Page 82 of Micah

Flat.

Dead.

Then I move.

The closest idiot reaches for me.

Mistake.

I trap his wrist, pivot, and drive my elbow straight through his nose.

Bone crunches.

He folds.

Before he hits the floor, I rip the pistol from his waistband and fling it across the room.

Weapon secured.

Next.

Tattoo Neck charges like an angry bull.

Too slow.

The big ones are usually too slow.

I sidestep at the last second, hook his arm, and use his own momentum to launch him shoulder-first into the edge of the pool table.

Wood splinters.

He howls.

Good.

Stay down.

He doesn't.

And that is another mistake.

A boot to his knee ends that discussion.

The joint buckles sideways with an ugly pop.

He’s finished.

Scarface finally realizes I’m not just some cowboy.

“You military?” he snarls.

I don’t answer.

Talking wastes time.

One of his men throws a right hook.

Amateur.