CHAPTER 7
Travis
I rose from my armchair with Scarlett and whiskey on my mind, in that order. I left my gear in my non-descript ex-army duffel bag, the sort of no-nonsense bag you could sling over one shoulder and fuck off in an instant. I liked it even though I had to admit it was a bit frayed and beaten.
I left the door to my small but modern apartment and ran down the steps, taking two at a time. My mind ran over the impending trip to the airport, the flight, and trip to the hotel in Paris after the flight. Going over potential routes, risks, dangers…traffic hotspots. My mind swam with ideas and thoughts, feeling like it was about to explode. I almost regretted taking on such a mammoth task, but the money was right. Plus, after meeting Scarlett, I felt an instinctive need to protect her.
Out on the street, I took in the sights and sounds of the city near my apartment. Traffic passed me on the left as I strolled purposefully along the sidewalk, the sound of engines intermittently broken by car horns. There was a homeless guy to my right, drunk or high—possibly both. A young, mean looking guy swaggered past him, bloodshot eyes darting everywhere at once with his hand in his jacket.
Gangster.
I avoided the hood and tossed the homeless guy a couple of ones, not that he seemed to notice though. I then headed towards the local bar, Cal’s. Rough but quiet, I’d been there a few times and the locals mostly ignored me, perhaps sensing I was a slightly unhinged former soldier.
I had to walk a couple blocks and cross the road to get to the bar. Apparently, it was named after the owner, a rough guy of few words who mainly grunted when you ordered from him. He looked like he could handle himself, which made me I like him instantly.
I walked through the main entrance, swinging the heavy door back effortlessly. My eyes scanned the bar. The usual suspects were there—two old guys sitting on stools at the bar stretching across the back of the building, with bathrooms either side. There were a couple of other regulars dotted about on the faded red leather booths that ran down either side of the building. The space in the middle was filled with wooden tables and chairs, all slightly mismatched.
The locals barely paid me any attention as I walked past the tables and chairs to approach the bar. One of the old guys nodded at me, and I nodded back in greeting. The owner seemed to notice the exchange and looked my way. “Whiskey on the rocks?” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Yeah,” I replied. “And a round for the bar.” The old guys on my right raised their glasses and nodded muttered thanks. The other guys behind me in the booths toasted me a bit more vigorously.
Well, I guess that’s my initiation, I thought. Just one of the locals now. I guess they like that I don’t say much, don’t cause any trouble, and can handle my drink.
“Thanks,” I grunted, picking up the whiskey that had been placed in front of me. I opted for a bar stool on the other side as the two old locals. Usually, that earned me a frown or two, but now that I’d risen in the ranks, I wasn’t even glanced at.
As I took my seat at the bar, the door opened loudly behind me. I heard voices in a heated exchange, seemingly arguing about whose round it was. The voices approached, piercing the silence in the bar with crude conversation.
Right when I was starting to relax, I thought, agitated.
Without turning, I could smell trouble. The new arrivals were already drunk and sounded up for a fight. I’d been around enough drunken idiots in my time to know when they were out looking for trouble. Why they’d walked into a bar for old men though, I had no idea. All I knew was that they’d chosen the wrong time to come because considering my mood, I wasn’t afraid of knocking a couple heads together if it meant peace and quiet. And since I’d just been initiated as a local, I doubted anyone would object to my attempt to restore the peace.
The two guys approached the bar, quieting for a second to debate over who was paying.
“Get us two beers, with whiskey chasers,” one said once the quiet debate was over.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the one who’d spoken was the smaller of the two, probably the brains. The guy to his right was big, half-fat and half-muscle.
Calvin didn’t say a word as he begrudgingly prepared the drinks for the two, taking twice as long as he would for a local. His gaze was fixed intently on the two rough men in front of him, although he didn’t look fazed at all.
Probably got a shotgun under the bar, I mused.
The two guys resumed their heated conversation, but this time the big guy boasted to his friend about how he had recently bedded his colleague's wife.
“Yeah, after the party, we had to celebrate finishing the last job, you know. The apartment block.” He paused to take a huge swig of whiskey, followed by half of his bottle of beer.
Construction. Explains the equal ratio of fat and muscle.
His friend laughed loudly, patting him on the shoulder before the big guy continued his boasting. “You know John’s wife, Susan? Gagging for it, she was. Said he wasn’t up to the job and she needed someone big to take care of her.”
I stopped listening and pretended to watch the small TV above the bar behind Calvin. I shifted on my seat and drained the rest of my whiskey in one go, sliding the empty glass over towards the barman. He refilled my glass obligingly and was rather generous with the measure. I nodded at him slightly, an intense look on my face meant to convey that these two knuckleheads were no problem, and I could handle them if need be.
Catching my drift, he nodded back and resumed his stance at the center of the bar.
