Unhinged, page 6
Cora allowed it for a second longer. “So, which one is Mr. Clark?”
Both guys shrugged and then waved a hand towards the giant behind the bar.
Cora sighed, feeling a sense of inevitability. Of course it was Goliath back there. “Thanks,” she said. “Now my turn.”
One moment, she’d been standing still, allowing them to underestimate her. Cora knew full well that in any fight, most women came in with a physical disadvantage. It wasn’t like the movies with some leatherbound lass jumping one way or the other, high heels flying, fists following.
No. The real advantage for someone physically smaller came two-fold. For one, she didn’t underestimate her opponents. The same couldn’t be said for most of them.
For another, she never postured aggressively until it came to the violent part. It was always best to let an attacker feel in control until it was too late for them to realize otherwise.
A surprise attack was the number one advantage Cora found in any altercation.
But also, she’d been in the Navy long before the FBI. In law enforcement, they were often taught de-escalation. Minimal force necessary to subdue a suspect.
But in the military? The exact opposite. If force was required, then it was designed to be used without hesitation or mercy to the fullest extent possible.
And now, standing there, facing the two smirking goons, it was like clicking something into gear. One moment, docile, quiet, and motionless.
The next, a blur of brutality.
Her elbow found the first one’s neck. She didn’t go for bone, didn’t go for the chest—blows that he might have weathered. No mercy. Straight for the windpipe, elbow first.
She hit twice, as well. Once with the elbow, the next with the palm of her hand. And as he gurgled, toppling, stunned, his eyes barely even registering what had happened, she brought her foot up hard, straight towards where his hands—still limply forming the V—rested. She caught him between the legs, deciding it was only proper that she fulfilled her end of the bargain.
Wheezing, he collapsed.
The bald man’s eyes bugged, staring at her. He was still mid-burp.
It had all happened so fast that the curly-haired man’s friend hadn’t even had time to blink. Cora stepped back now. Again, refusing to underestimate even a drunk man. Knifes, hidden weapons—all of it. She hadn’t survived multiple tours by taking anyone lightly. Even a predatory drunkard.
“I can provide the same deal for you,” she said softly. “Or are we good?” Her eyes blazed, and now, judging by his paling expression, he realized that he’d mistaken a shark for a minnow.
He swallowed, slurred a quick mutter, and then bent over, poking at his fallen friend. The curly-haired guy lay in a quivering heap, clutching at his crotch and gasping for air.
The music was starting again, and most of the bar hadn’t even noticed the altercation. A couple of figures in chairs nearby glanced over. One of the men puffing on a bong, sitting in a small cloud of smoke, was staring at them, but he looked more amused than outraged. He was nudging his friend and pointing towards where Cora stood over the biker.
She took this as her cue. Instead of lingering, she turned, moving towards the bar. They’d both agreed on the source of this mission, after all.
Both men had pointed towards the giant behind the counter.
The big man was still pouring drinks, smiling every now and then, or occasionally threatening anyone with bad behavior in the stools.
Cora walked away from the man on the ground while his friend tended to him. She didn’t look back. She approached the bar, leaning her elbows against the lacquered counter, eyeing Brendan Clark. If things got violent with a figure this large, she wouldn’t attempt to fight without a weapon. Some said that guns were the great equalizer.
And while this was true, weapons could be found in all shapes and sizes in a place like this, if one only had the foresight and creativity to look.
A new song was now gearing into full swing from the stage. More screamo, more drum solos. But Cora was tapping a hand against the counter. “Brendan!” she said, trying to shout over the clamor of the others gathered and over the sound of the rising music. “Hey! Clark!” she said, louder.
She jostled past a couple of patrons who were too deep in their cups to notice.
She waved a hand, trying to gain the giant’s attention. “Brendan!” she said, even louder.
At last, he glanced over at her, frowning. He held up a finger. “Wait your turn.”
She sighed, leaning forward on the bar. But the giant was ignoring her. He swept past her towards another group of customers, his lanky stride covering the distance in an instant.
Cora watched him, taking in his posture and his physique. Not just out of a sense of intimidation, but also searching. Her eyes moved rapidly, checking knuckles and fingers. Checking the neck and near the eyes—where a victim might scratch and gouge in a desperate attempt to survive.
But his fingers weren’t harmed. No cuts, no visible scrapes nor scratches.
“What?”
She glanced up from the giant’s knuckles to realize that he was now glaring down at her.
She met his gaze. “You’re Brendan Clark?”
He scowled. “Why are you mean-mugging me?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been eyeballing me since you came over. What?”
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I just came over.”
“Yeah. So what?” he repeated a bit more testily now.
Cora bit her lip, considering her options. A couple of other patrons were glancing towards her impatiently. Others were tapping their mugs or shot glasses against the counter.
“I’ve got a couple questions for you,” Cora said simply.
“What questions? What are you, a cop?”
At this last word, a sort of silence spread around the bar, starting with the eye of the storm where Brendan and Cora faced each other, but then expanding in a ring of whispers. Cora shifted uncomfortably as she realized that most the patrons were now outright watching her or glancing in confusion, asking their neighbors what had been said.
