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The heel of his boot crashed down violently against Panda’s skull.
After checking over his shoulder and making eye contact with me, he stomped each of their heads one more time. “Fucking idiots!” he shouted.
He picked up Whip’s knife, and then took Panda’s pistol.
I had no idea what type of military training Nicholas Navarro received, but whatever it was allowed him to singlehandedly pulverize two bikers in a matter of seconds. And, in doing so, he looked like a stunt man in a choreographed scene from an action-adventure movie.
I was scared, excited, and turned on at the same time.
Using Whip’s knife, he carefully cut the patch from the back of each man’s vest. After folding the patches up, he walked to the bar, then quickly returned.
He bent down and grabbed Whips ankles. “If that dumb fuck tries to get up, shoot him,” he said over his shoulder.
“Will do, Nick,” the bartender responded.
He dragged Whip through the door and into the parking lot.
In a few seconds, he returned and then dragged Panda outside.
He walked back in, and looked toward the bar. “Sorry about the burgers, Pete.”
“No problem, Nick.”
He turned toward me. “Come on,” he said dryly. “We need to get.”
I grabbed my purse. “Okay.”
My heart was racing and my mind was trying to make sense of everything that had happened. I wanted to ask so many questions, but realized the time had come for me to become more of a silent witness and less of an enthusiastic reporter.
Once we stepped into the parking lot, Navarro rushed to the semi-conscious men and planted the heel of his boot against their respective heads one more time.
Through his teeth he said his goodbyes. “Cocksuckers.”
Silently, he started the motorcycle, put on his helmet, and turned to check on me.
“Hold on tight,” he warned.
I nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ve got to go see someone, and I don’t have time to take you back.”
“Okay.”
“We’re still off the record,” he said. “Understand?”
“Fully,” I responded.
Since I was a little girl, I’d always liked to collect facts and tell stories. A journalist was all I ever expected I would be. As sat in the parking lot with two half-dead bikers on the asphalt beside us, I was no longer a journalist working as a reporter for the newspaper.
I was an accomplice to aggravated battery.
I gripped Navarro’s waist in my hands and waited. He revved the motor and released the clutch. The motorcycle sped out of the parking lot and into the street.
For that moment – and the moments that followed during that hot spring afternoon – I learned many things about Navarro.
And about myself.