One of the old guys on the stools said something to the other, and the other laughed.
“What’s that, old man?” the big guy said, turning to face the old drunks, his back now turned to me. “Got something to say?”
“Yeah, say it so we can all hear,” his sidekick chimed in.
“Right.” The big guy gestured with his beer bottle. “Ain’t polite sayin’ things about others under your breath.”
The old guy sat silently, taking a long drink from his glass and pretending he hadn’t heard anything at all.
The two thugs exchanged glances, and the smaller guy raised his eyebrows. Then the big one smiled meanly and together, they turned to face the old man.
“We’re talking to you. Don’t you go pretending you’ve suddenly gone deaf. I ain’t afraid of teaching you a lesson in manners, old man.” The big guy stepped forward and poked a sausage-like finger into the old man’s chest.
I’d had enough. I was almost halfway through my second whiskey and was more stressed than before I’d entered the bar. I stood swiftly, thinking bitterly that these fools could have done me a favor and shown up an hour later so they could have gotten chased out by a shotgun instead.
As I stood, the bar stool scraped loudly on the wooden floor.
The two thugs turned to face me. Too drunk, they didn’t seem worried that I was the same height as the bigger one, much more heavily muscled, and twice as mean-looking.
That was their first mistake.
“You got a problem too?” the smaller one said. “Looks like everyone in here needs a fucking lesson in manners.”
I held my hands up defensively, palms facing them. “Listen,” I said, in a low menacing voice, “‘cause I’m only gonna say this once.” I paused, noting the silence in the bar and the fact that everyone’s attention was on me. “I suggest you fuck off now, before I teach you a lesson in manners.”
They stood stupefied for a moment, their expressions quickly changing from shock to anger in the space of a few seconds. Then they both took a step towards me, their arms raised.
That was their second and final mistake.
I covered the distance to the pair in an instant. Adrenaline slowing my time perception, it seemed like they were moving underwater.
The smaller guy was quicker and had reacted to my advance first, swinging a frightened and savage right hook to my jaw. I tensed my left arm, strong palm facing outwards, and stepped into the punch, deflecting his fist harmlessly past my head. I then brought my right fist up to his jaw in an explosive uppercut, my massive biceps and ripped abdomen giving the punch extraordinary power and sending him flying backwards, landing with a crunch.
An instant later, I turned to face the big guy. But I easily weaved under his first right jab, rising to send a left cross into his temple. He grunted and punched at me viciously with his left, bringing his fist hooking towards my temple. I rocked back on my feet, his fist missing my face by a few inches as his momentum took him slightly off balance.
I stepped into his guard, pushing his over-extended right arm into his chest. At the same time, I brutally headbutted him square on his nose. It broke with an audible crack. I then hooked my right leg behind his left, stepping past him and sending him the rest of the way to the floor. He landed heavily with a grunt of pain.
“Shoulda listened when I told you to fuck off,” I said.
The whole exchange had taken a matter of seconds. I looked at the pair on the floor as they slowly picked themselves up. I didn't expect any more trouble from them and figured their pride would most likely stop them from crying to the cops, especially when they’d been the one to start the trouble.
I’d been a nasty bastard in the past, but only to people who deserved it, either by threatening me, someone I cared about, or someone I was protecting. I didn’t consider myself a hero though, as I knew the only real way to stay safe was to avoid trouble whenever possible.
Regardless, I hated lowlife small-time wannabe hard men who picked on people for no reason.
I surveyed the eyes fixated on me from around the bar. I had been in the army for a few years in my younger days. My strength, savagery, skill with weapons, and fighting prowess had lead me into the Savage Soldiers, which I’d deserted after a period of spiraling self-destruction into corruption and illicit gambling rackets after the breakdown of my first and only marriage.
I turned to face Calvin, stunned to see him grinning broadly at me.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I said after a second. “Just don’t like fools causing trouble where it ain’t needed. ‘Specially fools that gang up on a couple of old guys who ain’t causing no trouble.”
Calvin nodded, still grinning. “That’s all right,” he said, pointing a finger at the old guy. “Thing is,” he continued, “if they’d picked on him ten years ago, they wouldn’t be walking outta here.”
The old guy winked at me. “Navy SEAL,” he said.
“Savage Soldiers,” I replied, nodding. I took a seat two stools down from him.
A large whiskey appeared in front of me. “Drink’s on the house today, buddy,” Calvin said.
I raised the glass and took a grateful swig. Then I heard the door slam shut behind me—our uninvited guests were leaving with their tails between their legs. Most of us had already forgotten they were there.
“So.” The old guys had turned on their stools to look at me. “Savage Soldiers, huh? Bet you got some stories.”
I grinned broadly. “Of course. I got tons. If you think you can handle them.”