They all laugh at that one.
I’m on the one in the middle, the one doing most of the talking, before he has time to move or react. Or cover up. Like he’s just one more guy surprised at how fast somebody my size can cover ground.
I don’t even think about my bad shoulder as I backhand him with my right hand and then do the same with my left at lightning speed, snapping his head to one side and then the other before he ends up on the ground and on his back, bleeding from the nose and mouth.
I see the guy to my right making a move on me then, and I turn and grab him with both hands, feeling it again in my right shoulder when I lift him over my head like this is some kind of dead lift in the gym, hearing this high singing in my ears now as I throw him through the air, his body spinning around until he crashes into the closed main gate of Silas Tucker Field. I watch as he hits the ground and is still.
“Hey, man,” the kid to my left says, frozen in place. “Hey, that’s assault right there.”
“Wow,” I say. “Look how you picked right up on that. And I thought y’all were just a bunch of dumb shitkickers.”
I look over at his buddy lying in a heap at the foot of the gate. “Maybe we should call a cop or something.”
His answer is to turn and run.
I don’t hesitate.
I run after him, in this all the way now.
I’m not as quick as I was, not on these legs. But quick enough. The two blond girls are standing now in the back of the pickup, wide-eyed. No longer giggling. Like they’re the ones frozen in place.
I catch up with this one before he gets to the truck. I don’t know whether he’s there to grab a weapon or just put the heap in gear and leave his two buddies where they are. And don’t much care. This is adrenaline and anger working like they’re the drugs in me now. This is all of it, everything that I’ve been carrying around in me coming out.
This is getting that chance to hit somebody.
I grab the third punk by his long hair, like it’s one of those horse-collar tackles that get you flagged in football, and I throw him to the ground like I’m spiking the son of a bitch.
As I do, I see him pulling a handgun out of the back pocket of his jeans. But not for long, because I’m twisting it out of his hand with a neat Americana move that a Navy SEAL had shown me one time at UNC when he’d asked to work out with me. The gun falls to the ground next to him, but when he reaches for it, I stomp on his hand with the heel of my Red Wing boot, and he screams in pain.
One of the girls is screaming, too. Or maybe both of them are.
I pick up the gun and briefly point it at him.
“What, you gonna shoot me with that?” the guy asks, his hand in his lap like some kind of dead thing. “Go the fuck ahead.”
I shake my head, almost sadly, then swing the gun at the passenger-side window, shattering it like I’d just fired a bullet into it. Then I stand next to the windshield and swing the gun again, and that side of the windshield explodes before I walk around the truck and do the same to the other side.
I walk back to where the girls are standing again in the back ofthe truck, the two of them hugging each other now, and say, “How old are you?”
Neither one of them speaks.
“Are you students here?”
Finally, the girl who’s more blond than the other says, “Juniors.”
“What are you doing with these losers?”
“Just riding around,” she says.
“Well, you’re on the wrong road,” I say. “You need to get out of here.”
“And go where?” the other one asks.
“Anywhere but here,” I say, and then add, “You’re welcome.”
They look at each other and then back at me and finally climb out of the truck toward the street in front of the school, Pine Street, without looking back.
The guy I’d stomped on with my boot is still moaning, making no move to get up, staring down at his hand.
