Jeff Abbott - Adrenaline

And they moved to block his way out. Sudden tension. Nic murmured words I couldn’t hear in Dutch; the men moved, but slower than they had to. They left. Nic rinsed his hands; there were no towels so he dried them on his jeans. I followed him at a distance.

He was already back on the cell phone when I got back to my pint. I was careful not to look at him, but movement caught my eye. The Turks at the far table were glaring at Nic, frowning, with a clear and ugly rage.

Nic stayed on the phone, not paying attention. His voice was too low to hear over the surge of a bad Journey imitation wafting from the beer-soaked stage.

Four of the Turks got up, headed toward Nic. Lost in his conversation, he didn’t see them coming. I finished my beer; you could sense the karaoke was about to be eclipsed as the entertainment and a glass is easier to use as a weapon if it’s empty.

The four filled the bar space between me and Nic. I glanced at them, but no one had eyes for me. One man’s thick finger tapped on Nic’s shoulder.

“Hey, you been ignoring me?”

“Maybe,” Nic said. He closed the phone without saying good-bye.

“You give a message to your friend Piet that’s he’s a piece of shit and I want my money.”

“I told you, later. Later. Not now.”

I hadn’t been the only one waiting for Nic, it seemed. “I got him his route. I want to be paid. Now.”

I didn’t really want these Turks beating up Nic and breaking my chain. I set the glass down and got ready to move.

Nic said, “Did you not understand? I’m not his messenger. Tell him yourself.” A snideness-very much I’m better than you- undercut his words. He was a thin sliver of a guy and he seemed to notice, only after the snotty words hung in the air, the stocky strength of the gathered Turks.

“No, you call him now. He keeps dodging us on the phone. Now. You tell him I got to know where the delivery point is to finish the arrangements. And I want my money.”

“You agreed to the conditions. You don’t like the deal once it’s done, that’s your problem.”

“He won’t be getting what he needs, then.”

Delivering what, I wondered. This might be what Piet wanted smuggled into the States.

“You’re crazy,” Nic said. “Go drink your beer and leave me the hell alone.”

“I’m done taking the risks,” the Turk said. “You get me my money and the rendezvous point from him or I’ll break your goddamned neck.”

“Are you threatening me?” Nic hissed.

“You call him. Now.” The biggest Turk grabbed at Nic’s cell phone, and Nic jabbed it down into his jacket pocket, face reddening with anger.

Hello, needle-I’m the thread. “Excuse me,” I said to the Turk. “Do you have a problem with this guy or with his friend?”

“It’s no business of yours,” the Turk said, staring at me as though I’d been stupid enough to stick my hand in a pot of snakes. I am more lean than massive; the Turks were all my size or bigger, muscles and hands hardened from work.

“But you’re beating him up to send a message to Piet?” My every word was a poke, a prod, and the Turk knew it. The most brutal bar fights erupt after whispers, not drunken hollers. A yell is a flail, a whisper is a fist. I readied myself to take the first punch and thought: every step is closer to Lucy and The Bundle, so you can take this, because you can’t let these bastards kill him. “Go find Piet yourself.”

“What do you care?” the Turk said.

“Because Piet already owes me, and I’m going to get my money first,” I lied. I love a good lie that acts like a miniature bomb. It shut them all up, shifted the tension.

Nic stared now, unsure if I was just a loon or someone spoiling for a beating at the hands of a bored and drunk gang. I felt sure now that he didn’t know me. Gregor had kept his mouth closed tighter than a watch spring.

The idea of someone getting payment before them raised the group’s temperature by about a dozen degrees. On the karaoke stage, the girl who’d flirted with me launched into Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.” So I used it.

“Listen to the song, dumbass,” I said to the Turk. “I’d really like to enjoy your silence.”

“Why don’t I call Piet,” Nic started, “and we’ll just see-”

I got hit. Hard, from behind, and even being ready my forearms slammed into the wood of the bar. I lashed out hard with a sharp kick that caught my attacker in the groin.

Rule number one of a bar fight: you make it short. The brew of alcohol and machismo makes for a heady mix, and a fight can quickly draw in people with no connections, other than proximity, to the combatants. I did not want a ripple effect. I wanted efficiency, I wanted it over in ten seconds, and I wanted both Nic and me to be on our feet when this was done.

My attacker went down and I took a step and powered the base of my palm twice into the face of the man next to him. He was bigger than me and he wasn’t expecting a frontal assault. Nose, throat, very fast, just as his fist grazed my jaw, and he reeled back, blood gushing from the fractured nose, gasping.

One of the others seized me from behind, pinning my arms, and I twisted, trying to throw him off balance. Nic fought with the fourth Turk, slugging without grace or economy of action. He took a hard punch to the mouth and sagged. He wasn’t nearly as tough as his phone talk. Consider me unsurprised.

My attacker rammed me into the bar. He slammed the front of his head into the back of mine and my head hammered into the wood. It hurt. A lot. I wasn’t going to be done in ten seconds.

“I gonna mess you up so bad,” he hissed. Oh, so original.

I didn’t answer because I don’t waste breath talking in a fight. No one is listening. A long-burning ember of rage exploded in my chest. These men were between me and Nic, and therefore between me and Lucy. I kicked away from the bar, planting both feet below its shelf, propelling myself and the Turk clear. He thought I was going to try and break free, so he tightened his grip. Stupid. Right now I wanted him bound up with me.

We spun.

I kicked off against the floor; now he was between me and the bar. I slammed him back into the wood. Threw my head back and cannoned it into his face while kicking back. Clutching me close, he didn’t have a place to dodge. He sagged on the fourth blow and let me go, so I grabbed Nic’s full pint glass and hammered it into the side of the man’s head in a spray of beer. The heavy glass didn’t break but he crumpled. Done.

Three of the other four Turks sitting at the table approached; one stayed behind, watching, arms crossed as Nic’s man got the better of him, pinning him to the floor.

The three threw themselves at me since I was open and available to dance.

I leveled one with a kick to the throat, took two hard punches from his friends. I stumbled and then I parried the next punch, drove a knee into the groin (you see how I prefer the throat and groin? They offer a substantial return on investment) of the next guy. He withdrew to the floor.

Young Turk number three swung a broken beer glass at my face. I blocked it with my forearm, and with my other hand yanked a rag from the bar, whipped it over the mug. If you can’t take a weapon away you neutralize it. This isn’t rocket science. The move surprised him, and I powered the covered glass back into his own face. The glass didn’t cut him but it scared him, knowing the edge was jagged. Uncertainty is your friend in a fight. The guy stumbled back and left himself open; four hard, fast punches, to the eyes and the stomach, and he was done. Four to keep him down, and to make a statement to anyone in the bar eager to enter the fight.

Nic was still grappling with his original opponent like it was first day of fight school. I seized the man, yanked him off Nic, and positioned my arm just so, his head caught in the crook of my arm.