Messiahs, Matt Rogers [best 7 inch ereader TXT] 📗

‘Whoever instigates.’

‘They’ll throw the first punch. Just watch.’

‘I’d tell you to get the hell out of here, but you’re not going to do that, are you?’

King shook his head.

The bartender was tired, worn down from a long night. He didn’t have the energy to get involved in this. He said, ‘Go on, then. They’ll sort you out.’

As King walked away he heard the guy mutter, ‘Fucking idiot,’ under his breath.

He ignored it.

Went straight to the door up the back, copping stares of vitriol from the regular patrons the whole way, and thrust it open with a flat palm. It had no handle or lock, just swung in on its hinges. He walked through.

The pool game came to an abrupt halt.

They were either bikers or low-level criminals. King wouldn’t be surprised either way. They looked like they took their hogs out on weekends, and they also looked like they distributed a bit of meth to the most vulnerable sector of Gillette’s small population. Either way, they’d be fine in a few weeks. Even if they were good, upstanding citizens — which King highly doubted — sometimes ordinary people get in the way of the pursuit of evil.

King had to set a scene, otherwise their plan of approaching Mother Libertas would fizzle out.

The biggest guy squared up. And he was big, at least six-five and somewhere in the range of three hundred pounds. Most of it was fat, but there were great slabs of muscle under there, too. He had meaty hands that looked like they could tear a phonebook in half. His buddies — four of them — milled around him, sensing confrontation, relishing in it. They all had beards that reached their chests, and their eyes were cloudy with drink. King felt the warm burn of the Jim Beam in his own stomach, but ignored it. He’d needed to drink to appear unhinged — otherwise it’d look like a targeted attack instead of a random approach. It was paramount that he didn’t raise suspicion when Maeve got wind of this.

The enormous man said, ‘Where’s your fucking invitation?’

King let the door swing shut behind him. ‘What?’

‘Off-limits here,’ one of the smaller guys said. He looked just as mean as his buddies, but his words were softer. Like, Come on, man. Save your own skin. Leave it. ‘Get out if you know what’s good for you.’

King had to become something he despised, but he did it, because sometimes you have to act in the interest of the greater good. He pointed a finger at the smaller man and said, ‘I can smell your fear, you hick fuck.’

That was all it took.

He’d taken a small spark and dumped gasoline on it.

All three hundred pounds of the big guy bull-rushed him.

21

No matter how seasoned a fighter you are, three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.

If the big man collided with King shoulder-to-chin, it’d spark him unconscious in an instant. Those are the unavoidable laws of physics. So King went into full survival mode and reacted with all the fear he could muster. He needed it, because his life was very literally on the line. If he caught an unlucky shot and went out, all five of them would wail on him with punches and kicks before the collective anger subsided. The human brain is intensely vulnerable. One well-placed kick to the head when he was already out could cause irreversible damage.

The big guy closed the distance fast, like he’d played football at a near-professional level. King faked a massive overhand right with similar speed and physicality, which made the guy flinch as he came into range. He didn’t slow down, but his centre of balance shifted, rocking his chin back to prevent getting clocked clean in the head as he charged in.

King pulled the right hand short and pivoted on his left leg and threw the right leg low, using everything in the gas tank. If he missed he’d sprawl off-balance and five testosterone-fuelled bikies would pounce on him, which lent him extra win-or-die strength. When his shinbone slammed into the outside of the guy’s knee in mid-stride, it made the sound of metal striking flesh, and the guy’s giant tree trunk of a leg pitched sideways. It had the successful effect of knocking both legs out from underneath him and instead of slamming into King, all his bulk slammed chest-first into the wood-panelled floor.

King recognised that it’d take a few seconds for the big guy to get back to his feet, considering the weight he was working with, so he forgot about him and lunged at the closest man still standing. It was the smaller guy, who’d pleaded for King to leave, so King just popped him with a teep kick to the left side of his ribcage, shutting his liver down and crumpling him. He’d be useless for the next ten minutes, but fine after that.

The other three…

One of them charged, throwing caution to the wind, and King reached out and grabbed his head in a vice-like grip between two palms. He brought it down on the edge of the pool table, the thud resonating off the thick polished wood, and threw him down. He was already limp.

The remaining two charged at the same time.

Smart.

It actually worked.

King threw a wild right hook to deter the guy on the right but he missed, swinging through air inches in front of the man’s nose.

No one’s perfect.

The guy ducked under it and blasted into a double-leg takedown. It was competent, and the guy was heavy and tall, and it worked. King wondered if his adversary had an NCAA background as he scrambled for balance. But he killed that train of thought quickly, because wondering about anything in the heat of battle is useless, and instead bucked at the hips as he went down. The guy was expecting an easy takedown, and the rapid switch in momentum threw him off, both physically and mentally. He literally tumbled off King, and