“Naw, he was riding a pinto pony that night,” Lam shouted.
Holt grinned. “So, any more of you numb nuts want to take in a real Western party? No boots or cowboy hats required.”
They passed. Then Lam said he’d like to go.
The party in the west edge of Santee, up against a hill, began at ten that evening. There was a four-piece Western band, a big patio set up for Western line dancing, and enough livestock around to make it look like a real ranch. The woman who owned it was a master programmer and systems computer analyst for a big outfit in San Diego’s own silicon valley.
The four SEALs were on their best behavior. They danced, learned the simple line movements, and had enough beers to keep them happy.
About midnight, four motorcycles roared into the front of the parked cars and four big bikers got off their rigs.
Janie, the owner of the place met them with a cattle prod.
“Who the hell are you guys, and who invited you?” Janie shouted in her usual diplomatic style.
“We’re the four riders from hell, and we go where we want to go, little bimbo. You ever had it twice in a row on the back of a Harley?”
“Get your ass off my property,” Janie said. “I don’t want you here, and I’m the honcho of this outfit. Now go.”
Another one of the quartet spoke up. He had on studded leathers and a huge beer belly, but he looked as hard as a much-used branding iron.
“Little bitch in heat, we don’t make trouble, we just answer it. Now step aside, and let us see your party.”
Janie lunged at him with the cattle prod, which could send out a serious jolt of electric charge into whatever it hit. The tip of the prod connected with his thigh and zapped. The big man didn’t even seem to notice. He grabbed the rod, jerked it out of Janie’s hand, and reversed it. He found the trigger, and before Janie could scramble out of the way, he touched it to her shoulder.
Janie bellowed in pain and staggered back. The four laughed and surged past her to the patio. They helped themselves to beers and called loud sexual suggestions to the women dancing.
Paul Jefferson left the other SEALs to go for another beer. He passed just in front of the four bikers.
One of them reached out a foot and tried to trip him. Jefferson, at 6' 1" and 200 pounds, was slightly smaller than all of the bikers. He daggered a look at them and went on to the iced tubs with the beer. When he took out a bottle and turned, the four were ringed in front of him.
“What’s a nigger like you doing at a nice white party like this, boy?” the biggest of the bikers snarled.
“I was invited,” Jefferson said, taking a step past the four.
“Not by us you weren’t, Africano,” another of the bikers said.
“You got to learn your place, black man. This ain’t it. This is white man’s territory.”
“Everyone is entitled to his own—” It was as far as Jefferson made it before the closest man whipped out a right fist and caught the SEAL on the side of the head and drove him backward. There a biker caught him and slammed his fist into Jefferson’s gut. When Jefferson doubled over in agony, the biker’s knee rammed upward, hitting him in the jaw and dumping Jefferson into the grass.
Somebody shouted to stop it.
One of the bikers moved his leg back to kick Jefferson, who writhed on the ground.
Jaybird and Holt saw the attack and ran through the people to the scene. Jaybird made it just in time to shoulder-block the kicker before he struck, blasting him backward so hard he sprawled in the dirt. Jaybird whirled as he sensed someone behind him. He blocked a big fist coming at him and drove his foot upward into the biker’s crotch. The man dropped like a shot steer.
Holt tackled another biker and pushed him back out of the fight for a moment. When the much larger biker recovered, he slashed a fist at Holt and knocked him down. He tried to kick Holt, who grabbed the foot and jerked it forward, pulling the biker off balance. Holt lifted his boot so he kicked the biker in the stomach as he fell, jolting him to the left, out of the fight.
Lam came in late, just in time to take on the largest biker. The motorcycle rider unhooked a bike chain from his waist and began swinging it in a circle. Everyone else backed off.
“What the hell is going on here?” Janie bellowed. “I told you fucking bikers to leave. Now scat.” She waved a six-gun with a short barrel. The biker and Lam didn’t notice. They circled each other warily. Lam whipped off his three-inch-wide belt that had a heavy brass buckle on the end.
Jefferson wobbled to his feet and stared at the scene. He held his stomach. Jaybird grabbed him and pulled him out of the circle.
“Come on, nigger-lover bastard,” the biker said. “Come get what’s coming to you.”
Lam darted forward, swung the belt, and smashed the heavy buckle into the biker’s upper right arm.
He howled in pain and charged.
Lam had sidestepped quickly and avoided the swing of the bike chain. He kicked the biker’s leg as he went by. The leg crashed into the other leg, and the biker stumbled and fell hard to the ground.
Janie fired two rounds from the revolver into the air. Everything stopped a moment, then another shot blasted into the night. Jefferson grabbed his stomach and bellowed in pain. The shot came from the crotch-kicked man. Holt was nearest him. He surged forward and knocked the gun from the biker’s hand where he still sat on the ground.
“Call nine-one-one!” somebody shouted.
“I have them on my cell phone,” another voice called.
The San Diego Sheriff’s deputies arrived before the ambulance. They had the bikers and the four SEALs in handcuffs. They took off Jefferson’s cuffs when he was strapped onto a gurney and put into the ambulance.
It was almost 1600 the next day when Murdock bailed his three men out of the county jail. They had been charged with disorderly conduct, and a trial date was set for two months away. Janie was there to help, but she didn’t get to testify. She told Murdock about it in the hallway.
“Those boys of yours saved my party. The bikers weren’t invited. They just barged in. They’re white supremacists. They cause trouble wherever they go. Hope your man isn’t hurt bad.”
Murdock had been at the hospital half the night as they did emergency surgery on Jefferson and spliced back together part of his intestine and did some minor repair work.
“He’ll be fine, but it will be two months before he can go back on duty,” Murdock said. “We hope you’ll be at the trial, Janie.”
Janie gave him her full name and phone number and said it would be her primary concern. She had no idea who the SEALs were or what they did. Murdock was just as happy about that.
That same night, when Ed DeWitt came home, he saw that Milly had made it ahead of him. That meant she must have quit work early. As soon as he stepped into the apartment, he noticed the difference. Soft music played on the CD deck. The table in the small living room was set for two with candles already lit. Milly stood by the table in her sexiest dress that showed an inch of cleavage and the swell of both breasts. She called it her man-catcher dress.
“Hi there, stranger. Can I take you in and feed you and maybe give you something to drink?”
DeWitt staggered against the wall. “Anytime, anywhere.”
Milly laughed at his clowning, hurried up and kissed him, then caught his hand.
“Just a few more minutes and your sumptuous dinner will be ready. How about a glass of a very nifty little Chablis first to whet your appetite?”
“Yes, and my appetite is already raring to go.” He kissed the nape of her neck, and she gave him a smoldering look.
“Just a little later, cowboy. I don’t want the dinner to burn.”