Just as I thought it, he glanced down at me...and suddenly the blue seemed to open up, pushing back the clouds. For a second, he looked how he had that night. Was that...me that was doing that to him?
He shifted the shotgun to one hand and his other arm wound around my waist and snugged me protectively closer. It was just about the best thing I’d ever felt.
We backed up another foot. Then I screamed as I was showered with warm beer and shards of green glass. Carrick’s arm was torn from my waist as he fell and then I was jerked away by one of Volos’s bodyguards.
My head whipped around to look at Carrick. He was on his knees. As I watched, a biker kicked his oversize shotgun out of his reach, sending it spinning across the floor. The other bodyguard grabbed my other wrist and together they started to haul me across the room.
Panting with fear, I craned over my shoulder to watch Carrick. Bikers surrounded him: six or seven at least, blocking my view. Legs drew back and they started to kick him. My heart clenched into a tight little ball. No! They were going to kill him and it was all my fault! I’d drawn him into this!
I kicked and thrashed as I was dragged along but I couldn’t get any traction. I was pulled into the hallway and towards the rear door. The whole time, I was staring back at Carrick, tears in my eyes. All I could see were bikers kicking him and raining down punches: he was still down on the floor. “Stop hitting him!” I sobbed. But they didn’t.
Ahead of me, I felt a sudden, cool breeze. I turned to face front and saw a biker holding the rear door open ahead of us. Volos’s car was waiting right outside, the door open and the engine running. No!
And then from behind us came the roar of a man who’s reached his limit.
The room went silent. The men dragging me stopped and we all turned to look. The kicking and punching stopped and then the circle of bikers around Carrick all took a step back.
I saw Carrick’s head emerge above the circle as he got to his feet. “Is that the best you’ve fuckin’ got?” he yelled.
The room was so quiet, I heard one biker mutter, “Shit.” His voice had that sickly tone of someone who’s just realized they’ve made a massive mistake.
Then Carrick picked him up by the front of his leather cut and flung him across the room, right at one of the men holding me. He went down like a skittle. The other man let go of my arm in shock and suddenly I was free.
I ran. I sure as hell wasn’t going out the back of the bar, towards Volos, and there were too many bikers between me and the front door. The only hiding place was behind the bar. I dived behind it and huddled there, watching the fight play out in the mirror above the bottles.
When some men fight, it’s almost like art: a ballet of spins and flips, punches and kicks.
Carrick was not one of those men.
He wasn’t showy and he certainly wasn’t elegant. He didn’t fight like someone who’d trained in a dojo; he fought like someone who’d found himself in a barroom brawl every night of his life. And that was exactly what we needed.
He waded through the bikers like they were nothing: a headbutt, a punch, a knee to the groin and he was onto the next one. He was outnumbered but he just didn’t care, too angry and stubborn to let something like logic get in his way. And while the bikers were just doing their job, protecting the bar and their president. Carrick fought as if he was fighting for something, like some ancient Celt warrior on a holy mission. As if he was fighting for—#p#分页标题#e#
His eyes met mine in the mirror and I swallowed.
But then I saw the men in suits draw their handguns and take aim at him. They didn’t have a clear shot: the fighting was too close and chaotic. But any second now, they’d find an opening and Carrick would go down: even he couldn’t survive a hail of bullets.
All I wanted to do was hunker down behind the bar and wait for it to be safe, but there was no way I was letting him die. I searched behind the bar, frantic: maybe there was a shotgun or a baseball bat. But there was nothing.
Then, as my desperate eyes ran over the bottles, my weird brain did its thing. The whiskey and vodka and rum stopped being drinks and became chemicals.
I grabbed a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap and rolled it out across the floor towards Volos’s men, letting it glug a trail of liquid behind it. I hurled a bottle of rum as hard as I could and heard it smash against the far wall. I emptied the whiskey over the edge of the bar, making a spreading amber pool.
Then I found a matchbook, lit a match and tossed it towards the alcohol, shying away and closing my eyes as it landed.
There was a wumf and a barrage of cursing. When I looked in the mirror, half the bar was on fire. Volos’s men were backing away, the floor in front of them a carpet of flame. “Fuck this,” I heard one of them say, and they started to retreat down the hallway towards the rear door.