Page 14 of Striking Out In The Mountains

“Hey, Marv,” Henry says as he starts the car and throws it into drive. “What’s going on?”

“These fucking maniacs are causing all sorts of shit,” he shouts. It sounds like a rodeo is happening behind him. “Better bring Emmanuel.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Then wake him up! These boys are rowdy.”

Something breaks in the background and Marv curses. “Hey!” he shouts to someone in the bar. “You touch that again and you’ll be picking your teeth up off the floor!”

The line goes dead as he hangs up.

“Damn,” Henry mutters as he pulls out his phone while racing down the empty street. “Biggest brawl of the year and my knee is throbbing from softball.”

He thumbs through the phone and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I say as I look at it. “Oh, hell no!”

He’s calling Emmanuel at two in the morning. That brute is grumpy as hell in the afternoon. I don’t want to be the one waking him up in the middle of the night.

I drop the phone on Henry’s lap like it’s a hot potato. He grabs it and shoves it back into my hands while it rings.

“I’m not talking to him!” I say in a panic. “He already hates me.”

“He does not.”

“He’s a grumpy beast!”

“Exactly,” Henry says. “A grumpy beast who’s an all-star at kicking bikers’ asses. He lives near the bar. He’ll probably be there before us.”

“Oh shit,” I mutter as I put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” he grunts in a deep hoarse voice.

“Hi, Emmanuel,” I say, my voice coming out extra chipper. “It’s me. Cara.”

Another grunt.

“There’s a big brawl at The Cracked Barrel Saloon,” I say. “Some bikers are causing trouble.”

“Bikers?” he grunts, his voice a little more perky. “I’ll meet you there.”

There’s a click and then the dial tone.

“He’s coming,” I say as I turn off Henry’s phone and put it in the drink holder between us.

“I hope three is enough,” Henry says as he turns the lights on and speeds onto the highway.

We arrive a few seconds later, pulling into the parking lot of the seediest bar for miles.

“Holy shit,” I whisper when I see the chaotic scene unraveling before us. There are dozens of huge bikers battling it out with fists, beer bottles, and clubs.

This is bad even for Chicago. And we’re vastly outnumbered.

Our car skids to a stop in the parking lot, our headlights illuminating the worst brawl I’ve ever seen.

“Welcome to the seedy side of the Greene Mountains,” Henry says with a grin. “Time to earn that meager paycheck.”

CHAPTER SIX

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