Firepower by John Cutter (best ebook pdf reader android .TXT) 📗

his right, cracking it into Rendell’s right elbow as he drew the gun.

“Ahh, shit!” Rendell yowled as the gun went flying to clatter across the floor.

Vince got both feet on the ground — and Rendell lunged for him. Easily sidestepping the heavier man, Vince let the lunge go by, and Rendell ended flat on his belly, gasping for air.

The bar erupted into hoots of laughter and shouts of “Whoa, Rendell!” and “Watch where you’re going, Rendell!”

Vince turned, moved a little closer to Rendell, and waited, letting the bearded cowboy get to his feet.

Vince set himself. Rendell cocked his left arm for a round-house punch — and Vince stepped in, exploded a Krav Maga straight-arm hammerfist, blur-fast, into Rendell’s chin. Hard.

Rendell’s head rocked back and he staggered, spun — and fell flat on his back. The wooden boards shivered with the impact.

Some in the crowd clapped at that. Evidently Rendell was not a popular guy.

Vince walked over to the .38 revolver on the floor. He picked it up and went to the bar. Men stepped quickly out of his way as he asked Tina, “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

She stared at him a moment, then nodded briskly and brought him a glass of water.

“Thanks.” Vince took the glass in his left hand, carried it to Rendell and poured it on the drug dealer’s face.

Rendell sputtered and flailed his arms, then looked wildly around. “Whuh? Where?”

“Rendell…” Vince pointed the gun at the dealer’s face. “Sit up.”

Staring at the gun, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth, Rendell sat up.

Keeping the gun trained on Rendell, Vince squatted down and said, in a whisper, “If you want another shot at me, go to the place Dead Springs Trail runs into Chickasaw Creek and look for me on the stream up north a little. Bring your friends. I’ll be fishing there tomorrow morning. About eight.”

Then Vince stood up and said, loud enough that the others could hear, “Get up, Rendell, get your hat, and get out of here.” He lowered the gun. “Drive away. When I leave, I’ll give your gun to Tina. She can do whatever she wants with it.”

Rendell licked blood from his lips, then got laboriously to his feet. He opened his mouth to utter some face-saving threat, but Vince shook his head and pointed the gun at Rendell’s face. “Save your breath. Get your hat and go.”

Rendell’s shoulders sagged. He hobbled past Vince, picked up his hat, and walked with all the dignity he could muster out of the bar.

The crowd started buzzing. Vince heard a woman say, “I called the sheriff, Tina.”

Vince went to the window, squinted past the neon sign, and watched Rendell climb into a big white Ford pickup and drive off, its giant tires spinning gravel into the air.

Shaun stepped up beside Vince. “I guess I should thank you. He’d probably have busted me up.” He glanced over at his brother who was coming out of the restroom, looking around in confusion.

“My pleasure.” Vince took a pen and a little tablet of notepaper from his inside coat pocket. “I don’t like drug dealers.” He wrote a number down. “Here’s my cell number. Call me, you want to talk. I might want to help you some more. You and your friends. Didn’t feel good about having to rough you up — and bust up your weapons. I apologize for that.” He handed Shaun the slip of paper and then walked over to the bar, pushing the revolver across it toward Tina.

“I thought I told you what’d happen if you got into trouble here,” she said, shaking her head and chuckling.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Vince said. It was his turn to wink. Then he put a ten-dollar bill on the counter, waved, and went hurriedly to the door.

He heard the police siren coming as he climbed on the Harley. He started it but switched off the headlight and rode it quickly down the gravel road, into the trailer park and onto the trails behind. He thought it wise to steer clear of the local cops, even when he was in the right. He could glimpse their flashing red and blue lights between the trees and trailers as they pulled into the bar’s parking lot.

As soon as he was screened by the trees, he switched on the headlight and worked south along the dirt-bike trails. A quarter mile onward, he found a trail onto the highway.

*

Bobby Destry was trying to figure out how he’d come to be in this damp concrete cell.

Sure, the Brethren had dragged him in here. But he could almost hear his father’s voice asking How’d you get yourself in a position where they could do that, boy?

He sat up on his bunk and ran his hands through his hair. He’d been here for weeks, and his hair was growing long. What time was it? He couldn’t tell. There were no windows. There was just the twenty by fifteen-foot room, its toilet and sink, the bunk, a small air vent, eternally locked door with its little barred window and food chute, and a shelf of books. Most of them, including The Coming Race War, were by Gustafson himself. One of them had been part of the reason he’d tried to leave the Brethren. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. He’d believed, at first, that the book was real — the plans of an ancient Jewish conspiracy against gentiles — until he’d done some research and found out that “The Protocols” was fabricated. It had actually been made up by anti-Semites to smear Jews.

When he found that out, he started wondering if the other claims the Brethren made were lies as well. The more he looked at sources outside their circle, the more he was sure the Brethren’s sources were false