“Call 911. Report a fight at Harley’s Roadhouse.”
Suze punched in the numbers. As it rang through, she glanced at Raney in confusion. “Deputy Langers is here. Won’t he stop it?”
“He’ll probably egg them on, the jerk!”
The operator’s voice sounded. “911. What is your emergency?”
Raney grabbed Suze’s arm before she could answer. “Ask her to send the highway patrol. If she tries to route you to the sheriff’s office, tell her Deputy Langers is part of it.”
While Suze repeated that to the operator, Raney told Joss to find people who had cell phones with them. “Ask them to video the fight. All of it. Tell them I’ll pay fifty dollars for a clean copy.”
Joss barged out the door.
“Have Jerry announce it!” Raney yelled after her.
Suze ended the call. “The highway patrol is on the way.” She followed Raney out of the restroom. “You sure Toby won’t help?”
“He hates Dalton because of some girl Toby had the hots for.”
“Karla Jenkins. She thought Toby was a perv. I better warn Buddy. He’ll want to back up Dalton.”
“No! Tell him not to interfere, Suze. No use getting your husband involved and turning this into a free-for-all. But you could video it and send it to Sheriff Ford.”
After they left the bathroom, Suze went looking for her husband, while Raney hurried across the dance floor. As she neared the exit, Jerry made the announcement. As soon as he said “fifty dollars,” the crowd surged toward the doors, carrying Raney along with them.
When she finally got outside, she saw Dalton and two other guys walking across the parking area, not far from where her truck was parked. Dalton led, the other two following close behind. One was jittering around. The other was a huge redhead, not as tall as Dalton, but a lot heavier.
And off in the shadows, Deputy Langers watched and did nothing. Damn him!
Heart pounding, Raney shoved through the crowd, desperate to get to the truck and her phone.
* * *
Dalton’s prison experience had taught him a lot, and one of the most important lessons was how to fight like a street brawler. That meant relying less on fancy footwork and fists, and more on his knees, elbows, feet—as long as he had on boots—and his head. Literally. Headbutts could end a fight with one blow. Fists were too vulnerable, unless they were aimed at soft tissue, but that called for close work, which Dalton didn’t want. The object of those lessons was to put his opponent down as soon as possible, while minimizing damage to himself.
These two guys didn’t worry him, unless they were armed. But he hadn’t seen any suspicious bulges in the pockets of their tight-fitting jeans, so he figured they hadn’t come prepared to fight. They were both big and beefy, probably played football, maybe even at the college level. But that was at least seven or eight years ago, and most of that beef had since turned to fat.
Besides, in a street fight, size wasn’t as important as speed and agility. And Dalton had both. In addition, he had very quick hands—“sticky hands,” the newspaper had called them, back when he’d been an all-state wide receiver three years in a row. That was more than a decade ago, but he could still move. And thanks to the hours of weight training in the prison yard and his few early run-ins with other inmates, he figured he could handle these two assholes. Probably.
He stopped in a clearing on the edge of the parking area. Solid ground. Dirt, rather than loose gravel. Well lit, but far enough from the parked vehicles to give them space. As he waited for them to make their moves, he rolled his neck and shook out his arms, then said, “You sure you want to do this, fellas?”
“You killed Jim Bob.”
“And you spending time in a hospital bed with a tube up your nose will make you feel better about that?”
Behind the assholes, people spilled out of the Roadhouse. Most were holding up phones turned sideways. Videoing. That could complicate things. But it might also keep him from going back to prison for assault—a clear parole violation—as long as he let the assholes make the first move.
He could do that.
He studied his opponents, watching their hands, how they moved their feet, where their eyes were looking. They were younger than Dalton, but not by much, and they hadn’t aged well.
The redhead was the calmer of the two. He had long arms and a thick body. A scar through one eyebrow and a lump on the bridge of his nose marked him as either a fighter or a defensive lineman. Able to take punishment. Able to dish it out. But he also had a beer gut that hung over his belt. Plus, he had to move a lot of weight. At least two-seventy. Maybe more. He’d be slow and tire easily. But if he got Dalton inside those orangutan arms, he could pin him against that beer gut and squeeze the air out of him.
The other guy was slightly smaller and skinnier. Wired. He couldn’t keep his hands still. His feet kept shuffling side to side, and his eyes darted back and forth like he was watching a Ping-Pong match. Hopped up on something and raring to go. He’d come first, but he wouldn’t last long. He was already rattled. A quick elbow to the side of his head and it would be lights-out.
Dalton just had to make sure he came at him first.
“Hey, crackhead,” Dalton called to him. “You still giving blow jobs for smack?”
Childish, maybe, but it worked. With a shout, the guy charged.
Instead of backing off, Dalton stepped toward him, sidestepped into a half turn at the last second, swung around as the guy went by, and brought his elbow with all of his two hundred thirty pounds behind it against the side of the druggie’s head. The guy’s forward momentum kept him going several steps before his legs gave way
