Prodigal Son (24 page)

They had definitely been noticed. It was the middle of the week, so only a handful of customers were there. The volume of rumbling voices decreased as they stepped inside. When Cara squealed and made a run for the back of the bar, eyes followed her. She disappeared into the ladies’ room.

Rafe kept a lookout with his peripheral vision as he made his way to the bar. “I’ll take a beer,” he said to the bartender. The guy looked about his age, but bald as a cue ball. His muscular build strained the confines of his black T-shirt, and tattoos decorated his arms, disappearing beneath the shirt. He had a black mustache and a suspicious look in his eyes.

“What kind?” he asked, distrust heavy in his tone. “And we don’t take credit cards, just so you know.”

“Whatever’s on tap,” Rafe said. “I’ve got cash. Oh, and a glass of water.”

The bartender narrowed his eyes, then gave a jerk of a nod and went to fill the order.

Rafe turned and leaned against the bar, checking out the other customers. He visualized the motorcycle he’d picked out.

Where is the owner of the bike?

The vision swelled in his mind, showing him the owner of the somewhat beaten up Harley and feeding him some info about him, just as the guy leaned over to take his shot at the pool table.

He was shorter than Rafe, with a wiry build. A bandana tied around his head kept his long light brown hair out of his eyes as he braced himself, then took the shot. With a hard clack, the cue ball sent the others winging across the table. Two landed in pockets with solid thunks. The shooter straightened and threw his hand up in victory, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. A red-haired woman laughed and clapped, her generous boobs nearly bursting from her low-cut T-shirt as she bounced. When the shooter removed the cigarette to tap away the ashes, the woman jumped up, wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hard kiss on the mouth.

Behind Rafe, the bartender slapped a mug of beer and a glass of water on the bar. “That’ll be eight dollars.”

Rafe turned to meet the bartender’s gaze. “How much?”

“Eight.”

Lie.

“Pretty steep. Guess I can’t afford a tip.” Ignoring the bartender’s glare, Rafe opened his wallet and counted out the bills. Yeah, the bartender was trying to cheat a couple of outsiders, but making enemies wasn’t going to get Rafe anywhere. So he paid the highway-robbery price and picked up his mug just as Cara rejoined him.

“This for me?” she asked, indicating the water.

Rafe nodded and took a healthy gulp of his icy cold beer, then set it down on the bar. “Stay here,” he told her, and headed over to the pool table. “Hey,” he said to the long-haired shooter. “Eddie, right? Nice shot.”

The long-haired guy turned and gave Rafe a narrow-eyed look. “Thanks.”

“Listen,” Rafe continued, “Dave sent me. Said you were short on cash and might consider selling me your bike.”

The conversations around them ceased. Eddie slowly ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on the edge of the pool table, then looked back at Rafe. “That right?”

Looking into Eddie’s eyes, Rafe knew he’d hit a nerve.
You might as well have offered to buy the guy’s firstborn. But he does need the money.

“Yeah. Dave knew I was looking for a bike.” Rafe lowered his voice. “My girl over there thinks they’re hot.”

Eddie glanced at Cara, then snorted a laugh. “How much we talking?”

“Depends on how she rides.” Rafe smiled, trying to project the right balance of cool and sucker.

Eddie stiffened. “I keep my ride in top condition.”

“I know you do, which is why I want to buy her.”

Eddie’s posture relaxed.

“Maybe you could let me try her out?” Rafe opened his wallet and pulled out the last of the bills he’d won from the slot machine in Vegas. “I’ve got four hundred cash right here. Consider it part of the down payment.”

Eddie glanced at the money, then scowled at Rafe. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Of course not.”

Eddie poked a finger in Rafe’s chest. “I’m not letting you near my bike until I talk to Dave and he vouches for you.”

Rafe held his ground. “So you don’t want my four hundred?”

Desperation flashed across Eddie’s face, so quickly Rafe doubted anyone but him had noticed it. Then Eddie was Mr. Cool again. “I didn’t say that. Said I have to talk to Dave first.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” Rafe said. “There’s another guy over in Flagstaff who has a bike that looks good, too. And it’s red.” He glanced back at Cara, then leaned closer to Eddie and lowered his tone. “She goes for red, but yours is the better of the two.”