The giant made a motion towards the stage. No one responded, so the big man grabbed a bottle and chucked it at the singer. The glass smashed off the wall behind the head-windmilling musician who winced and flicked shards off his shoulders.
The music stopped.
A general hubbub of irritation spread through some of the other customers, sitting around the bar. A couple of voices began booing. Someone said, “That was my favorite song!”
But now, eyes turned towards the man who’d chucked the bottle. Everyone seemed to be watching Cora and the giant.
Brendan repeated, a bit louder, likely so everyone could hear. “Are you a cop?”
Cora tucked her tongue inside her cheek, exhaling slowly, realizing that she’d set foot in the lion’s den without much in the way of backup.
The bald man who was still nursing his friend back to health yelled out, “Look what she did to G!”
A few more murmurs. Angry mutterings.
A couple of snickers as well, though, from patrons who evidently didn’t think much of G.
Cora pushed slowly away from the counter, taking a step back to give herself space on either side. A couple of the more interested bikers were rising from their stools and seats, moseying in her direction. Cora didn’t glance at them, didn’t want to spark anything off.
But she’d come here for a reason, and she refused to leave without getting answers.
She met Clark’s narrowed gaze beneath his jutting fringe, but his sheer size only further emphasized the man’s glare.
“I’m here about Mindy,” Cora said simply. “I represent a friend, that’s all.”
Clark slammed a glass on the counter, clear liquid sloshing over either side and spilling slowly past his fingers. “Didn’t ask,” he said simply, his tone a sneer. “I asked if you were a cop? You sound like a cop. You look like...well...you look like a snitch.”
Cora frowned now. “I’m not. I’m not a cop either. I’m here on behalf of a friend. Mindy’s dead,” she said, her voice loud now, too, realizing that this was something of a battle for public opinion. And for the moment, he had all the advantages. She said, “Is it normally your habit to screw women then kill ‘em?”
Now the giant’s eyes bugged. He swallowed faintly, and a flush crept into his cheeks, from equal parts embarrassment and anger. He was leaning forward now, his mitt-sized hands resting on the smooth counter, leaving stains of sweat against the lacquer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl. Watch your mouth.”
Cora shook her head. “Did you kill her?”
The whispers were spreading again. Eyes narrowed, ears were open. Attention was darting between the two of them. Though she was all too aware that some of the larger men were still slinking in behind her. She pointed at one in particular, her voice turning suddenly hard. “Cut off my exit, and I’ll slit your throat.”
The man froze, hesitant. Her words carried a bit more weight now, as occasional regard was also afforded to the man gasping on the ground.
Cora kept an eye on the man behind her, nearest the door. For the moment, he’d hesitated, leaving her path unobstructed. She addressed Brendan, “Well? Did you?”
The giant just shook his head, licking his lower lip with an enormous tongue. A slow growl crept into his voice like a caged lion preparing to leap anyway.
And in this case, the cage wasn’t very tall. In fact, one of his legs would easily be able to cross over the counter between them in a single stride.
But Cora kept her cool, only allowing another hesitant step back.
This wasn’t like the movies. She had come here unarmed and was severely outnumbered. She wasn’t going to try and punch her way out, but by the look of things, she was going to have to improvise quickly.
Questioning nicely had been plan A. Plan B was quite a bit riskier, but she was still determined to get what she’d come for.
“I’m just asking,” Cora said slowly. “How late were you at the motel last night?”
But now, Brandon had lost his temper. “Shut your mouth,” he snarled, tossing his leg over the counter and stepping towards her in one giant stride. His large hands extended like some zombie, reaching for her neck, though angled slightly downwards due to his sheer girth.
Cora didn’t wait to see what he intended to do once he had hold of her.
She moved, fast. Her hand found a bottle on the table, and she smashed it against the head of a man creeping up behind her. In the same motion, spinning at the hips, she drove the sharp glass into Brendan’s right palm, cutting deep.
But she kept moving, releasing the bottle. The man she’d smashed was stumbling, and Clark screamed in pain, blood pouring down his hand where small, green shards bit into his skin.
But three more men had closed in around her. One tried to punch—she ducked. The other kicked her in the knee, and she was forced to stumble back or risk letting the thing snap.
This setback allowed the third to slap at her with a pool cue.
The long stick scored a blow across the back of her head, sending her stumbling over the round table she’d snatched the bottle from. Her head was spinning, stars dancing across her vision as she collapsed on the ground, emitting a groaning sound.
But she couldn’t stay there. On the slick, oily floor, inhaling scents like lemon pledge and upchuck, she kept moving, rolling on her bad shoulder, gasping in pain, but narrowly avoiding the stomping foot of the behemoth known as Brendan.
She then surged up under a second table, using it as cover from a second swing of the pool cue.
She snatched the cue from the man’s hand, but this cost her time, and two men grabbed her from behind, gripping her arms. One dug his finger into her injured shoulder. She yelled in pain and cracked the cue across his head.
The thing splintered—the cue, not the head.
