“Go get him,” she murmured to Callen.
But to Callen’s mind—remarkably cool at the moment—words delivered as sharp an insult as fists.
“Guns, broken bottles. Suits you, Clintok. Just like hiding out in the rocks and trees and shooting down at a horse. Just like putting a bullet in some helpless pup’s head suits you.”
“He shot a puppy?” This from one of the bikers as they filed out to watch the fight. “Son of a bitch!”
“That all suits you,” Callen continued. “Like ambushes suit you, like having your friends hold a man down so you can beat on him. That one didn’t work out so well for you as I recall. Time to see how you do one-to-one, in a straight-up fight.”
“Should’ve put the bullet in you.”
Callen smiled. “Which time? Back when we were kids and you killed that little dog, or now when you shot my horse?”
“Both.” With that, Clintok charged.
Callen dodged the jab that flew as wild as any temper tantrum, followed it with a solid right cross, snapping Clintok’s head back, bloodying his nose.
He’d told himself he’d be satisfied with this, with one bare-fisted punch that drew blood. But by God it lit a fire in him, one that had simmered for years.
Before he actively thought it through, his left hook landed on Clintok’s jaw.
Maybe the two rapid blows cleared Clintok’s head, or maybe he had instincts of his own. Either way Callen took a couple of punishing strikes to the ribs before he blackened his opponent’s eye.
Behind them, Jessica closed her hand over Bodine’s. “We should stop them.”
“Oh, hell no.”
Bodine winced when Callen took one to the face, jabbed her own free hand out when he delivered a pair of breath-stealing gut shots, followed it with a wicked uppercut.
Boots scraped over gravel as they lunged, as they circled. The metallic scent of blood wound around the smell of beer, of sweat, and surprisingly of the jerky Sandy gnawed on.
Animal grunts, the snap and crunch of knuckles meeting flesh, meeting bone. Beside her Jessica shifted, gave up, and put her hand over her eyes.
“Tell me when it’s over.”
“Nearly is.”
Working all her life with cowboys, growing up with two brothers—not to mention Callen himself—Bodine figured she’d seen her share of fistfights and dustups. And she could judge them.
Clintok had the advantage of sheer power, but Callen had the weight on strategy. Then there was hot rage against cold fire.
Each time Callen landed a blow, Clintok’s response grew sloppier. He’s telegraphing, she thought. Come on, Skinner, can’t you see … ouch.
Then she watched Callen return the glancing punch off his cheekbone with a jab fast and slick as a snake, a gut-punishing follow-up, and that vicious uppercut.
The last knocked Clintok off his feet, and Callen was on top of him. He didn’t pummel his downed opponent, though she wouldn’t have lost an ounce of respect for him if he had. The onlookers not only expected it but vocally encouraged it.
Instead, Callen pinned his man down, spoke clearly.
“It’s done. You come back at me again, come back at any who matter to me, I won’t just put you on the ground. I’ll put you in it. Believe it.” He shoved up. “Now get gone.”
He walked away—leaning heavy on pride to keep from limping—taking from Bodine the hat that had flown off his head during the battle. Set it comfortably on his head.
“I guess I ought to buy everybody a drink.”
“You’re bleeding,” Jessica said.
After a swipe of bruised knuckles over his bruised face, Callen shrugged. “Not much.”
“Is it men?” Jessica wondered. “Is it men altogether, or is it men in hats?”
“We’ll talk about it over a beer.” Amused, Bodine started to give her friend a tug toward the door, then shouted a warning.
Clintok stumbled back into the light, a gun in his hand.
Callen shoved her clear, stepped quickly away from the group as Clintok raised the gun.
Her world stopped in an instant, slowed to an endless spin in that same snap of time. She heard shouting, like voices in a tunnel, felt someone drag her back as she tried to surge forward.
Then nothing.
She saw, horribly, she saw Clintok’s finger pull the trigger. One, twice, a third time.
And nothing.
The baffled look on his face might have been funny if the ground hadn’t undulated under her feet. As it did, Callen strode over it. The roundhouse was pure fury, sent Clintok flying back before he landed. And stayed down.
“You could’ve hit my woman, you miserable son of a bitch.”
He picked up the gun, checked it. “Empty.”
“Rory figured he had one in his truck.” Pale but game, Chelsea gripped Rory’s arm. “So he checked.”
“A good salesman reads people.” Moving easy, Rory walked to Callen, took the gun. “So I unloaded it.”
“I owe you.”
“Not a thing, but I’ll take that drink.”
Callen glanced back at Clintok, not just down, he noted, but out. “We’ve got to do something about that.”
“I’ve done it.” Holding up her phone, Jessica stepped back outside. “The sheriff’s on his way.”
“Oh, now, Jessie, why’d you go and do that?”
She only gaped at Callen. “Why? He tried to kill you.”
“She’s right.” Chase reached out, drew her to his side. “I know how you feel, but she’s right.”
“She’s damn right.” It took all Bodine’s willpower not to simply explode. “If Rory didn’t have more sense than I’ve ever given him credit for, you’d be dead or close enough. He’s not just an asshole, he’s a crazy asshole. He’s not just a coward, he’s a murdering—”
Because he heard touches of hysteria, Callen moved to her, took her arms. “Okay. Okay. You probably want to take a breath or two.”
“Don’t tell me to take a breath.”
“Or two.” He kissed her, said, “Shit,” when the contact stung, then leaned in to whisper. “Don’t cry. You’ll hate yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“Drinks all around,” Callen told the bartender while he kept his eyes on Bodine’s. “I’m good for it.”
“You’d better be.” With a last look at Clintok, the bartender slapped his bat against his palm again. “He got what was coming to him.”
*
Maybe so, but clearly Tate didn’t look pleased when he pulled up some twenty minutes later.
He looked at Clintok, sitting on the ground, his hands secured behind his back with a zip tie, his face bloody. Looked over at Callen, leaning against the wall of the bar, sipping a beer along with Bodine, her brothers, and the other women.
He crouched down beside Clintok. “I told you to steer clear.”
“I was having a drink, and he busted in with his goddamn posse and started it.”
“And you decided to finish it by pulling a gun?”
“Wouldn’t have had to if you’d done your job and locked that murdering bastard up.”
“I’ve done my job right along, just like I’m going to do it now. You busted your bail carrying a gun in the first damn place. Curtis, lock him up in the back, and we’ll take some statements, see what the hell’s what here.”