“But that doesn’t matter right now, does it? She’s not here.”
“No, but—” Jim felt Linda’s hand wrap around his. Their fingers intertwined. He gazed into her eyes, felt his skin begin to tingle, and suddenly realized what he was doing. I wish I’d never come into this place, he thought. “Look,” Jim said, backing toward the door. “I really need to go, Linda, I’m late for a—”
“Hush,” she said. “Dance with me.”
Linda wrapped her arms around Jim’s neck and pulled him toward the dance floor. He felt himself begin to slip, her female allure overtaking him like a magic potion, the soft melody of a country love song softening his will. He gave a last half-hearted effort to back off, then hesitated and shrugged.
“I guess one dance can’t do any harm.”
Linda giggled and started to dance, pulling him closer, moving in time with the music. Jim felt her lips touch his ear. Then his cheek. She kissed him lightly and pushed away. Gazed into his eyes. Jim couldn’t stand it any longer. He wrapped his arm around the small of her back and pulled. Their hips and abdomens touched…then their lips.
Jim felt his heart pounding inside his chest. He felt lightheaded, jittery, like a teenaged boy at his first high school dance. She tasted like a piece of forbidden candy, sweet and irresistible, but at the same time bitter, with an aftertaste that shot straight to his brain like a warning explosion. God, Jim thought, his mind racing, his willpower at the point of collapse. What am I doing? I can’t do this!
He took a step backwards.
“Linda, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really shouldn’t do this.”
“Do what, silly? We’re only dancing. Don’t make such a big deal about—” Jim saw her eyes shift, then widen. She pulled back slightly. Squeezed his arm. “Uh…Jim?”
Jim turned and glanced over his shoulder. A fat man stood directly behind him dressed in jeans a black tee shirt and a sleeveless denim jacket bearing the insignia of a biker gang. He looked like an over-aged brawler with wiry gray hair pulled back into a ponytail and a fat cigar clinched tightly between his teeth. Jim felt his nose turn up. The pungent aromas of sweat and stale cigarettes made him want to puke. He ignored the man and turned back around.
“Hey—”
Jim felt a hard tap on the shoulder.
“I wanna word with you, jarhead!”
“Buzz off,” Jim countered. “I’m dancing with this lady.”
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. A sharp thumbnail dug into the freshly stitched wound on his back.
Jim didn’t have to think. Countless hours of practiced moves and muscle memory took control of his body…his mind. He switched into automatic defensive mode and dropped, spinning around, knocking away his assailant’s arm and crouching into an instinctive fighting position, both fists drawn up tightly against his face.
“Look! Unless you want something broke, mister, keep your hands off!”
“Whoa…” The big man backed away, chuckling, a stunned expression on his pitted, bearded face. “Got me a live one here, boys.”
Jim stared into the man’s bloodshot brown eyes, waiting, daring him to make a move. The biker shoved a finger in his face. Jim slapped it away.
“Listen to me,” Jim said. “I DO NOT WANT any trouble.”
The biker chuckled. His face turned red. “Well you got trouble, boy.”
Jim tensed up. He felt Linda tug against his arm as more men moved in behind the hulking biker. “Jim,” she said, begging him. “Please, let’s just go!”
Jim gazed at the man considering his options, not wanting to run, but certainly not wanting to fight. Not all of them at once anyway. He heard Rico’s warning again. He shook his head and cast the man a disgusted look.
“You’re not worth it.”
Jim’s internal radar picked up the movement before it registered in the corner of his eye. He ducked instinctively. A poorly thrown fist shot harmlessly over his head. Jim started toward the exit. He felt himself shoved from behind. The biker swung again. Jim ducked beneath the fist, but this time he countered. He threw a gut wrenching punch to the fat man’s mid-section. The biker doubled over and fell to the floor, panting and gasping as the barroom crowd spread out into a large ravenous circle.
The music stopped. A hush fell over the crowd.
