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Evan shrugged. Flagged the bartender for another pour. It would be his last. He had a long, teeth-rattling drive back to the capital and a longer flight from there.
The cop cupped his hands and blew into them. “They say he’s walked straight into the headquarters of some of the most fearsome men alive. Outnumbered twenty to one. And when they sneer at him, he doesn’t bat an eye. He just stares at them and says …” The theatrical pause overstayed its welcome. “‘Do I look like I’m someone who you can frighten?’”
Evan nearly choked on his sip of Reyka.
The cop wheeled to him on his stool. “Whatnow?”
Evan wiped his mouth. “It’s just … It’s not very pithy.”
“Okay, Mr. American Loudmouth. What doyouthink he’d say?”
Before Evan could reply, the footballer with the pierced lip bellowed something into his friend’s ear, then leaned over and swiped a glass from the hand of the nearest Australian woman. He poured it down his tree-trunk throat and smashed the glass on the floor, roaring until cords stood out in his neck.
Evan swiveled on his barstool to face the foursome. “Now,” he said, “you’re starting to test my patience.”
The man looked down at him. “We wouldn’t want to test your patience.” His voice was hoarse from alcohol. He placed a hand on Evan’s shoulder. Squeezed. “Whatever should I do?”
“Apologize to her,” Evan said. “That would be fine.”
The man laughed a desiccated laugh.
His friends spread out behind him, kicking the barstools away to clear room.
Evan sighed. Extended his shot glass to the cop. “Hold my vodka.”
Surprised, the cop took it, his mouth slightly ajar.
Resting his hands on the bar, Evan leaned to the Australian women. “Will you excuse me a moment?”
In his peripheral vision, he took in the footballers, assessing the props at his disposal.
The red suspenders were heavy-duty elastic with metal clips.
Titanium eyeglasses far enough down on the bridge of the nose to punch right through the cartilage.
Wrist cast hovering in a low guard, one spin kick away from smacking up into the waiting jaw.
Evan felt the grip on his shoulder tighten.
He kept his gaze on the union of his hands set at the edge of the bar. Sensing the space around him.
Half-empty bottle arm’s length away by the beer taps.
Stool beneath him, sturdy construction, legs sufficiently thick for jabbing.
A slick of spilled booze on the floor just beyond the heels of the man crowding his space.
“I know you think you’re big,” Evan said quietly. “And having numbers and being on your home turf makes you confident.”
He stood up.
Behind him one of the Australians gave a nervous titter and the cop sucked in a sharp intake of air.
“But I want you to look at me.” Evan lifted his gaze to meet the man’s stare, sliding his right foot back ever so slightly to set his base. “Look at me closely. And ask yourself …”
He assessed the man looming over him, that rune stud floating on his chin like a soul patch. Beckoning.
Evan said, “Do I look scared?”
