it. He expected to be the last man standing, but not without some blood and bruises.
He thought about the Sig M17 tucked into a small-of-the-back holster, but he didn’t want to resort to firepower to stop what was basically just going to be a good, old-fashioned bar brawl.
Damn it, he thought. This is gonna hurt.
Maybe he could talk them down. Sure as hell couldn’t hurt to try.
“Really?” Kane looked each of them dead in the eye. “You’re going to take up their fight?”
“They ain’t really got much choice,” Old Fred called from the back of the mob.
“There’s always a choice,” snapped Kane.
“Not when Sheriff Dunkirk runs this town, there ain’t.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Kane asked.
“Those two boys lying on the floor, knocked the hell out, thanks to you? Nick and Paul?”
“Yeah,” Kane said. “What about them?”
“They’re Sheriff Dunkirk’s sons.”
Well, shit.
“Word gets back to the sheriff that some tourist put a beat-down on his boys and nobody did anything?” Fred continued. “Well, the sheriff will come down damn hard on these usually fine folks you now see gathered around you.”
Kane rasped, “Anyone starts swinging, I’m gonna come down pretty damn hard myself.”
Next to him, Luna said, “They ain’t got much of a choice, cowboy. Dunkirk is king of this town, and nobody wants the king pissed at them.”
Kane again considered shucking the Sig and stopping all this nonsense, but he again discarded the idea. Some things just needed to be done the hard way. He took a deep breath, exhaled it in a long, slow sigh, and said, “Looks like I’ll be dancing after all.”
“Thought you couldn’t dance, cowboy?”
“This is one dance I know,” Kane said. “Let’s get it over with.”
The nearest guy shrugged, muttered, “Sorry, man,” and opened the fisticuff festivities with a wild, poorly-aimed haymaker.
Kane easily dodged the blow and exploded into a whirling, spinning, kicking, punching dervish of violence. He swept legs out from underneath bodies. Busted noses with brutal back-fists. Hip-tossed combatants into each other. Head-butted faces. Smashed knees. Punched guts. Kneed groins.
Adrenalin roared in his eardrums like thunder but not enough to drown out the grunts of pain, the crunch of collapsing cartilage, the wet spurts of blood, the tearing of ligaments, the sharp cracks of bone. The band stood on stage and watched the battle, their country-western crooning forgotten as the skull-banging music of mayhem took over the bar.
Seven men formed the initial wave of attack. Kane left them decimated on the floor in just under a minute. He took some licks here and there—a kick to the thigh, a left cross to the jaw, a shot to the ribs—but nothing he couldn’t shake off with some ice, ibuprofen, and Jack Daniels. The men squirming on the floor would need casts, crutches, and plenty of stitches.
Kane shook blood off his punished—and punishing—knuckles and stared at the band. Other than him, Luna, and Fred, they were the only ones left standing in the room. The drummer exchanged glances with the steel guitarist, and they both looked at the bassist. Finally, all three turned to the lead singer—a bearded, beer-bellied, Stetson-wearing big boy who looked like a ZZ Top wannabe—as if waiting for him to make the first move.
The beefy singer sighed in resignation and looked at Kane. “Don’t wanna fight ya, mister. But we ain’t got no choice.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Kane said, “but it’s a lame-ass excuse. We all got choices.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t live in this shitty town.”
“For your sake, I hope the hospital isn’t shitty. Because if you come down here to tango, you’re going to the ER.”
“Like I said,” the singer repeated, “no choice.”
“Hope you fight better than you play.”
The big guy smiled, a bit sadly. “Not really.”
That turned out to be the truth.
They came at him with their instruments. The drummer tried stabbing him with his drumsticks. Kane took them away and snapped them in half. In a real fight with an enemy, he would have jammed the splintered end into the man’s throat, but these were just downtrodden civilians. They didn’t deserve to die. Besides, he had come here to get away from killing, not engage in more of it. He punched the drummer in the temple, knocking him out.
He ducked as the guitarist swung his instrument like a Viking war axe, feeling the rush of displaced air as it whooshed over his head. He pivoted and fired a sidekick into the guy’s gut, doubling him over.
He immediately dodged to the side as the bassist joined the battle, chopping down with his guitar. The instrument smashed into the floor and shattered, leaving the musician holding the neck.
“Shit!” the man groaned. “I was all about that bass.”
Kane didn’t know if it was meant to be a joke or not, nor did he care. He powered upright and crashed a hard right cross into the bassist’s jaw, putting him down on the floor next to his busted guitar.
The steel guitarist was still doubled over, clutching his stomach, with strings of spit and vomit dangling from his gasping lips. Kane finished the job with a kick to the face that jerked the guy upright and then a wicked uppercut to the chin that toppled him like a felled tree. His head bounced off the floor with brain-rattling force. He wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.
“Look out!” Luna yelled, but the warning came too late.
Kane felt something hard hit him right between the shoulder blades. No real damage done, but it definitely hurt. He turned toward the ZZ Top reject of a singer and saw him twirling his microphone by its cord. That was
what he had used to strike Kane; he’d swung the microphone like a whip with a metal club attached to the end.
Kane stared at him, and the big man shrugged almost apologetically.
“Put it down,” Kane said. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
Another shrug. “Like I said,” the singer replied, “I—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kane growled. “You don’t have a choice. Bunch of bullshit.”
“Listen, mister,” the singer said. “We both know you’re gonna kick my ass seven ways from Sunday, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Just do me one favor, will ya? Don’t hit me in the throat. I don’t want to ruin my vocal cords.”
Kane thought about telling him his voice couldn’t get any worse but decided not to bother. He moved in quickly, easily evading the lumbering blows the singer launched his way, and put the guy on the ground with a couple of body strikes followed by a left-right combo to the face.
Shaking his bruised knuckles, Kane looked at Luna and Fred with a crooked grin. “Not gonna lie, I’ve always wanted to knock out a country singer.”
They both stared at him. “Who are you, cowboy?” Luna asked.
“Nobody. Just a guy.”
“A guy that just scrapped with eleven other guys and won,” Fred said. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
“I got lucky.”
Fred snorted. “Somehow, I seriously doubt that.”
Kane headed down to the lower level, Luna and the old-timer following. He threw some bills on the bar and strode toward the open door, feeling the cool night breeze drafting in. “Thanks for the drink, Fred. Probably best I hit the road now.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Fred said. “Less’n you want to end up in Double D’s jail cell.”
“Double D?”
“Sheriff Duncan Dunkirk,” Fred explained. “We call him Double D. Just not to his face.”
“Got it,” Kane said. “You two have a nice night.”
“Wait,” Luna called. “I’m coming with you.”
Kane immediately considered the possibilities, most of which involved the pretty redhead naked in his sleeping bag. He’d been celibate since his relationship with Cara had ended. Maybe it was time to enjoy female companionship again.
