Chapter 2
The first man came at me with the pool cue.
He swung it like he had seen fights in movies.
Wide.
Angry.
Too much shoulder.
I stepped back just enough to let the cue hiss past my face.
Then I caught the wood with both hands, twisted, and drove the butt of it into his stomach.
He folded.
I took the cue from him and tossed it behind the counter.
No weapons near scared civilians.
That was rule one.
The second man rushed low.
I saw the knife flash in his right hand.
He aimed for my ribs.
I moved left, caught his wrist, and slammed his hand against the edge of the table.
The knife dropped.
Rex’s ears lifted.
“Stay,” I said again.
The biker groaned.
I swept his leg and shoved him into a booth.
Plates jumped.
Coffee spilled.
People screamed.
But no one moved toward the door.
Fear had nailed them in place.
“Out!” I shouted. “Everybody out the back!”
The waitress heard me first.
She crawled to the kitchen door and pushed it open.
“Go!” she screamed.
A mother grabbed her child.
An older couple stumbled after her.
The cook appeared with a frying pan in both hands, saw the knives, and decided survival mattered more than pride.
Good man.
The third Viper came from my blind side.
I heard his boots.
That saved me.
I ducked.
His fist hit the wall where my head had been.
I drove my shoulder into his ribs and sent him crashing into Butch, who was still trying to rise with one arm hanging wrong.
Butch cursed.
“Kill him!”
Wrong word.
The room changed inside me.
There are words men say when they are posturing.
And there are words that open old doors.
Kill him opened one.
For one second, I was not in The Rusty Spur.
I was back under orange sky with dust in my mouth and blood on my hands.
Rex whined.
Soft.
Sharp.
That sound brought me back.
Rex knew.
He always knew when the old place was reaching for me.
I breathed.
In.
Out.
Not there.
Here.
Diner.
Civilians.
Rex.
The fourth man charged with a knife held high.
Too high.
I grabbed a chair and shoved it into his knees.
He flipped over it and hit the floor hard enough to lose every plan he had.
The fifth stopped.
He looked at his friends on the ground.
Then at me.
Then at Rex.
Rex stared at him with amber eyes.
Still seated.
Still obedient.
Still soaked.
The man raised his hands.
“I’m done.”
“Smart,” I said.
Sirens sounded outside.
Someone must have called.
Butch rolled onto his side, red-faced, breathing hard.
“You’re dead,” he spat.
I crouched beside him.
“No. I’m retired.”
His eyes flickered.
“Same thing for men like you.”
The front door opened.
Two deputies came in with guns drawn.
“Hands where we can see them!”
I raised my hands slowly.
Rex stayed seated against the wall.
“Service dog,” I said. “Retired military working dog. He is under command.”
One deputy looked at Rex.
Then at the men on the floor.
Then at me.
“What happened here?”
The waitress stood behind the counter, crying.
“He dumped ice water on the dog,” she said. “Then they attacked him.”
Butch barked, “That soldier went crazy!”
An old man at the counter pointed at the ceiling.
“Camera caught everything.”
Butch went quiet.
The deputy looked up.
A small security camera blinked in the corner.
I had noticed it when I walked in.
Butch had not.
That was the thing about bullies.
They often forgot witnesses existed.
The deputies cuffed the bikers first.
Butch screamed when they touched his arm.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
One deputy approached me carefully.
“Sir, I need you to step outside.”
I nodded.
“Rex.”
He stood immediately and came to my left side.
Wet.
Dignified.
Perfect.
Outside, the heat hit us.
The parking lot was full of motorcycles.
Chrome and leather and dust.
The Iron Vipers’ kingdom.
For now.
The waitress came out holding towels.
Her hands shook.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told them to leave.”
I took a towel and knelt beside Rex.
“You kept people moving. That mattered.”
She wiped her face.
“What’s his name?”
“Rex.”
She crouched, but kept her hands to herself, reading the vest.
“Thank you, Rex,” she whispered.
Rex blinked.
Then he leaned forward and gently touched his wet nose to her wrist.
She cried harder.
A black SUV pulled into the lot.
A man in a county sheriff uniform stepped out.
Silver hair.
Broad shoulders.
Hard eyes.
The deputies straightened.
“Sheriff.”
The sheriff looked at the cuffed bikers.
Then at me.
Then at Rex.
His expression changed.
“Jack Mercer?”
I went still.
Few people knew my full name in that town.
“Yes.”
He removed his hat.
“My son served with you in Kunar.”
My chest tightened.
“What was his name?”
“Eli Porter.”
The air left my lungs.
Eli.
My best friend.
The man whose blood I had held in my hands.
May you like
The sheriff looked at Rex.
“And that dog brought my boy home when mortars started falling.”
