Me:They move toward the diner, contact me.
His reply comes in two seconds.
Joker:Copy.
Razor and I wait. The lot is gravel and shadow. Two streetlights throw orange over the pavement, and the diner’s neon shines pink through the kitchen window. I count the minutes between each opening and closing of the back door.
Tiffany leaves first. The cook leaves a few minutes later.
My phone buzzes.
Joker:They’re moving. Your direction.
Shelby is the last one out.
Shit. This is fucked up timing.
She pushes through the back door with her bag on her shoulder and her keys in her fist. She doesn’t see us. Her car is three spots away, and she’s walking fast.
Bikes roar as they move down the street.
“Front lot,” Razor says.
We move. Razor and I walk around the side of the building, boots on gravel.
Two bikes are parked nose-in at the front entrance. Bull is already off his. He’s a big, bald fucker with a gun on his hip. It’s not drawn, but his hand is resting on it, and that’s enough. The second one is leaning against his handlebars.
My boots hit the pavement, and both of them turn. “Wrong parking lot, boys.”
Bull grins, and he’s missing a tooth. “Saber. Relax, we’re just here to talk.”
“You’re in my territory. And I didn’t invite you here to talk.”
The second one puts his hands up. “Nitro wants a conversation. That’s all.”
“If your Prez wants to talk, he calls. He doesn’t send two armed men to my town at ten o’clock at night. I bet he doesn’t even know you’re here.”
Bull’s hand tightens on the gun. His lip curls. He raises it, and it’s aimed at my chest.
A crack.
Not the gun, but metal on skull. A dull, wet thud that drops Bull to one knee.
Shelby. Behind him. Stainless steel water bottle in both hands, arms shaking, eyes wild. She came out the back, heard us, came around the building, and hit a man with a gun because he pointed it at me.
Bull roars. Spins. The gun comes up toward her, but he’s dizzy and bleeding, and when it goes off, the shot goes wide. The second Warrior jerks sideways, takes two steps, and drops face down on the gravel.
Bull shot his own man.
Shelby is on the ground. Not hit, but her legs gave out. She’s sitting on the asphalt with the water bottle in her lap, and she’s not making any sound at all.
Razor has Bull. Knee in his spine, gun stripped, zip ties out of his back pocket. Bull is screaming into the gravel, but Razor doesn’t give a fuck. He ties the man’s wrists.
The other one isn’t moving. The blood pooling under him is black in the streetlight.
A car engine turns over somewhere down the highway. Headlights swing wide and peel away east, fast enough to kick gravel.
Razor’s head snaps up. “Tell me that was nothing.”