plane. I chewed without really tasting anything other than the liberal quantity of Corona I washed it down with. After we ate, I collapsed in front of Rink's widescreen TV while he put on a fight DVD and passed me another beer.
Then we got around to business.
'Harvey called,' Rink said. 'He's gonna come to the meeting with Louise Blake. Then he wants a private meet with us after we're finished with her.'
I took a sip from my beer and said, 'Makes sense.'
'He's got the location Petoskey does his night shift business from. Says he'll take us there if we need him.'
Something was coming that I might not like. I nodded encouragement; might as well get it over with.
'Says he'll take us, but that's his involvement over with. Doesn't want a backlash from Petoskey if things turn sour.'
'Fine by me,' I said. 'Things might turn sour.'
It was Rink's turn to nod.
'Thought they might,' he said.
'This nonsense about John leaving town because he owes money sounds like a cover story. I want the truth from Petoskey. If that means hitting him hard and fast, so be it.'
'I'm with you, man.'
'Never doubted you.'
'Good.'
'Shut up and drink your beer,' I said.
And that was that. The planning would come later. When we arrived at Petoskey's front door. When we had a better idea of what we were up against. I hadn't been a secret agent; it wasn't for me to use guile and trickery to root out the bad guys. I was—along with Rink and a select few others—the weapon sent in when the planning was done with and all that was left was the ass kicking. Ass kicking I was good at. It got results.
Ergo, there'd be nothing fancy set up for when we paid Petoskey a visit. Either he'd be cooperative, or we'd make him wish he had been. End of story.
Rink indicated the TV with his beer can.
'I was figurin' on havin' a go at this extreme fighting stuff.' On the
screen, two buffed athletes were pounding the snot out of each other in an octagon-shaped cage. Unlike pro wrestling, this fighting was for real. The blows were aimed with intent, the strangles to a point where people passed out, the arm- and leglocks occasionally ending in fractures.
'I'm sure you'd do okay, so long as you didn't forget it was only a sport,' I said.
'Man, it's all in the control,' Rink said. 'I know when to kill and when not to.'
I shook my head. 'What about when one of those monsters has you up against the cage and is pounding the life out of you? You telling me you won't gouge out an eye or rip off an ear with your teeth?'
Rink shrugged. 'Biting's for the likes of Tyson, man. It was just an idea. Something to keep me fit.'
'Go for it, then,' I said. 'If you're not too old.'
'Too old?' Rink looked scandalized.
'Well, you
'I ain't too old. For God's sake, the damn heavyweight champ's in his midforties, and he's still showing these young lions what a real fighter is all about.'
I had to agree. The champion was giving a man a foot taller and almost twenty years his junior some serious grief.
I'm a realist. I couldn't compete with the likes of those athletes. Not in their arena. But put them in mine, and I was positive that the man left standing wouldn't be the sportsman. My expertise lay in the battlefield, and they wouldn't stand a chance. You couldn't go to war, then tap out when an opponent was getting the better of you. Fail in my arena and you were dead.
The same was true for Rink. He'd had the same training as me and was equally dangerous in a fight. What Rink possessed that I didn't were black belts to prove his expertise. Even before he'd signed up as a Ranger, he'd been an interstate karate champion three years running.
The first time Rink and I worked together, it wasn't during a covert operation. We were off duty, but Rink had taught me a valuable lesson.
I had been aware of the big American, but only as the silent new recruit who only seemed animated when in action. We hadn't bonded yet, and I was as confused as anyone about why the strange-sounding Yank had been drafted onto our team.
Near to our U.K. base at Arrowsake was a small fishing town. The bar next to the harbor was a favorite of our unit when it came to downtime. Rink was standing by the bar. He was cradling a pint of brown ale but didn't seem to be enjoying it. I glanced across the barroom and saw why.
There were three of them, Special Air Service commandos who'd been brought in on a joint training operation. There'd been friction from the start. Even over the murmur of the crowd I heard one of them call Rink a 'reject Nip.'
I saw Rink set his glass down on the bar and turn to leave.
