maneuver the keg around. For some reason he was staring at me, his thick lips parted.
“What?” Was my fly undone?
“Most guys use the hand truck,” he uttered softly, pointing to a once blue dolly.
I silently berated myself. This was supposed to be a recon mission and I had just showed off by hauling a 156 lb keg of beer on my shoulder like it was nothing. Smiling, I asked, “Where’s the cooler?”
The fat man pointed to the right and I made my way among the boxes of liquor and bottled beer, stacked high. Covertly glancing here and there, I noticed no window to the main room, just a battered wooden door painted black. There had to be some way to scope out the main bar.
One my third keg trip, I hit on an idea. “You want me to take a keg up front? Maybe clear out an empty?”
Just as I reckoned, here was a man who had no problem with someone else doing the heavy lifting. “Sure,” he said with a gap-toothed smile that did nothing to improve his looks. “Follow me.”
Keg perched on my shoulder, I complied, trailing him through the black door and into the bar proper. Not much, really, just a typical one-room place with a dozen tables, two pool tables and a grimy counter that ran the length of the room. Bikers of every size, shape and color crowded the place (apparently the Demon’s Blood was an equal opportunity gang), causing such a ruckus that my ears threatened to shut down for good. Fat guy led the way to a trio of lonely looking taps lined against the wall.
Then the place got quiet and I felt the first shiver of dread trill through me. Carefully I set the keg down and looked around. Dozens of eyes were upon me, some speculatively, some apprehensively.
“Can I help you folks?” I kept my voice mild, light.
More silence. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot then turned my attention back to the keg, which I stowed in the cooler underneath the taps. An empty in one hand, I was headed toward the door to storeroom door when I was stopped by a voice I recognized.
“How did you do that, man?” The voice was hard-edged and growly, with a deep undercurrent of menace. When I’d heard it last, it had come though Leslie Winchester’s cell.
“Do what?” I asked, not looking up.
“Look at me when I talk to you!” Alexander screamed and I jumped like I’d been goosed.
Alexander Winchester had his mother’s nose and eyes, but little else. Rangy and lean instead of bulky and muscular, with long dirty blond hair and acne-scarred cheeks. The leader of the Demon’s Blood didn’t look like one. Oh, he was tall enough and had the sleek grace of a panther, but there was no look of … competence in his face. Instead he had the air of a petulant, spoiled child who had been given everything he wanted and hated the givers because it was never enough. Cold, cold green eyes sparkled like pools of viridian cruelty. A purple Crown Royal bag was tied to the belt of his dirty blue jeans and one veiny hand caressed it like a lover.
I knew instantly what was in that bag.
My eyes must have lingered too long. “What you looking at, asswipe?” he snarled. There came a sudden stillness from the other bikers and I knew that the wrong word, the wrong gesture, would see me buried beneath a stack of kicking, stabbing bodies.
So of course I took the road only the proud and foolish follow. “Your purse, ace.”
Not good. Don’t know why I said that. Something about Alexander really rubbed me the wrong way. Looking at him made my eyes itch, as if I could see
A busty woman standing next to the pool tables, blue and black tats on her large breasts, pointed out the only window as Alexander brought his hands up, knife flickering between his fingers. “What the hell?” she cried.
Everyone looked, even Alexander, who was poised to jump the bar. I could see two snowplows enter the lot at high speed; one dove out of sight to the left and one to the right.
Alexander snarled, “What the f--?” Just before a rending crash shook the building, a tearing, grinding noise boomed from both sides of the bar.
“Our bikes, man!” someone yelled, horrified.
Almost magically the bar emptied, people running out to save their motorcycles in a flood, shouting and screaming imprecations. Alexander spun around and fled with the mob, but not before spearing me with one last baleful glare. “I’m gonna kill you,” that glare told me. “Your guts are mine!”
I’ve never been so grateful for Morgan until that moment, saving me from my stupidity, my fat mouth. Pride is a sin that we all are susceptible to, so maybe I owed the Lord a few Hail Marys and a little time spent in reflection.
Time enough for that later, if I lived. I hurdled the bar in pursuit of the bikers, eager to see what Morgan had cooked up. I made it to the door in time to hear a few bikes power up along with the scrape and screech of metal as the plows came back into view, dragging parts of motorcycles behind them like so much metallic confetti.
“Hey Mike,” came a voice from behind. My heart leapt as I spun. Morgan! He stood behind the bar with a smug look on his face. Smug look or no, I could’ve kissed him right then. “See if you can get Alexander inside,” he urged. “Alone, if possible.”
Great, how was I going to get the attention of a psychopathic-
Never mind. Stupid question. Steadying my nerves, I stood in the doorway and shouted. “Hey, Alexander! We haven’t finished talking about your sissy little purse yet!” Not much as insults went, but in my line of work, cultivating effective verbal ripostes was not high on my “to do” list.
Hey, it worked. While the two snowplows gunned for the road with a handful of Harleys in pursuit, Alexander came high-stepping around from the right of the building, knife in hand, trailing his own cadre of out of shape but lethally dangerous followers who would have no problem festooning the place with my guts.
Two hasty steps back and I was inside. “Get ready, Morgan.” Behind me I heard sneakers hit linoleum as he vaulted the bar. I guess he’d already taken care of the fat guy.
Alexander/Baphemaloch tore through the front entrance like the door wasn’t even there. Its tempered glass shattered into a million shiny bits as he/it tore through the backstop and hit the wall.
Alexander’s fist, clutching six inches of knife, flashed toward me. Army training kicked in before I knew it and my fingers grabbed his knife wrist and pulled while twisting my body to the right. A brick-hard fist slammed into my kidney, bringing a searing ache that locked my muscles for a split second. As the pain tore through my torso, I still managed to fall back far enough for Alexander to stumble forward and tangle his feet with mine.
Both of us landed on a table, collapsing it. Splintering, it dropped to the floor as Morgan shouted one of his Words that hurled Alexander’s followers around like tenpins.
Alexander’s head swiveled wildly from our position on the remains of the table. “The Ay-rab Jew!” he screamed in panic, spit flying from his mouth.
Morgan was among the rest of the bikers, some five in all, moving like a ballet dancer, sinuous and deadly. Every punch, every stiffened finger hit with lethal precision, dropping gang members left and right.
Alexander twisted like an eel, shrieking, hands scrabbling for the knife that had dropped from his fingers when we landed. I grabbed a handful of dirty denim and squirmed my way up along his body until I came face to face with a demon.
Bloated features, a gaping maw showing rows of shiny white teeth. Red eyes wept black blood that flowed down to the hideously long canines, only to drip drip drip down its chin. Curling ram’s horns sprung from a wide brow. It took me a second to realize it was an artful rendering on the back of Alexander’s leathers.
That moment of shock, that split-second hesitation allowed Alexander to surge forward and grab his knife. Roaring in triumph, he leapt to his feet, throwing me off and planting the solid heel of his black boot in my gut.
Okay, that hurt. My breath gushed explosively out of my mouth as paralysis gripped my torso. I folded around that boot and held on, hands clenching Alexander’s leg like it was a lifeline.
Alexander’s head swiveled toward me, face stretched in a terrifying smile, his mouth pulled wider than human muscles are capable of. His eyes, once a shimmering green, now glowed black, like the absence of hope.
“Oh no,” I gasped with what air I had left.
“Oh yes,” answered the thing wearing Alexander’s face. Baphemaloch? Probably.
With uncanny strength, he/it kicked out, prying my fingers free from his leg and launching me like a soccer ball across the bar. I had time enough to think