And she kept moving. Now, with a jagged shard of wood, gasping and bleeding from her forehead where she’d collided with the table, she brandished her makeshift weapon, keeping others at bay. She scowled at anyone who crept close. Brendan was still plucking pieces of glass from his hand, but another man—near the counter—was reaching behind the bar.
And that was when she realized that she’d brought a stick to a gunfight.
She cursed as the man took aim with a Glock. “Get down!” the man screamed to his compatriots.
But Cora was the one who reacted first. She flung the stick off to the side, through the air. A bullet hit the wood, sending it spinning, but she darted in the opposite direction, and then broke into a sprint towards the door, trying to jockey for a position to keep bikers between her and the bar.
She hurtled over a table, and the glass window to her right smashed as bullets tore through.
Pandemonium reigned behind her. The drummer even started playing again in excitement. The gunshots faded as she managed to reach the sidewalk. The three bikers she’d spotted earlier were staring as she raced past them. The woman with the ear gauges had the wherewithal to extend a foot and attempt to trip Cora.
She managed to avoid the foot and sprinted across the street towards her car.
Instincts kicked in, and she flung herself over the hood of her car, and down the other side, ducking for shelter as more bullets skipped off the road or sparked off the light pole behind her. Loud thunks suggested bullets were now slamming into the vehicle itself. Glass shattered as the window broke.
The clamor from the bar continued, chasing out after her. Voices loudly called after her, enraged.
But Cora slipped into the front of the car, stomach twisting, keeping low, hoping they didn’t see her now. The gunshots had ended, but now, lying flat on the car across the road, between the two seats, sliding over them towards the driver’s side, a shadow blocked out the sky.
She glanced up and winced.
A large man with a bleeding hand was staring down at her, his nose flaring, his lips twisted in a sneer. Cora cursed, keys half in the ignition.
The two of them reacted simultaneously. Brendan went for the keys, intent on preventing her from fleeing.
Cora went for Brendan.
She let him grab the keys but had managed to pull her own gun from where she’d left it under the passenger seat. She shot the giant through his hand. The man howled, stumbling back. One hand smashed with glass, the other with a gunshot.
His bartending hours were going to be cut short for a season. She pointed her weapon at Brendan, still keeping low since she’d lost track of the gunman. “Back!” she said, her voice a snarl. “Now!”
Brendan’s eyes bugged, staring at her, but then darted to her weapon. He scowled, but she didn’t lower her weapon. Reluctantly, he stepped back. She used the keys, which had fallen in the front seat, now stained red with Brendan’s blood, and put the car in gear.
She was going to have a hell of a time explaining the damage to her parents. Then again, his job was on their behalf anyway.
Slowly, using her hand to accelerate and her other hand to keep gripping the weapon—along with the back of her head from where she lay prone over two seats—she navigated the vehicle up the road, increasing speed.
It wasn’t until she’d put a good hundred feet between her and the bar that she finally sat upright, glancing in the rearview mirror as she sped up the old, dusty road, away from the intersection.
A large group of men and women in leather, wearing scowls, were cursing after her, middle fingers raised. Many of them were now showing weapons. Knives, a couple bats, some chains. And at least two guns she hadn’t spotted before.
Cora cursed, head low, and hastened away under the sunlight, deciding that Plan A had always been unlikely.
But Plan B? No choice.
Plan B it was. Cora wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The return trip to the Red Tenant came about thirty minutes after the first venture. And this time, Cora came prepared. The red canister sitting on the passenger seat next to her was the key portion of Plan B.
The scent of fuel lingered in her borrowed car. She winced as she moved down the street once more, slowly, not wanting to attract any attention until the time was ripe.
The blood stains on the seat, the bullets in the paneling, and the smashed front window would be second to the fuel odor now leeching into the car. But the damage was already done, and the best way to apologize to her father for the state of his vehicle was to come back with mission success.
And so, she rolled up the road, and then turned off to the right, over a small curb, onto the dusty ground. Instead of parking opposite the club this time, she trundled along the side of the street closest to the large glass windows.
A couple of mean-looking men were now outside the bar, leaning against a couple of the parked motorcycles. As she drove towards them, she slowly picked up pace.
At last, the men looked up, spotting her. One of them cursed and dived to the side as she came barreling forward and slammed into the nearest motorcycle. The low-rider toppled, slamming into the next bike. Flame decals and skull paintings collapsed amidst shiny exhaust pipes, oversized seating, and all manner of vehicular badassery.
But Cora was already surging from inside of the car, gun in hand, pointing at the two men who’d managed to jump out of the way. “Hands up,” she snapped. And this time, they didn’t mistake her for a minnow.
Good thing, too, because Cora’s trigger finger was now itchy. An old adage on the force said: don’t aim unless you intend to shoot.
It was a maxim she lived by.
And now, she was snatching the red container from the front seat. She uncapped the thing, the scent of fuel wafting out, pungent to her nose. But she began pouring it on the toppled bikes, moving rapidly. She could hear voices inside the bar now, shouting, alerting each other. The two men with their hands in the air just glared as she doused their bikes. One of them cursed as she reached a bright, red machine with silver handlebars. But she poured the gas indiscriminately. Once she’d covered the vehicles, nearly twenty of them, she continued sloshing the gas until it was empty.
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