Page 98 of Prodigal Son

Not drunken brawl shouting, or the dispirited yells of a crowd told it was time for last call. No, this was proper shouting. Screaming, really.

Panic and fear.

Fox opened the door with one hand, and pulled his gun with the other, gliding inside on silent feet.

Not that it mattered. No one was paying him, or the door, a bit of attention.

The scene that awaited him didn’t make any sense, but he worked out a plan for handling it all the same.

A tall man in a white undershirt, with a bloodstained bandage on his left arm, stood in the center of the main pub floor, his wounded arm wrapped tight around Nicky’s neck, muzzle of a gun pressed to the big man’s temple. The gunman had thick black hair gone greasy, falling in his eyes – eyes that glinted like a wild animal’s under the fairy lights draped along the ceiling beams.

It was late, but there were still patrons at some of the tables – that was who had been screaming. A few women clutched their bags to their chests, hiding behind their men, all of whom watched, half-drunk and gobsmacked, as the gunman urged Nicky forward a step, gun digging in so hard that Nicky winced. The biker had a swelling eye, Fox saw, and a split lip.

Poor dumb Nicky.

Dogs on the stairs: Phil, Tommy, Miles, Chef, all crowded together. The prospects – whose names Fox still didn’t know – had pulled cricket bats from under the bar, and stood with feet braced, ready to use them.

But there was only one gun, and that was in the hands of a stranger. An assailant.

Two objectives: get the gun, and knock the guy on his ass.

Three: keep the civilians safe.

He’d thought he was centered before he came in; he hadn’t been. He felt it now, the last of his jitters bleeding away, leaving him cold, calm, still. He couldn’t feel his pulse, or his breathing. He was an automaton. Just like Abe had taught him.

“Charlie,” Eden whispered, just a breath, and tried to grab at his sleeve.

He stepped out of her reach and walked into the pub, empty-handed, unhurried. No one said anything; everyone he knew was too smart to call out to him and draw the gunman’s attention. He got close – closer than the man probably wanted – before the guy whipped around to face him, crook of his elbow digging into Nicky’s throat, teeth bared, eyes white-rimmed.

“Stay back,” he said, posh accent.

“Ah. You’ll be Clive.”

A twitch; surprise. But then the gun pressed in even tighter; Nicky would have a nice round bruise there tomorrow.

“Are you one of them?” Fox asked. His gaze shifted mechanically, looking for openings. There, on the bandage, a fresh trickle of blood going down the arm. There, at his knee, between Nicky’s own. The face was always a good option. The gun was a Glock: no safety.

Clive’s gaze went to the stairwell, and the Dogs gathered there. He’d already decided Fox wasn’t a threat. More the better.

Movement behind Fox, slow, sly, but effective: Abe slipping between tables, moving toward the bar.

“No,” Morgan said, and Clive’s head whipped back around. “Look at him, Charlie. Look at those wild eyes. He’s not one of us.”

Clive grimaced. Or maybe it was a smile. “Get away from the door.” He jabbed the gun into Nicky’s head, that universal sign formove or I’ll shoot.

Abe had reached the bar, and curled his hand around someone’s abandoned beer.

“Let’s have a chat,” Fox said. “Just you and me, yeah? No weapons, no hostages. I take it someone roughed you up.” He nodded toward his wounded arm. “That was rude of them. But come on. You’re surrounded; if you kill Nicky, you know you won’t get out of here alive.”

Clive was shaking; Fox could see the sweat on his face, pouring down in rivulets. Blood dripped onto the floor. Nicky held still, his jaw set. His breathing was hampered by the arm at his throat, but he looked at Fox with composure.Ready, his gaze said.

“Come on,” Fox said, and made a slow, telegraphed reach forward.

Abe threw the beer at Clive’s feet, and the glass shattered, beer splashed everywhere.

Clive spun.

Fox leaped.

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