“We can’t cut the woman,” another said. “The Undertaker won’t go for it.”
Well, well. Confirmation. If only I’d recorded it. Nah. At this point I’d prefer to teach them a lesson my way. They kept walking, one finally realizing we were waiting for them.
“Let’s deal with them.” The third gang member, the one with the scar, made a crude gesture. Not that it bothered me. I was simply annoyed from wasting any additional time.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Born ready. You know me,” Maverick answered.
A part of me realized that someone could be watching, capturing every moment of the violence about to occur in videos and photographs. After that, they could be posted on any number of social media platforms, even potentially going viral. Or they could be turned over to members of law enforcement and things after that could get ugly.
Somehow, I doubted Maverick gave a shit. Neither did I.
Even though Maverick had turned in his badge, he’d kept his gun, even adding to his collection. He’d learned more about criminal elements and how they operated as an author than he had when toeing the line serving in the FBI. While that didn’t mean he’d forsaken his oath taken on the day he’d become an officer of the law, like me his loyalty and the work he’d been involved in hadn’t been satisfying.
That’s why on this night we were no longer decent men.
We were simply vigilantes seeking something far removed from justice.
I took a brutal swing with the bat, managing to slam the hard wood against the side of the first man’s neck. Down he went, his weapon immediately bouncing from his hand and skittering across the pavement. He struggled to stand and Maverick was there, providing him with a lesson in martial arts.
For a few seconds, I was able to admire his work until one of the four pitched himself in my direction.
A hard punch landed in my kidney, driving me against the side of their SUV. I issued a brutal kick with my foot, the force enough to pitch him over the hood.
Things began to get crazy from there. I swung the bat several times, catching one or another. I was angry, the rage fueling my actions and boosting my agility.
Maverick was no different, but I swear to God, he didn’t break a sweat. He was masterful in his use of the East Asian weapon. I should take lessons from the man.
Several cars passed, one or two slowing down, but all drivers were smart enough to realize they didn’t want to get involved.
Sweat beaded around my eyes as I took another swing. Suddenly, a single gunshot was fired coming from right behind me. I spun around, immediately grabbing my weapon. Maverick had easily disarmed the son of a bitch who’d been intent on putting a bullet in my brain.
I grinned in response and with a single nod, he knew what I was saying without words.
Time to finish this up.
The longer it went on, the more dangerous it would become.
Within two minutes we were finished, all four lying on the ground. Two were unconscious while the other two writhed in pain. They would live, although their injuries would take time to heal.
“You know, maybe next time we wear masks,” Maverick suggested after he’d collected every weapon from the four men and the duffle bag of assault rifles, ammunition, and ropes they’d brought with them.
“Maybe not a bad idea.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“One last thing.” I grinned and pulled out my trusty hunting knife. The weapon was useful in various ways. As I approached the hood, I thought about the last message I wanted to convey.
It came to me.
With crude block lettering, I created a work of art on the surface of the SUV’s hood.
Two words.
Justice Served.
Our new mantra.
