Page 321 of Property of Whiskey

Once.

Twice.

The guy swings.

Whiskey blocks it, buries a shot into his ribs, then drives a knee into his stomach before turning him and slamming him face-first across the hood.

There’s nothing wild about it.

That’s what makes it terrifying.

Every movement is controlled. Precise. Whiskey knows exactly where to hit and exactly what each hit will do.

Crowley begins backing toward his SUV.

I see him.

“Crowley!”

Whiskey doesn’t.

He has the other man’s arm twisted behind him when the guy reaches toward his waistband.

Gun.

Whiskey sees it.

So do I.

“Gun!”

Whiskey catches his wrist before the weapon clears leather, twists hard, and the handgun clatters onto the pavement.

He kicks it out of reach.

Then something in him gives.

He drives the man to the ground and brings one fist down across his face.

Again.

Blood sprays across the asphalt.

“Whiskey.”

He doesn’t hear me.

“Whiskey!”

Another punch starts.

I step closer. “Enough.”

His fist stops in the air.

That’s the moment.

Not the violence.