Page 54 of Huge Dynamite
“Tell him I’m here.”
Cracking his knuckles, he steps forward. “I said—”
“I heard what you said. Now you need to hear me. I want to see Luther.” Taking a deep breath, I try to picture how many more of these punks I’ll have to fight off. How many will come out to keep me from Luther? How many of us would head off a Dog outside of Hoppa’s Taphouse before we’d let anyone close to Nick? All of us. Shit. But then again, these guys are a different breed.
“I don’t think you understand,” Two-Ton repeats. “Luther ain’t coming out, and you sure as hell ain’t going in.”
“I was afraid you might say that.”
Chuckling, he looks away and then back to me. “Yeah? Why the hell is that?”
“Because now I have to do this.”
Before Two-Ton can think, I land a low roundhouse kick to his knee. He buckles, but he doesn’t collapse like a regular-sized guy would. Crap. He’s stunned enough for me to keep going, so, lifting my foot, I kick him directly against the front of his knee. Because of his enormous size, his knee buckles backward. Fuck.
“Aw, shit!” Collapsing like two tons of bricks on the sidewalk, he moans in agony.
Rushing up to him, I pat down his legs and ankles—which are nearly as thick as my arms—finding two guns. Two, but he probably still has one at his waist. Crap. Straddling his enormous girth with my feet, it takes nearly all my strength to roll him onto his side and—nothing. No weapon.
“Fuck!” Sweat drips down from my brow, stinging my eyes. Repeating my movement on the opposite side, I discover the gun hidden under his massive gut. Pulling it out, it’s wet from Two-Ton’s sweat.
The Dogs inside must have seen what’s happening by now, so darting around Two-Ton before he can grab my ankle, I burst through the clubhouse door with three guns stuffed into my jeans.
Blinking to see clearly in the dim light of the clubhouse, I catch a topless woman sitting on a stool at their makeshift piece-of-shit bar next to an oversized man with a long gray beard. His hand is on her ass, resting on the stool. She looks over her shoulder at me and then turns back to her drink. The man she’s with glares at me and, with a good deal of effort, brings himself to a standing position. Placing his hands on his hips, he opens his jacket to show me a gun stuffed into his waistband. Behind the bar, a tall, pimply-skinned guy with a long nose stops wiping a glass and watches. Scanning the rest of the empty bar, my gaze falls on Luther, who is sitting at a small card table off to the side of their bar. On the opposite side of the table sits a man in a turtleneck sweater—his mouth is covered in duct tape and his hands are tied flat to the table with his fingers splayed. He’s whimpering, and I can see the sweat pouring down his cheeks.
Shit.
“Hello, Dynamite.” Luther smiles. The bar is freaking hot, but Luther looks cool, calm, and collected—even in his colors. “I thought we might be seeing you. I just didn’t expect you tonight. If I had, well…” Holding up his hands, he motions to his empty bar. “I wouldn’t have sent my boys off for some fun.”
My heart feels like it jumps into my throat, and I swallow it down, hard. “Where are they?”
“Oh, don’t be alarmed. They’re not in Hoppa.” Smiling, he leans closer. “Or in Greenville if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about anything.” I take a mental note of the feeling of my phone in my pocket. If the damned Dogs show up at Holly’s, Julius will let me know. “But you should be.”
The man at the bar moves toward me, but Luther holds up his hand, motioning for him to stand down.
Luther cocks his head. “Is that a threat? Is there a Knight on Dog territory making a threat? Because if so, you know, Dynamite, that means war.”
“You lost the last battle, Luther. Why the hell would you want to go to war with us?”
As we talk, the man in the chair opposite Luther tries pulling one of his hands from the table, but it’s tied tight. Reaching out, Luther slaps the man’s hand still.
“I’ll deal with you later,” Luther growls. Turning back to me, he says, “We only lost because of that damned machine you had fighting with you—CJ. Everyone knows that. Now that he’s gone, well…” Reaching out, he grabs a beer off the floor next to his table and takes a long drag.
“Forget CJ,” I snap. “We could beat you anytime and anywhere. What the fuck, Luther?” Sweating and pissed off, I’m getting tired of this little game. Moving my hands to my waist, I wrap them around two of my pieces like it’s a showdown in the Old West. So much for appearing unarmed. “Why are your men in Greenville? I want an answer now.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. So demanding,” Luther purrs. He is such a slimy little prick. “Greenville is the territory of the Unchained Dogs. You know that.”
“It’s time to give it up.”
“What do we get in return?”
Swallowing hard, I choke it out. “Land. Where we’re building the clubhouse.”
Raising his eyebrows, Luther sits back. “Isn’t the fundamental rule of any club brotherhood before all else?”
“It is.”