Jim had no intention of continuing the fight. It was over, and, as far as he was concerned, a good time to leave. He grabbed Linda’s hand and ran for the door, but he quickly realized his exit had been blocked. Three bikers stood in his way. One held a broken beer bottle in his hand. Another a cue stick. The third, a three hundred pound brawler with ham-sized fists, thick forearms and a short stumpy neck, pulled a knife from behind his back, a large Marine-style Randall fighting knife with a double-edged blade long enough to gore Jim’s intestines in one swoop.
“You shouldn’t’ve come in here, soldier boy.”
Linda screamed. Jim stepped in front of her and braced himself. “Now look! Mister! We do not need to do this! I just came in here for a beer. I didn’t ask for trouble and I don’t want any. Let me walk on out of here and I promise I’ll never come back!”
“Nah—” The knife wielding biker’s face spread into a wide grin featuring a mouthful of crooked brown teeth separated by uneven, tobacco filled spaces. “I don’t think so, jarhead. Let’s see what you got!”
Jim had no time to argue with the big man. The brute lowered his knife and lunged. Jim stepped aside and deflected the blade with his arm. It was a simple maneuver, one he’d practiced countless times in the karate dojo of his youth, but the result was for from perfect. The tip of the killing weapon tore through his shirt and neatly sliced the skin of his abdomen. But Jim didn’t stop to lick his wound. He shoved the man into the surrounding crowd. The attacker stumbled past him and fell to the floor. Jim turned and dashed for the door but the crowd wouldn’t allow it. He turned to look for another way out but the circle tightened. A few bystanders helped the biker get up and pushed him back into the fight.
“Do it!” someone shouted. “Stick him again!”
Jim couldn’t believe his ears—screams of joy and delight. It was suddenly as if everyone in the bar had become a willing participant to the fight, chanting and prodding and cheering on Jim’s attacker. Jim felt his midsection. The stinging sensation told him he’d been stabbed. He glanced at his belly and saw a dark stain forming beneath the torn section of his shirt. He was bleeding—not too bad, he surmised, but bad enough. And it was clear that the crowd wanted more, more blood, and they expected him to provide it. But he had another idea. He was tired of playing the victim. He didn’t wait for the man to get set. He tightened his abdomen and rushed him. He pummeled the man’s face with a rapid flurry of desperate punches, and then followed with a strong uppercut that practically lifted the man off the ground. The knife flew from the fat man’s grip, and like a bag of dry cement he fell like dead weight to the ground.
BOOM!
A powerful shock wave hit Jim in the chest. A gasp went up from the crowd. A spray of dry plaster and glass particles showered down on Jim’s head. He fell back, disoriented, ears ringing, swept his arms in front of him to ward of an unseen attack, but nothing came. He shook his head to clear his senses. Men lay all about him. The crowd had backed away. He heard angry cursing and saw Fat Jack run from behind the bar rocking the slide of a 12-gauge pump. A spent red shell flew out of the chamber and hit the floor. The bartender stopped five feet away. Jim stared up into the barrel of the smoking gun.
“I tried to warn you, jarhead. The next shot won’t be at the ceiling!”
Jim slowly lifted his hands over his head. Fat Jack’s eyes shifted. Jim didn’t figure out the source of the swooshing sound by his left ear until it was too late. He jerked around just in time to see an ash colored blur flying straight at his face. All he had time to do was lower his head and close his eyes before the cue stick smashed across his temple.
A blanket of white stars exploded. Jim’s head became light. Then,
as if sleep were a flood, it washed over him, lifted his bones into the air, and carried him off into the darkness.
Chapter 14
“Paperwork.”
Rico Rivetti glanced at the huge stack of reports on his desk and groaned.
“I hate paperwork.”
He pulled out his chair, sat down and picked up the first report wishing for some kind of a distraction, anything to get him away from the drudgery of the office. The report said something about an old man named Jesse James charged with breaking and entering.
“Jesse James? This is gang related?” Rico rolled his eyes. He heard the familiar beep-beep of an incoming page and set down the incident report. “Thank goodness.” He keyed his mike. “Two twenty-two. Go ahead.”
The electronic voice of his partner came back, his British accent crystal clear. “Sir, I believe I may have found something for you. I’m standing in front of a place called Fat Jack’s Saloon, down by the sound.”
