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“They need to court-martial that dude, the flyer.” Neither Mitch nor Flynn understood how the F-16 pilot had escaped official sanction.
“Can’t. No point.”
“Why not? He pressed the button, right? Caused the whole thing?”
Ridge drew a diagram in the bar-top condensation. “He’s getting instructions from the squad on the ground, right? They call him in, and he uses a mix of GPS coordinates and his own eyeballs. He saw an encampment, was told there were enemy in the area, and attacked.”
From the pool table in the far corner came a loud “Fuck!” as the drunken guy missed another easy shot.
The three tried to ignore the interruption.
“The flyboy couldn’t seeshit,” the ex-SEAL explained. “Think about it: he’s flying at 300 knots, maybe faster. He’s got one second — at most — to make a decision. The squad was calling him in fast and hard. He just made the best call he could. Fact is, if his aim had been better, I’d not be here today.”
“So he’s an idiot,andhe can’t put ordnance in the right place? Theone thinghe’s paid to do,” Flynn pointed out.
“It’s like an NFL kicker who goes wide. All that training and he fucks up the money shot.”
“Well, I’m glad he fucked it up, or I’d be lying next to Nick Vines at Arlington and you assholes wouldn’t have me to make fun of anymore.” The three clinked glasses and resolved to change the subject.
There was a suddencrackto their left. The guy playing pool had just up and smacked the cue on the table so hard it had broken in half. His girl, terrified but cowed into silence, cringed at the far end of the table.
“You’s cheating,” he snarled. “You been moving the fuckin’ eight ball when I weren’t looking.”
“Billy, I never,” she began. She was perhaps twenty-two, a slender brunette in skinny jeans and a thin, white blouse. Her aggravated pool opponent was a burly twenty-something in a plaid shirt and a dirty baseball cap. He hadn’t shaved in days and tottered unsteadily now that his pool cue could no longer hold him up.
“What’d I say aboutlyingto me, bitch? Huh?” Billy rounded the table, brandishing half of the cue. He had raised it just above his head when it was yanked from his hand with a suddenness he found unexplainable.
“My mother always told me not to talk to girls like that,” came a voice behind him. “Didn’t your mom teach you that, too?”
The plaid-shirted drunkard turned to find his eyes level with the chest of a looming six-foot-four veteran. “Huh?” was all he managed.
“You need to apologize to your lady here,” advised Ridge. “She didn’t move the ball. I know, I saw.”
“I was trying to tell ya,” she began, tears in her eyes.
“Bitch, you shut up if you don’t wanna...” Billy found himself physically lifted off the floor, his feet momentarily dangling, and then felt his legs swept aside and his knees crash down hard. As he toppled forward onto his side, the firm pressure of a knee in his back kept him going, while strong hands gathered his forearms behind his back and pressed upward, angling his elbows outward until his hands met between his shoulder blades. The pain in his upper arms was suddenly blinding.
He tried to kick out but immediately felt a boot stamp down on his thigh, a deadening, numbing blow that knocked the remaining fight out of him. “What did I say about how we talk to ladies?” asked Ridge, calmly kneeling on the guy’s back and forcing his captive’s hands further up, until Mitch felt that an arm might actually break.
“Ridge, buddy... He ain’t a terrorist, man. Take it easy.”
“And what have I toldyouabout getting in my face, man?” Ridge yelled. Mitch gulped. “You want some of this, too?” His friend knew when Ridge’s buttons had been pressed and wisely muttered an apology.
“Don’t hurt him, please,” gasped the girl, sniffling with fear and confusion, her makeup smeared. “He don’t mean no harm.”
CJ emerged from behind the bar carrying a loaded sawed-off shotgun. “Ridge, we’re done here,” he said. “I don’t take kindly to disturbances in my place. Let him up, OK?”
Billy found himself hauled to his feet. He massaged sore wrists and leaned heavily against the pool table, the feeling in his right leg returning only slowly. “Sir, I’d say you’ve had enough for tonight. Make your way on home, you hear?” The drunkard was silent, humiliated, baffled by how his evening had taken such an odd turn. “And if I see you gonearyour car out there, it won’t just be Ridge dissuading you, it’ll be Mr. Remington,” he warned, patting the shotgun for clarity.
Within minutes the place had settled, the pool-playing duo had a cab outside, and the cowboy had finished his steak and left, shaking his head in despair at the state of the world. “Most every time we’re in here, something like this happens,” Flynn reminded them. “I mean, he’s cussing at his lady, but there was no need to get involved like that, Ridge.”
Ridge pushed away the dregs of his beer and stood. “No, sure. I was wrong. I should’ve just watched that girl get beat up. We should all just let violence win, ‘cos it’s easier. Right, Flynn?”
Flynn’s hands were up in surrender. “He was out of line, I’m with ya there. But that’s why we have cops, Ridge.”
“Whatever,” he replied. “I’m going to get some air. You guys come out when you’re ready and I’ll drive you back into town.” Ridge left, the air around him crackling with discontent and barely contained anger.
Mitch finished his third beer and motioned to Flynn to drink up. “You know,” CJ reminded them, “Ridge’s momma had a tough time with his dad. Showed up here a few times looking like they went three rounds, only he wasn’t wearing no gloves, ya know?”
