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In that moment, the rest of our group invades the bar through the back entrance. While the Hellrazors were busy chugging beers and partying on the bar floor, my guys easily slipped inside through the rear.
Dirty and the other Hellrazors look around them with fury clenched onto their ruddy faces.
“Looks like our numbers are about even,” I say arrogantly, spoken like a true fucking king. “But you know… I’ve got a new idea. Maybe it’s time we settled this like real men. With our god-given fists. What do you say?”
A grumble passes over the group of Hellrazors. Some of them have the thirst for violence written on their faces. A couple look more hesitant at the idea. It doesn’t matter either way to me; we’re holding their feet to the fire.
“You really think this’ll end well?” Dirty says. His yellow, scummy teeth clench. “You blow up our supply and beat the shit outta us, and then what? You think we won’t retaliate?”
“That’s assuming you make it out of tonight alive.”
“You’ve got a lotta balls. I see your daddy didn’t teach you shit. You’re a boy playing dress up. You ain’t no prez.”
“Then prove it. First swing is free.”
Dirty sputters, his hands on his lanky waist. “How do I know this ain’t no trap? You got your weapons on us.”
“Guys,” I say slowly, “put ’em away.”
My guys exchange looks but do as they’re told—they stow them away, though still within reach in case needed. Dirty’s eyes shrink into thin, distrustful slits. He takes one step forward, then two, then a few more after that.
“You really want an ass whooping, boy?”
“I’m giving you a head start. I want you to give me your best shot, Dirty. What more can you ask for?”
He curls his sun-spotted hands into fists that shake. All a tough guy act to seem more enraged than he is.
What he’s really doing is stalling. I already know what he’s about to do before he does it.
He opens his mouth in a deafening bellow that sends spittle flying. It might as well be a battlecry the way it rallies his crew.
They rush toward us as a wall of pissed off, drunken bikers. We counter their attack by running straight toward them, our own wall of muscle and fury. The two sides collide in a crash of violence.
Dirty comes at me. He gives me what I asked for—his best shot. He swings on me with a grunt from his belly, putting what I’m sure is his full power behind his punch. I dodge him without any effort. My fist slams into his temple and has him seeing stars. He staggers and throws another hit.
We’re amateur boxers jabbing and dodging. Except most of my hits connect. Most of his miss or lack the power needed to do any damage.
Around us, everybody else is locked into a brawl. Ozzie’s got his brass knuckles out and I catch sight of Stein head butting a Hellrazor and then tossing one over his back.
It’s a good ol’ fashioned bar fight. Glasses get smashed and somebody gets thrown headfirst through one of the windows.
For the moment, we abide by the agreed upon rules—nobody pulls a trigger. Nobody goes for the shortcut.
I knock Dirty to the ground and stand over him. He stares up with spacey eyes, clearly struggling to stay conscious.
Somebody sneaks up on me from behind. I catch on a split second before their attack. We duke it out, trading punches, latching onto each other like wrestlers. He slams me into a table. The impact steals the air from my chest, but I don’t let myself stay down too long. I spin out of the way and crack him in the face.
Our one-on-one continues ’til we’re both bleeding.
’Til somebody decides they’ve had enough brawling. On the brink of losing his fistfight with Moses, one of the Hellrazors scrabbles for his gun, and then squeezes the trigger. It goes off with a resounding bang that changes the whole confrontation.
Things go from a typical bar fight to a shootout. Their guys and mine drawing their weapons and retaliating. The thing is, we counted on this—we came heavily armed for that reason, including the weapons we’ve stolen from the Hellrazors.
Meanwhile, they were too busy partying tonight to have enough ammo on the spot.
It takes only a minute of bullets whizzing by before they realize they’re outgunned.
“Get the hell outta here!” Dirty screeches. He’s finally up from the beating he took.
