Page 50 of Damaged

Was the kid worried about strangers? Or was there something about the gang coming through the door that had sent Boston running?

They were noisy when they entered, not caring about other customers, and when a big one in front, obviously the leader, stopped at the counter behind the two men, they hurriedly pushed away their plates and left the diner.

That left him and the couple in the far booth remaining. The man in the booth suddenly urged the woman to her feet and quickly paid the bill before leaving.

One of the bikers heckled and fingered the woman’s sweater when the couple hurried past. She gasped, jerked away, and the couple practically ran out the door.

Rogue sipped at his cooling coffee. He figured he was two hours away from Dave’s place and then he’d drive home, back to Oxnard.

Why not stay at Wrath’s place, a little voice whispered in his head. He lived in Santa Barbara not far from Dave’s house.

He nixed the idea, but it wouldn’t go away as he swallowed more coffee. He would need to speak with Wrath at some point, he silently reasoned.

The gang of nine were harassing the waitress and Rogue knew the exact moment one of them noticed him. Easing one hand away from his mug, he pulled his weapon from the inside of his coat and held it beneath the table.

It wasn’t his only weapon; he had his knives. The short swords had been left at home, but he wouldn’t need them.

Boston had yet to come back from the bathroom, but none of the gang had walked back there and Rogue hoped the boy stayed hidden.

“Hello, friend,” the ringleader said after being elbowed by one of his group who pointed him out at the booth.

Rogue didn’t answer. Instead, he tossed several bills on the table and moved to his feet when the pair took a step in his direction.

He wasn’t sure if it was his size or the look in his eyes that caused them to stop approaching, but something stopped them.

Solomon had told him that he always had a “don’t fuck with me” look about him so maybe that was it.

Or just maybe it was the Sig Sauer he brought up to rest sideways against his chest. He caressed the gun with his free hand and stared the leader in the eyes.

With a widened gaze, the man lifted his palms forward to about waist-high, as if to try and calm him down.

“Not looking for trouble, mister,” the leader said. “My name is Doug Smalls and I’m looking for a kid who killed my boss.”

They were looking for Boston, Rogue knew it like he knew that someone was going to die today.

Their only problem with killing the boy was that he was in their way.

But they didn’t know that.

Not yet.

“Found him!” a voice shouted from the hallway. “He’s holed up in the bathroom.”

Rogue’s phone buzzed with a text message, and he was thankful all over again that he’d given Boston his number. He tugged the phone out, briefly glanced at the text, and then tucked it away.

Without a word, he stepped toward the gang, and that was only because they were in his way to the fucking door. They moved back slowly, watching him, watching the weapon in his hand, only the shuffle of feet was heard.

Rogue went out the front door of the diner, but not with his back to them. And all the while, his flat gaze stayed locked on Smalls—as if to silently say, “The first bullet is yours, motherfucker.”

Smalls stayed put and when the man’s gang started to walk forward, Smalls stuck out an arm to keep them back.

That was a smart move on the man’s part.

Once outside, Rogue disappeared into the woods at the back of the diner, near the side where his truck was parked.

Boston’s text had been simple.

I went out the window, truck is locked. I’ll meet you in the woods.

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