Almost, she didn’t, as he ran the short distance to intercept the group—a wicked sprint, moving faster than she’d ever imagined and never losing the fierce purpose of his stride. But even as she moved to follow, she checked herself. She’d promised.
He flowed into that crowd, leaving men on the ground in his wake. Not wounding them—none of them athletic, some of them aging—but taking them down all the same. A clever shove here, a shift of weight there, a yank-and-tangle over there—all smooth and clean and bewildering.
From nowhere, it struck. A hard slap of ugliness, a startling wash of all things cruel and mean.
It struck.
She cried out—heard herself, didn’t even know why. She didn’t even understand what she felt—only that it made her feel sick and dirty.
Mac dropped as though felled, there at the edge of those he’d left tangled on the ground.
Gwen instantly broke her promise and ran for him—a glance at the small remaining protesters and their amplified frenzy, a glance at the cop’s face as he aimed his Taser, one hand at his shoulder mike as he shouted for backup. She flung herself down beside Mac, who knelt back against his heels, his hands at his head and his face set in pain. He turned on her, fierce and wild and lightning-fast, and even her wildest effort to wrench aside wasn’t enough.
She did the only thing left to her and grabbed him back, getting up in his face. “Get a grip, Mac!” she shouted at him. “We have to get out of here!”
Something got through to him. He shoved himself off the ground, taking her with him. If the cop noticed or cared, he cut his losses, fully engaged with the protesters he’d stopped.
Mac and Gwen ran for it. Or staggered for it. Tripping, fumbling, until slowly Gwen realized she was no longer holding him steady—and noticed that she was the one keeping up with his long strides and not the other way around, even as they turned a corner and slowed.
The pleasantly baking sun suddenly seemed more than hot. She dragged him a few steps farther, to the shade of a tree in storefront landscaping. “Guess I’m glad for these shorts after all,” she said, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt.
Mac only looked grim. As much as he sent her a flicker of appreciation, as much as he tried to straighten up and shrug it off. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Look,” Gwen said. “A gas station. Let’s get something to drink. Something cold. Maybe even crushed ice. Do you want a bright red tongue from the cherry or blue from the raspberry?” And then, because he didn’t take the cue, didn’t shed his grimness, she asked, “Why sorry? Because you did it, or because you stopped?”
He snorted appreciation for that. “I wouldn’t have done that if I’d thought—” He shook his head. “I don’t know why that happened.”
She hesitated, then asked it anyway, blotting her face against her shoulder a final time. “You felt it coming, didn’t you? Knew that man would start it?”
Not that she truly had any question.
He only gave her a grim look. “Crushed ice it is then.”
But oh, too late. There, heading for the gas station, two young men with heads shaved close, wifebeater shirts, baggy pants, crude tattoos. And again...
Intent.
Gwen didn’t think about it; she reached for Mac’s arm, holding tight.
And Mac apparently didn’t think about it, either. “What the hell is it about this place?” he muttered, striking out for the gas station at an angle of interception—but only a few steps before a quick, hard hesitation, looking at Gwen.
She held both hands up in quick acquiescence. Maybe even surrender.
And only then realized the relief she felt—that it wasn’t her, running into trouble. Trying to warn the people in the gas station store, inevitably just ending up in the line of fire. She didn’t have to make the decision.
He was already doing it. As if he’d always done it. Intercepting the two incipient troublemakers, planting himself before them. And yes, she’d indicated she’d stay back...but not so far she couldn’t keep track of things. She found herself easing in on the edge of it all as Mac said, “This place is closed to you. Find your trouble somewhere else.”
They pushed up close to him, sneering the predictable responses—the insults and the threats, all rolled up into one. One of them gave him a hard shove, unable to conceal surprise when Mac stayed rooted.
She saw the man’s sudden move—hand pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open—and she drew sharp breath to cry a warning she never had the chance to voice. Instead she froze, startled as splintered light lanced out from between them to make the toughs squint and hesitate—but not for long.
By then Mac had lifted the knife he now held between them—that big clip-blade Bowie he couldn’t possibly have been carrying all this time. Couldn’t possibly—
He said, “I don’t think you heard me. This place is closed to you. And by the time you cut me with that little knife of yours, I’ll have you gutted.” He smiled; it sent a shiver between Gwen’s shoulder blades.
It wasn’t a bluff.
And they knew it.
But it was written there on their faces—the awareness that the odds were against Mac, that they were losing face, losing fun. Run, whispered Gwen’s instinct. Oh, run!
Instead, Mac moved a step closer. “And here’s the really fun thing,” he said. “Your faces and your knife are on the security camera. Mine,” he added, smiling again, “aren’t.”
Gwen could lip-read the curses from where she stood, even if the snarling made them almost unintelligible. “You won’t always be here,” one of them said, stepping back stiffly, his blade snicking closed; the Bowie knife glimmered revealed and...eager, Gwen would have said. Since when did that make sense?
“Security camera,” Mac said. “Your faces. Images set aside for the police, should anything happen to this place.” He smiled again. Not nice. “And I mean anything.”
“Hey,” the second guy protested, his sneer sliding over to indignant protest. “We can’t control what happens to this place! It’s run by a buncha spic fags! Plenty of reason for people to—”
“Anything,” Mac said. The blade glimmered. “So maybe you don’t want to be around here, huh?”
Maybe not. Seething, out-maneuvered, out-bladed, and for that matter without nearly the necessary mojo, they backed away—wary steps at first, and then pivoting out to a jog.
And Mac, standing there, still lost in dark thoughts...
Gwen checked her impulse to go to him, but instead pushed through the entrance to the station storefront. There she found a slight and neatly turned out Latino who might very well have triggered the hateful response of the young men outside—and he knew it, too, his face tight and worried. “Hey,” she said. “They’re gone. If that security camera works, save the tape. But I think Mac scared ’em off for good. He told them they’d be blamed for anything that happened here, thanks to this big fail of theirs.”
Relief flooded his features. “They been working up to this,” he said. “This city...there’s something going on...” He shook his head. “Hey...soda or something? On the house?”
She brightened. “Oh! You know, I was really thinking about a cherry crushed ice—”
He held up a hand. “Please. And one for your friend?”
She glanced out at Mac. “I don’t think he’s a cherry crushed ice sort of guy. Who knows? We really just met.”
The station attendant scoffed, filling a large cup with more crushed ice than she could ever finish off. “The way he is with you? ¡Si se puede!”