Page 6 of Damron
“Guilty,” he said. “But at least I’m not a criminal.”
She snorted again, this time with real laughter. “You run guns, Damron. You run drugs. You run girls sometimes, even if you pretend you don’t. If you aren’t a criminal, nobody is.”
He lifted his glass. “To the New Mexico justice system, then.”
She clinked his glass. “May it never notice us.”
They drank, and for a minute it was almost peaceful. Then the parking lot exploded in a murder of engines.
A string of Harleys roared up, dust-choking the sunset. Five bikes. Five men in sleeveless cuts, patched with the white skull-and-lightning logo of the Dire Straits MC. They didn’t bother with helmets. They didn’t bother with subtlety. The leader was a barrel-chested slab with a shaved skull and facial tattoos that looked like an artist had a seizure. They parked in a perfect line, like a SWAT team or a firing squad.
“Friends of yours?” Carly asked, too low for anyone but him to hear.
Damron took his time watching the men dismount, the way they moved, the careful confidence of men used to being feared. “Not lately,” he said. He sipped his beer and kept his face smooth.
The Dire Straits entered like a flash mob of rabid dogs. The first man, the tattooed slab, scanned the bar and lockedonto Damron’s cut. He said something to the others, and three peeled off to the pool tables. The other two headed straight for Damron and Carly.
Conversation in the bar strangled itself mid-sentence. One of the locals, a retired lineman with shoulders the width of a refrigerator, suddenly remembered he needed to piss and shuffled off to the can. The bartender—six-four, two-sixty, and ex-Army—watched the action from behind the taps, already calculating his odds.
The leader stopped at their booth, rested his knuckles on the table like a cop about to ask for a bribe. “Well, shit. If it isn’t St. James.” His voice had a road-rash rasp, years of whiskey and whatever else he used to wash down the taste of violence.
Damron smiled, all teeth, zero warmth. “Slater. You lose a bet to show up in this shithole?”
Slater laughed like a dog bark. “Just following the stink. Didn’t know the Bloody Scythes were so hard up for pussy they’d date outside the species.”
The other Dire Straits snickered. Carly didn’t flinch. She just smiled and said, “Cute. But the grownups are talking.”
Slater’s gaze went cold, then colder. “Careful, sweetheart. I might decide to teach you some respect.”
“Gonna teach me the alphabet, too?” she shot back. “I hear Dire Straits boys drop out by third grade.”
Slater looked at Damron, not even hiding the threat. “You let your bitch talk to me like that?”
Damron drained his glass. “Only when she’s right.”
The mood, which had started tense, pulled itself taut enough to hum. Slater’s hand moved to the table, palm down. His knuckles were dusted with old scars and new scabs.
Slater leaned in. “How about you and me step outside, clear the air.”
“Why waste the trip?” Damron said.
He saw the punch coming. Slater telegraphed it, like he wanted the audience to get their money’s worth. Damron waited, calculated the speed, the angle. Then he slid left, grabbed the incoming fist with both hands, and used Slater’s momentum to pull him across the table, smashing his face into the pitcher, beer and blood and glass raining down. Slater howled, clutching his nose.
The second Dire Straits member, a rangy meth-fueled stick figure with a rat’s mustache, lunged at Damron’s back. Carly moved faster. She snapped up a full glass and drove it straight into the man’s temple. He crumpled, hands flailing for purchase, but all he got was splinters.
“Holy shit,” Carly said, looking at the broken glass in her hand.
“Stay low,” Damron told her, just as Slater staggered upright, blood streaming. Slater came in again, swinging wild. Damron let the punch graze his cheek, used the opening to bury his knee in Slater’s solar plexus. Slater doubled over, breath gone.
Two more Dire Straits closed from the pool table. One had a cue stick, the other a chain pulled from his belt. Damron squared to meet them, spitting blood.
Carly was out of her seat now, sliding behind the bar with the bartender. The bartender pulled a sawed-off from under the counter, pumped it, and set it on the bar as if to say: “Please, motherfuckers, make my night.”
The Dire Straits weren’t fazed. The one with the cue stick jabbed at Damron’s gut. Damron caught the end, twisted, and snapped it with both hands. He used the jagged end to slash upward, catching the man in the jaw. The cue-wielder yowled, clutching at the cut.
The chain guy tried to loop Damron’s neck. Damron ducked, grabbed a chair, and smashed it into the guy’s knees. Theman went down with a sound like a tree splitting. The chain clattered to the floor, and Damron kicked it under a table. The last Dire Straits member, the one still standing, had been content to watch until now. Maybe he was new, maybe he was smart. Either way, he weighed his odds and turned for the door.
Slater was still breathing, but only just. He staggered upright, wiping blood and beer from his face, and went for his waistband. Damron didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for. He surged forward, slammed Slater into the wall, and drove an elbow into his throat. Slater gagged, eyes bulging.
