“You come in here showing off my ex-whore, and you think I’ll just give you what you want that easily?” He laughs, picking up his pint again.
I’ll break his jaw, just for the whore comment. I’m taking a mental tally of which body parts I’ll enjoy breaking first, breathing in through my nose to steady my temper.
So gently it’s almost casual, I pick Fran off my lap and place her to the left. In one swift movement, my Glock’s to his belly, my mouth at his ear.
“Exit. Right. Now.”
“Jesus—”
The bartender plunks two meaty fists on the bar in front of us. “You’d do well to do what he bloody says.”
Good bloke. We’ll pay him well for this.
“You too?”
“Now.”
Scowling, he gets up, real fear in his eyes as he steps away from the bar. Good. He bloody well deserves it.
I watch the whole time. I don’t trust him not to pull something stupid, but we make it to the exit without an issue. He turns to me just as he steps over the threshold, and in one swift move I grab the back of his neck and shove him forward.
Fran follows behind.
Dusk’s fallen as we step outside, chill night air cloaking us in darkness, one streetlamp fitfully swinging ahead of us.
I shove him and he stumbles, but he quickly rights himself. I slam the door behind us.
“Fran, go left.” I point to a stack of empty crates. I want her in my vision the entire time. She begins to follow my instruction, catches her toe on thin air, and nearly trips. Instinctively, I turn to her, and it’s all he needs to make his move.
The arsehole’s smarter than I give him credit for. He doesn’t go for me. He goes for her. In seconds he’s got her in his grip, holding her by the hair. Just as quickly, I kick my leg out and knock his hand off her. He screams, grabbing at his arm, but before he can even gather another breath, I kick him again. Kickboxing’s my strong suit, and I’ve never wanted to incapacitate someone so much in my life.
She falls to the ground but keeps her head about her, quickly rolling to the side and out of our way. And Fergus, the fucking bastard, takes one look at me and tries to turn to run.
Too late.
I’ve got him on the ground, his nose broken and mouth bloodied before I even know what I’m doing. “Fucking Fran, it’s always her fault,” he says, bloodied spittle forming on his lips. “She’s a fucking liar.”
I hit him again, just to punish him for speaking her name, and again, so he doesn’t speak it again.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Fuck off!”
In one clean twist, I break his arm without regret, ignoring Fran’s screams and his. It hangs uselessly on the ground when I reach for his second arm.
“You’ll never fucking use these again. You’ll never fucking breathe again. Tell me what I want to know.”
He shakes his head from side to side. I know exactly how to snap bone, exactly how to do it to cause the most amount of damage but not hurt him so much he passes out.
“Tate, no!” Fran screams, covering her mouth. “Don’t!”
“Tell me.”
Even through his blood-stained mouth, he smiles, sick and twisted and perverted. “Never.”
I break his second arm.
Both hang uselessly by his sides, and his agony is palpable.