“Fat Jack’s? Yeah I know it. Biker bar down by the water on Shell. Go ahead.”
“Right. Dumpy establishment, this place. And quite a mess tonight. They say it was a decent fight, and it appears that your lad was involved.”
Rico shoved his chair back and stood up. “Jim?”
“Ten-four, that’s why I contacted you, sir. No one seems to know of his whereabouts.”
“Okay, okay, ten-four. Stay there, Lance.” Rico grabbed his ballistic vest and started for his car. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Ten-four, sir. Two fifty-three out.”
Rico pulled to end of Shell Street and parked behind an EMS unit with the words “Medic-3” painted across the rear doors. A large crowd stood in front of Fat Jack’s Saloon bathed in the soft blue and coral light that radiated from the neon sign hanging over the front door of the establishment. A long line of Harley-Davidson motorcycles sat parked beneath the sign. That didn’t surprise Rico. Fat Jack’s was a known biker bar, and it was known for trouble. He snatched his Remington 870 12-gauge pump from its holding bracket and got out of the Crown Victoria just as a fire truck pulled in from the other direction. Three firefighters climbed down from their rig and pushed through the crowd. Rico followed them.
“Everybody move back,” a firefighter yelled.
The crowd parted and Rico caught a glimpse of one of the victims. Paramedic Sharon Duncan knelt over the body of a heavily built man. He wore a denim jacket bearing the markings of a local biker gang. His tee shirt had been cut away to reveal a fat torso spattered with tattoos, and blood. Rico stood for a moment and watched. He grimaced as Sharon inserted a clear plastic tube into the corner of the victim’s mouth. With the push of a button, a chunky soup of bloody foam and broken teeth passed up the tube and disappeared into the portable unit. Rico could feel his stomach turn. He decided he’d seen enough. He walked around the ambulance just in time to meet his partner on his way out of the bar. Lance looked flustered.
“What’s up?” Rico said. “Have you found Jim?”
“No luck. He’s nowhere to be seen.”
“What you got in there?”
“It’s pretty much the same as out here, sir. Three of those big biker fellows beat to a bloody pulp. Witnesses say some ‘jarhead’ did it.”
“Jarhead? Think it was Jim?” Lance shrugged. Rico nodded toward the building. “You seen the manager yet?”
“He’s not talking.”
“No?” Rico handed Lance the shotgun and started inside. “We’ll see about that. Keep an eye on this mess.”
Rico stepped inside the bar. A thick smoky cloud assaulted his nose with the mingling odors of gunpowder, cigarette smoke, and pot. He got the feeling that if it weren’t for the smoke he’d also detect the coppery odor of fresh blood. It was everywhere. Small crimson pools lay spattered about the tables, walls, and floor as if spewed from a ruptured hose. Chunks of glass lay scattered about from a shattered ceiling fixture that looked to have been peppered with buckshot. Rico saw a small crowd standing in one corner between the pool tables. He walked over and found Sharon’s partner, Frank Lacy, working on another victim, a cursing middle-aged biker with no neck and a broken nose.
“Be still, sir,” Frank demanded, trying to calm his patient. “You have a neck injury.”
Rico watched with genuine interest as Frank orchestrated patient care. Another medic arrived and helped him apply a cervical collar. Then as a team the rescue workers log rolled the man onto a yellow spine-board, strapped him down, and then lifted him onto the stretcher. Frank led them across the barroom floor and through the front door of the building.
Rico shifted his gaze to the fat, tattooed man mopping the floor next to the bar. He figured him the bartender and walked over. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you the manager of this joint?”
“Manager, owner, and bartender,” the fat man responded without turning. “Who’re you?”
“Rico Rivetti, East Beach PD, what’s your name, sir?”
“Cop, huh?” The man turned and glanced at Rico’s badge. “It’s about time you guys showed up.”
“Answer the question please.”
The fat man chuckled. “You cops are all the same.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Your name?”
“Sullivan.”
“Sullivan who?”