Eddie hesitated, then shook his head. “Leave me your number, and I’ll call you after I talk to Dave.”

“Are you sure?” He held up the cash. “Four hundred, just for a test drive. Come on, man. Help me look good in front of my girl.”

Eddie glanced at Cara, then raised his brows at Rafe. “You sure she’s your girl?”

“Rafe!” Cara cried.

Rafe turned. The two guys from Santutegi were near the bar. One of them dragged Cara toward the front door. The other one smirked at Rafe. “Kill him,” he said to the crowd.

Chairs scraped back as men stood. Rafe sprang after Cara, but Eddie grabbed his shirt and yanked him back. He spun around, jerking free of Eddie’s hold, then turned back toward the door. But the way was blocked. All the customers in the bar—six, Rafe counted—surrounded him.

“Cara!” he yelled. He charged, but the guy in his way simply shoved him backward with a hand to the chest. Rafe staggered into another guy, who shoved him again. He caught himself against Eddie, who shoved his face close. In his eyes, Rafe saw the white binding around his thoughts he had seen in Cara. He looked around, seeing the same thing in the eyes of all the men surrounding him.

Somehow the guy from Santutegi had put the whammy on the whole crowd.

“This is for thinking I’m stupid,” Eddie said, and swung his fist.

Pain exploded in Rafe’s jaw. He sucked in a breath, shaking his head until the world settled again.

“Hey!” the bartender yelled.

Rafe exhaled slowly. Good. The bartender was a jerk, but he wouldn’t want the place torn up in a fight.

“Outside,” the bartender continued. “No way are you getting blood on my pool table.”

“Sure thing, Pete,” Eddie called back, then nodded to the others.

They picked Rafe up and hauled him out the back door.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They dragged him outside to the small patch of land behind the bar and shoved him to the ground. Rafe rolled, avoiding someone’s boot as its owner tried to stomp on his head, and got to his feet. He opened his senses half throttle, reaching for the Hunter. He didn’t want to hurt these guys; he knew they weren’t acting of their own accord. But he wanted to stay alive, too.

His focus stone heated against his skin, responding with a quick efficiency that shocked him. Whatever Cara had done had given the thing a heck of a tune-up. Power flooded his limbs, sharpening his eyesight, his hearing—and his speed. The mob moved in, surrounding him.

What do I need to know?

Knowledge flowed into his mind, and he acted, striking each of the weaknesses as they were fed to him.
Guy on the right—a kick to his bad knee
.
Behind him—an elbow in the gut since he gets winded easily
. Eddie came at him, and he charged forward, scooping the smaller man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and dumping him into a pile of empty boxes. A screech behind him warned him, and he whirled in time to catch Eddie’s girlfriend as she leaped for him, nails extended like claws. He caught her, spun, and dumped her on top of Eddie, who was trying to get to his feet. The two tumbled backward into the boxes.

That left three guys. The bartender came outside, a baseball bat in his hand and a glitter of mean in his eyes. So four all together, more if the ones he’d gone after got up the gumption to come at him again.

The Hunter tugged at the bonds of Rafe’s will, hungry to get loose and take care of the problem. But he couldn’t let that happen. These were basically good people; they didn’t deserve the wrath the Hunter brought. The best option would be to find some way to break the whammy that held the mob in thrall. He’d half hoped that the physical pain he’d dished out would do the trick, but so far that hadn’t worked. But he had to do something; he had to get out of here and go after Cara.

The bartender approached him, slapping the baseball bat against his hand, forcing Rafe to back up. Behind him he heard the creak of leather and the rustle of clothing as the three uninjured bikers closed in.

“You shouldn’t have come here, city boy,” the bartender said.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Rafe said. “I just want to leave.”

“Too late,” said one of the men behind him. “You’re ours now.”

Rafe glanced around, saw Eddie on his feet dragging his girlfriend out of the pile of boxes. Beside them stood a Dumpster and next to that … a garden hose.

The hose was coiled on the ground like a snake, one end connected to an outside faucet, probably for cleaning out trash cans or something. If he could get to that, maybe he could turn the water on the crowd, break the trance like he had with Cara in the shower.

He sure as heck wasn’t going to kiss them all.

