Page 10 of Everest

The son of a bitch is selling drugs.

Not on my watch.

My eyes follow the stupid son of a bitch as he slips away, disappearing into the bathroom.

I move with a purpose across the room. On my way, I pass the bar where Catcher is posted, and next to him is Nova, with his woman, Promise, tucked close to him. Catcher clocks me immediately but doesn’t speak.

“Got a situation,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. He nods once. I don’t wait for him to follow and keep heading toward the back of the bar.

Inside the bathroom, the stench of piss and cheap cologne punches me in the face. Over by the sinks, a couple of guys linger, talking shit about a Saints game.

“Out,” I bark, and they quickly exit.

The dealer is at the urinal, his back to me, pissing. I step up behind him, close enough to make him feel my presence.

“Fuck off trying to catch a look at my dick, you sick bastard,” he mutters while zipping up.

I grab the back of his head and slam it into the wall. He grunts, stumbling back.

“The fuck?” He scrambles to regain his balance.

“You’re sellin’ shit in the wrong bar, motherfucker.” My tone is low and dangerous.

The bastard’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “What the fuck you gonna do about it?”

I don’t answer. I let my fists do the talking. My first punch connects with his gut, folding him like a lawn chair. He wheezes, staggering back, but he quickly recovers, reaching into his jacket and flicking a knife open.

I smirk. The little fucker has some fight in him. I like that.

“I’m gonna teach you not even a big son of a bitch like you is untouchable,” he sneers, quickly lunging at me. The tip of his blade nicks my forearm. The motherfucker is fast, I’ll give him that. But I’m quicker. I grab his wrist and twist hard, and the blade clatters to the floor. Unarming him isn’t enough for me. I apply more pressure until his bones snap. His scream echoesthrough the bathroom as I continue to inflict pain, driving my fist into his ribs a few times, knocking the air from his lungs.

Then I reach into his jacket pocket, pulling out a bag of pills. Without a second thought, I toss them in the urinal, watching them dissolve in the filth.

“You stupid motherfucker,” the dealer spits, clutching his ribs, his voice thick with pain and rage. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

I grip him by the collar of his jacket and pull him toward the bathroom door, his boots sliding against the tile floor. Catcher is standing just outside as I step out.

“Need a hand?” he asks, raising an eyebrow while eyeing the dealer’s broken wrist.

I keep my grip firm and steady. “Under control, brother.” I push past him.

Heads turn as I shove past bodies and tables across the room, hauling the punk toward the door to throw his ass out.

Riggs stands near the entrance with Nova. He scans the guy, then narrows his eyes at me. “Explain.”

“Peddlin’ pills in the bar,” I reply, and Riggs’ expression hardens. He steps in close, towering over the dealer. “You got two choices, motherfucker. Disappear, or I make you disappear.” His voice is lethal.

After Riggs’ threat, I toss the bastard out onto the street.

He lands hard, and tourists step around him, knowing better than to get involved. He looks at me, chest heaving and eyes wild. “This ain’t over,” he grits.

I stand over him, my stare pressing him into the concrete. My voice is calm but deadly. “It’s over. You show your face again, they’ll either be draggin’ the river for you, or they’ll find your corpse floatin’ in the bayou.”

His eyes narrow at my threat, but he says nothing. Instead, he gets to his feet and disappears into the crowd.

I take out another cigarette, flick my lighter, and pull in a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke—just another night at Twisted Throttle. But as I watch the smoke curl, my jaw tightens. The drug problem in this city is getting worse, with dealers slithering in like snakes, poisoning our streets.

This is our city.

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