Page 2 of Catcher

And he slaps her back.

Hard.

Her head whips to the side, hair spilling across her face. She staggers, hand flying to her cheek.

The sound of it—the flat, sharp smack—lights a fuse in my chest. My vision narrows, and my pulse slams through my ears.

I grab the bastard by the back of the neck and drive his face into the table. The wood cracks under the impact, along with beer bottles shattering. Blood sprays, hot and fast, across the table’s surface. He goes limp for a second before groaning.

His men lunge. One swings a chair at my back, splintering it across my shoulders. Pain radiates, but I catch the next swing, wrenching the broken leg out of his hand, and drive my fist into his jaw, feeling bone crack against my knuckles.

The bar erupts. My brothers are in the thick of the chaos before I can blink as patrons scatter, shouting, with their drinks spilling as they shove for the door. Wick tosses one of the bikers over a table.

My senses sharpen.

I’ve got one target.

The bastard with blood dripping from his nose and teeth loose in his mouth, after I slammed his face into the table for putting his hands on a woman. I grab his jacket, haul him up, and start swinging. His face caves under each hit. My knuckles are covered in blood—his, mine, it doesn’t matter. I keep feeding the darkness inside, saying, “Keep going.” The bastard wheezes, gurgling through blood, but I don’t stop. The rage is too deep and sharp. Every punch to his face becomes another man’s face. It’s one I’ll never forget, looming over my wife. Every hit is a scream I can’t let out.

Things crash behind me. Fists are flying, and glass is breaking. I hear Riggs’ voice, a curse, and someone groaning in pain, but all I see is him. All I’m focused on is the bastard in front of me. I slam him against the wall, fist driving into his gut. He folds, coughing blood, but I pin him there with my forearm, fist cocked back again.

“Catcher!” Riggs’ voice cuts through, sharp.

The bastard’s hand fumbles at his waistband. He pulls something small, flashes of steel, but I’m faster. I grab his wrist, twist until the bone pops, and the knife clatters to the floor. Rage blinds me before I slam his head into the wall. Then I do it again. Then, cold metal is pressed to my temple. I freeze, my breath harsh in my chest.

One of his men, eyes wild, has a gun jammed against my skull. “Back the fuck off,” he snarls.

The bar goes silent.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of guns cocking, and the air goes thick. The barrel digs harder into my skin. My heartbeat doesn’t spike. It slows. Because this? This is nothing. I’ve stared down death before. I wake to it every night. My wife’s eyes are wide with fear, her blood soaking the floor. My unborn daughter is gone before she ever had a chance to breathe.

I welcome death like an old friend.

I let loose of the bastard I used as a punching bag, and he crumbles to his knees. Then I slowly turn and lock eyes with the motherfucker holding the gun to my head, fists still dripping with blood, and my body coiled tight.

And I silently dare him.

Do it.

Pull the fucking trigger.

End it.

He sees it in my eyes. That lack of fear. That black void where most men keep their survival. And it makes him twitch.

The distant sound of sirens wails outside.

The leader staggers to his feet, shouting with jagged breaths, “Let’s go! Now!”

The one with the gun hesitates, then lowers it. I stand tall, chest heaving, fists still clenched. “This ain’t over,” he spits out a warning that doesn’t resonate with me. I stand unmoving, unfazed by his words as his buddies drag him toward the door while assisting their leader.

The sirens grow louder as they shove out into the street. Then, they’re gone.

Only then do I look around. The bar is wrecked, with tables overturned, glass shards scattered across the floor, and blood smeared on the wall. I stand in the middle of it all, chest heaving, fists raw and throbbing. My cut is sticking to my back with sweat, and my jaw is clenched so tight it aches.

Riggs steps up beside me, his eyes steady, voice calm comparable to a contained storm. “You good?”

I don’t answer. My fists are still locked, body buzzing with rage that doesn’t know where to go. He studies me for a long second before red and blue lights filter through the open door, flashing against the wall. “Help Everest clean this shit up. I’ll deal with the sheriff.” Then he’s gone, stepping out into the flashing lights.