Someone grabbed him from behind. He jerked away, but only got one arm free. He came around swinging, aiming for the nose of the lanky young guy who still gripped his other arm.

“Hold him still!” Pete yelled, raising the bat. “I’ll crack open his skull like a watermelon!”

The truth spoke to Rafe from the bartender’s eyes.
He’s killed before.

He reached, opening up more to the Hunter but still not quite willing to go full force. He didn’t want any accidents—no innocent blood on his hands. He’d been there, done that.

Never again.

The surge of power gave him the strength to yank away from his captor. He came around swinging and clocked the guy in the mouth. With a cry, the guy staggered backward, blood exploding across his lips. Rafe kept going, kicking one guy on the back of the knee and decking him in the jaw, then socking another in the gut with a hard right.

Pete let out a howl of rage and charged, swinging the bat. Rafe darted out of the way, taking another biker around the gut and slamming them both to the ground. The bat swung harmlessly overhead. Pete stumbled a step, then came back around, raising the weapon like a club.

Rafe rolled to the side, got to his feet. Someone grabbed him by the back of the shirt.

“I’ve got him, Pete!” Eddie shouted.

“Get him on his knees,” Pete snarled.

Another biker came over to help Eddie shove Rafe down on his knees, then pushed his face down into the dirt.

“Just like a real live execution,” Pete crowed, glee underscoring his words. “Watch how his head busts open, Eddie. Bet you never seen anything like that.”

Rafe tensed his muscles, already regretting what he would have to do as he started to reach for the Hunter.

“Hey! What the—” Pete’s words ended on a gurgle.

“All of you,” came a familiar voice, “will return to the bar and forget this ever happened.”

Eddie loosened his grip, and Rafe stopped the Hunter just before full manifestation. He was able to turn his head enough to see Adrian Gray, standing over a fallen Pete, baseball bat in hand. Gray wore a black T-shirt and jeans that screamed designer badass and an attitude that demanded obedience.

“Who the hell are you?” Eddie demanded.

Gray frowned as he looked from one to the other. “The guy who’s going to use this bat on you if you don’t let him go.”

Eddie chuckled, and the others echoed the sound. “Pal, you look like you lost your golf cart or something. Now turn around and leave. This isn’t your business.”

“It is when you’re about to beat the hell out of my friend.”

“Oh, is that it?” Eddie let go of Rafe and stepped over him toward Adrian. “Well, Pete was my friend and you knocked him out cold.” The rest of the bikers fell in behind Eddie, splitting up to surround Adrian.

Whatever Gray’s game, he’d created a much-needed distraction. Rafe got to his feet and sped for the garden hose.

“Hey!” screeched Eddie’s girlfriend. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Rafe grabbed the hose with one hand and turned on the faucet full force with the other. He spun to face the mob just as the fighting began.

Adrian Gray moved like a blur—or some kind of martial arts master—and easily took out two of the bikers. Rafe had only a minute to admire the guy’s technique; then Eddie’s girlfriend leaped on him out of nowhere, locking her legs around his waist and lifting her hands toward his eyes with a snarl. He raised the hose and got her straight in the face with the spewing water, still hot from the day’s heat.

She screeched and jumped down, landing on her feet and choking. He kept the spray steady until it ran cold and her crazed expression faded. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. Her blue eyes shone with anger and confusion, but the binding around her thoughts was gone.

Rafe shoved past her and turned the hose on the other bikers. Gray was doing a fine job defending himself, but as Rafe drenched them, each one in turn stopped fighting, then backed off, looking confused.

“What the hell?” Eddie scowled at Rafe. “What’s with the hose? You’re nuts, man. No way am I selling my bike to you.” He held out a hand to his girlfriend. “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of here.”

She ran to him and grabbed his hand, then hurried after him as he strode back into the bar. The other bikers looked at one another, similar expressions of confusion on their faces. One by one, they wandered back inside. Rafe leaned down and turned off the water.

Adrian came over, studied his eyes, and smiled a little. “Hunter,” he said. “That explains a lot.”

Shocked, Rafe struggled to keep his cool. How did Gray know about the Hunter? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Gray shrugged. “Okay, you don’t trust me. I get that. We can iron that out later. Right now, let’s go get Cara.” He turned back toward the bar.