“Jack Sullivan.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what happened here tonight, Mr. Sullivan?”
Sullivan shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Couldn’t or won’t?”
“Look, officer, I didn’t see a thing, all right?”
“No? Three men are seriously injured in your bar? The floor’s covered with blood? There was enough commotion for you to—” Rico reached behind the bar, pulled out the shotgun he saw leaning against the cooler, and sniffed the chamber. The barrel was warm. It smelled of fresh cordite. “Fire this thing into the ceiling. You’re telling me you didn’t see a thing?”
Sullivan’s nostrils flared. He swung the mop to a bloody section of tile and resumed his mopping.
“Okay—” Rico reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Tell you what, Mister Jack Sullivan, you can go on biting your tongue, because you have the right to remain silent. In fact, everything you say can and will be—”
“All right, all right. Hold it! Look, I’ll tell you what I know, just don’t get crazy.”
Rico pocketed the cuffs and folded his arms. “Go ahead.”
“He was one of those Marine Corp types, you know? Short hair. Muscles. Brawn. Dude came in here running his mouth and pushing people around. I tried to warn him but he wouldn’t listen. So I guess he got what he had coming.”
“Got a name?”
“Nope. Never saw him before.”
“Any unusual markings? Tattoos? Jewelry?”
“Had him a long row of stitches from the corner of his mouth to his ear lobe.”
Bingo.
“Fella’s seen some trouble.”
No kidding.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, he’ll have a new row of stitches tomorrow morning across his belly. Biker opened him up with a blade.”
“He was stabbed?”
“Almost gutted. But—” Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t stop this maniac. Kept fighting like a bulldog. Must’ve broke the guy’s jaw with the last punch, too. Ne’er seen anything like it. Seen a lot of fights. This guy was good.”
“Anything else, Mister Sullivan?”
“Yeah.” Sullivan suddenly turned serious. “He had a good looking honey hanging all over him.”
“Honey? Did you know her?”
“Ne’er seen her before neither.”
“What’d she look like?”
“Black hair. Gorgeous. Clothes painted on. You know, real looker.”
Rico considered the description. The girl he pictured reminded of the young nurse he had seen in the ER.
&nb
sp; Linda, was it? Linda…
“What’d they’d drink, sir?”
“She was drinking beer. He had a beer and a Jack.”
“That’s it?”
“Was enough, wasn’t it? I tried to tell the dude, but he wouldn’t—”
“How’d the fight start?”
“Like I said, he started pushing people around. Talking cocky. Then all of a sudden he just started swinging, kicking everything, showing off like he was trying to impress the chick. I think the guy was a martial arts expert or something. He fought like Chuck Norris.”
“Yeah?”
If Rico had ever heard a more accurate description of Jim Stockbridge, he could not remember when. He glanced around the room. Except for a few remaining patrons the bar was empty.
“So where is he now? This jarhead?”
“How should I know?”
Rico stepped close enough to Sullivan to smell his breath. “Try again.”
“Look,” Sullivan said, “those bikers are good customers, I can’t—”
“The man you’re describing is one of my best friends, now where is he?”
“They carried him out the back door.”
“Who carried him out?”
“No way. I’m not gonna—”
Rico grabbed Sullivan by the arms and shoved him into the barstools. He could almost hear Internal Affairs screaming at him as he leaned over the man. “Talk, fatso. Now!”
“Officer Rivetti,” Sullivan said, his eyes wide with fear. “If I talk they’ll kill me.”
“Yeah?” Rico shoved his nose against Sullivan’s and drilled a hole clean through him with his eyes. “If you don’t talk, I will!”
Rico hurried back outside and scanned the street in front of the bar. Most of the motorcycles that had been lined up on the street when he arrived were already gone. A small crowd of people remained, curious onlookers gathered at the back of the ambulance watching the paramedics work, but Rico saw no one matching Sullivan’s description of Jim’s assailants. He grabbed the porch railing with both hands and pulled until he heard a rusty nail squeak. “Jim,” he seethed, grinding his teeth. “Where are you?”
“Sir?”
Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1) Page 9