Page 223 of Micah

A third man pulls a tire iron.

Alex barrels through the front door behind Sawyer and Benji, doesn't hesitate, and shoulder-checks the guy into the jukebox before he can get the thing above his waist.

The music screeches into static.

Glass rains onto the sticky floor.

Someone else produces a switchblade.

I see the flash of metal out of the corner of my eye.

The blade never reaches me.

Sawyer kicks the man's forearm just above the wrist.

The knife spins through the air.

Benji catches it.

Looks at it. Then casually slides it across the floor to the far end of the room.

“Mine now,” he mutters.

Another idiot decides to rush me.

Big mistake.

He throws a wild punch.

I slip inside it, redirect his momentum, and he crashes face-first into the bar.

Wood splinters.

Liquor bottles explode behind him.

The smell of whiskey fills the room.

I don't even look back.

My eyes find Sloane.

Still behind me.

Still safe.

Good.

My thoughts are always on her first.

One of Scarface's crew tries circling toward her.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

I catch him before he gets within six feet of her, hook his arm, take his balance, and send him sprawling across the wet floor where he slides into three barstools hard enough to knock them over.

“You deaf?” Benji barks. “The lady said get the fuck out.”

The room erupts again.