Page 32 of Backtrack

“Blacklight,” he said under his breath.

The woman in the baby doll robe had likely dumped her gin and tonic all over the man. The quinine in the tonic water, like the phosphors in the woman’s lip gloss, glowed an eerie blue under the UV lighting.

“You got here quick,” a man said to Cutter’s right. Cutter glanced sideways to find a heavyset guy with long sideburns sitting at a small table inside the door. He wore a black shirt and matching slacks that, together with his white beard, gave him the appearance of a floating head under the blacklight. If he was the bouncer, he was doing a poor job of it.

Cutter tapped the badge over his pocket. “Sheriff’s Office.”

“No shit.” Mr. Sideburns gave him a sullen nod. “We called you. Remember?”

“Sheriff’s Office!” Cutter said again, this time for the benefit of the glowing Mountain.

The big guy ignored him like he was a bothersome gnat and sprang toward the woman. Screaming, he grabbed a handful of hair and hauled backward, spinning to toss her onto the stage like an Olympic hammer throw.

“Mitzi, you bitch!”

She landed with a sickening clink-thud against the center of three steel dance poles, sliding to the stage floor in a crumpled heap of polyester and lace.

“Hey!” Cutter charged forward. “Asshole! Sheriff’s Office! Get on the ground! Now.”

The man ignored the order and leaned over the stage, cursing, clawing for Mitzi. He caught her by the foot and yanked her toward him.

Cutter pivoted sideways, driving the heel of his boot into the Mountain’s exposed calf. The kick would have put any normal man on the ground, but the Mountain simply dropped the woman in the red kimono and wheeled—directly into a slap across the ear from Cutter’s open hand.

The Mountain staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, he grabbed his knees with both hands and shook off the effects of the blow, panting heavily. He stared at Cutter like he was a piece of meat.

“What do you want?”

“Sheriff’s Office!” Cutter said for the third time. “Get your ass on the ground.”

The Mountain growled some threat Cutter couldn’t quite make out, fists up like a bare-knuckle boxer. Shirtless under the denim vest, the man was made of ropy muscle. Using muscle. The bad kind of muscle when it was on someone you had to fight. Fortunately, the Mountain was drunk, swaying on his feet like a tree in the wind, and probably seeing two of everything. He staggered forward in a loopy bum rush. With any luck, he’d choose the wrong Cutter to hit.

“On the ground!” Cutter sidestepped, but the Mountain corrected course, proving himself surprisingly agile. Cutter stepped to the side again, rearing back to drive the flat of his hand into the Mountain’s windpipe.

Cutter’s elbow connected with something on the backswing. Johnson cried out in pain and surprise.

Cutter took another step offline to avoid a wild rush from the Mountain. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder to see Johnson pinching his nose together.

“You don’t have to stay that close!” Cutter snapped, turning again to catch a powerful left hook in the jaw.

Cutter saw it coming and faded slightly, robbing the Mountain’s blow of half its power—but even the discount punch was enough to rock him. Cutter attempted to fade to his right, giving himself room to maneuver away from the bar—but the Mountain hit him again, this time with two machine-gun jabs that rocked his chin. Lights exploded behind Cutter’s eyes. His legs began to buckle. He was vaguely aware when the Mountain skirted to his left, moving in for the kill.

Where the hell was Johnson?

Then Mitzi and her red kimono backpedaled from somewhere near the bar as if she’d been shoved. Cutter heard Johnson give her a muffled order. It didn’t seem to matter. She fell into the Mountain, tangling him up and buying Cutter time to get his bearings. The big man peeled the screeching woman aside and rushed forward again, bellowing with rage.

Cutter ducked again. Another devastating hook burbled the air a quarter inch from his nose.

Then Johnson appeared, swinging the heavy Kel-Lite wider than needed. If the big guy hadn’t been drunk, he might have avoided the blow—but he was and he didn’t. Johnson’s flashlight connected with the nerve cluster at the base of the Mountain’s neck. From the way he yelled, Johnson probably destroyed his collarbone.

The Mountain crashed to the carpet, twitching on his side, cursing, trying to rise with a leg that wouldn’t listen to his brain. It looked for a moment like he might make it to his feet. Cutter put a stop to that with a toe of his boot.

Johnson rushed forward with his cuffs, but Mitzi jumped on his back, pounding him on top of the head with her fists.

Johnson grabbed two handfuls of kimono and pulled her entirebody over his shoulders, dropping her to the floor. He stepped on the puddled silk to hold her there.

“Knock it off!” the young deputy spat. “We’re trying to help you!”

Mitzi shrugged off the short cover and gathered up to pounce again wearing nothing but her black G-string. Cutter grabbed both her arms above the elbows from behind. He wasn’t as big as the Mountain, but horseshoeing gave him a hell of a grip.