“Whitford saw at least three trucks pulling out of their clubhouse,” a thin, frail man replies. From the way he’s scratching at his arms, I can only assume he hasn’t had a fix anytime soon.
“That’s what we need. A clubhouse, ‘cause this place is a shithole.” The oldest of the group yells the last word, obviously disgusted by what Davis is pinching out.
“We need to take over the Wolf’s Den.” Another one gives his two cents. He’s got a red bandana tied around his wrist like it’s a fashion statement or something. “Pack it full of women. It’s the least they owe us for living in this Podunk town.”
“Balo was a dumbass. Keeping that one guy hostage and bragging on it to his crew.”
“You think?” Davis calls out. “You want to say that to his face?”
Bigfoot snorts. “If the one we met is anything to go by, those Kings ain’t shit. We left him bleedin’ and broken. Won’t be seeing him again.”
A Hispanic man at the end of the table, does the sign of the cross before saying what sounds like a prayer, before they all fall into an uneasy silence.
That’s the one that knows the score, I think as he pushes his drink away. Sitting around, nervously chattering about how tough you are? That’s for schoolboys.
The Kings have a reputation, the kind that’s been earned over years, not given nor taken for granted.
Tapping down on my own ego, I quickly finish my sweep of the perimeter.
Cracking open the door, I see Bigfoot is on the move, his nervous energy has set him pacing as he makes fighting motions with a rusty looking pipe. Looks like one of those idiots with a VR mask on, but I don’t count him out due to his size.
“If he comes, we’ll put him down again. Harder.” His next words are more to himself than the others but they’re all feeling the adrenaline buzz right about now.
The thin guy cracks his knuckles. “Hope he does come. I’m bored.”
He didn’t sound bored, I’ve heard scared men chattering before and they all have that slightly shrill edge to their voice.
Standing outside, I tap my handaxe against the metal frame of the door.
At first there’s silence, then a chair scraps against the cement flooring, followed by a muttered swear word and then I hear a glass bottle shattering.
That’ll be the one with the bandana. He seems the type who’d dramatically try to shove it through my throat. Probably saw that move in the same film he saw a man with a red bandana tied around his wrist. Fucking poser.
Whether or not these are the exact five from the night they circled me like hyenas, they get their orders from the same man and would have jumped in on the attack if ordered. Maybe Dindak would have something to say about forgiveness, but I’ll leave that concept to Jesus.
I roll my neck and the vertebrae cracks softly, I’m perfectly calm when I move, my boot hitting the straw-dusted floor. One step in, my eyes sweep the room to see if anyone’s reached for a gun, but no one has.
They’re feeling the safety of their numbers. At least until I smile and push the door closed behind me.
“Evening, boys,” I greet them when I’m two steps in.
The old guy’s chair hits the ground when he stands, the Hispanic man utters something that sounds like a prayer, Davis in the back is frozen, his hands with his zipper halfway up, while Bigfoot tries to look even bigger.
“How the hell are you standing?” The thin guys asks me. Skinny, that’s the name you’ll have the rest of your life.
I stay silent, sizing each one of them up as two of them exchange a glance and fan out without a word. Those two know what they’re doing, I think, as two of the others nervously look around.
“Take my cut off. I don’t want your blood on it,” I say, pointing my knife at Davis.
He’s the furthest from the light and while I can’t make out the expression on his face, I do see his head whipping around, like he’s only just realizing there’s not a back exit.
The other five are all spread out now, like pack behavior they stand as a front line between me and the man wearing my cut.
Assessing the men, I already can tell which one will break and run if he gets the chance, but I’ll not take it easy on that one. No sense leaving someone who can return to stab me in the back.
“You really want to start this?” Bandana asks me. The old guy to his left turns to sneer at him, the derision on his face is plain as day at the tremble in the kid’s voice.
“I’m not starting a thing,” I say. “Just finishing it.”
