A young girl, no older than thirteen, desperately wiggling into a pair of jeans.
King turned back to the three men still standing.
‘You have one second to explain this,’ he said.
A single moment of pure silence.
One of the bikers walked forward, suddenly regaining confidence.
‘Mate you’d better get the fuck outta here before—’
King exploded. It was a technique he had practically perfected; feigning complete calm one instant and charging like a raging bull the next. It had its intended effect. The man who had stepped forward to confront him almost jumped out of his skin in fright. King extended two hands and used all the strength in his frame to give him a double-handed shove, square in the chest. The guy had already been in the process of backtracking and the added push sent him toppling back off his feet.
There was a pool table in the corner. Before the other two men could react, King dashed over and lifted a cue off its surface. In a split second he sized up his opponents. One was fat and beefy and would be hard to handle in terms of sheer strength.
Him first.
A step forward. A fake swing from the left. Beefy flinched. King reversed his grip, swung back and sliced the cue through the air faster than the eye could see. It splintered across Beefy’s head, shards flying everywhere, a loud crraaaaack echoing off the walls of the clubhouse. The man dropped like a stone.
The last guy on his feet was skinnier than the rest, to the point where he looked emaciated. He was high on something, jittery and gaunt. His bony limbs shook in the sudden quiet.
‘Come on ‘en,’ he jeered. ‘I’ll knock ya fuckin’ teeth out, mate. I’ll fuckin’—’
He didn’t get to finish. King charged him, bundled him up against the wall and delivered a staggering right uppercut into the man’s solar plexus. The guy let out a guttural noise somewhere between a cough and a dry heave. Shaking with adrenalin, King seized two handfuls of his tattered singlet. Spun him around. Built up momentum. Then let go with a colossal heave that sent him shooting like a dart into one of the flimsy windows. The pane shattered and he tumbled straight through, landing heavily on the porch outside amidst a downpour of broken glass.
Momentary quiet. Two men were unconscious. One was hurt bad on the outside deck. The only man yet to be incapacitated was the one King had pushed. He had only just made it back to his feet.
King turned to face him. He saw confusion, apprehension, fear in the man’s eyes. Sure, he was a biker, but there were few people King had come across in his life who were true tough guys. This guy was used to preying on vulnerable shopkeepers. He didn’t know the heat of combat or the smell of lead or the sight of death or the sound of an enemy convoy approaching.
He’d never experienced anything like this before.
Anyone like King.
CHAPTER 9
‘W-w-w—’
The biker couldn’t even manage a comprehensible sentence. Shock was plastered across his face.
‘Bet you’re not used to being on the other end of a beatdown,’ King said.
The guy’s aggressive instincts had become non-existent. He leant on the arm of one of the chairs, reeling from the rapid brutality of the fight.
‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice shaky.
‘Friend of Billy’s.’
‘Billy… the fuckin’ post office guy? Jesus Christ. Why’d you kick our door in?’
‘You wouldn’t answer it.’
‘We were busy.’
‘Evidently.’
‘Look, uh — you’re a decent guy, right? You’ve taught us a lesson, or whatever. We ain’t gonna bother Billy again. I get it. Now just leave us alone.’
‘I might have.’
‘Huh?’
‘I might have just given you the message, if I didn’t see what I did.’
‘It was consensual.’
‘I’m sure it was. How old is she?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘She is…’
King took a single step forwards. ‘How old is she?’
‘She’s nineteen! And it’s none of your fuckin’ business, anyway.’
Another step forward. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jed. Now fuck off.’
King got closer, and Jed became more aggressive.
‘Did you hear me? I said fuck off!’
Jed made a slight move, as if to lash out. King put a stop to that immediately. He kicked Jed square in the gut with a thick-soled boot, putting heavy forward momentum into the blow. Jed doubled over, gasping and retching. It would knock the fight out of him for the next few seconds, at least.
King strode over to the far wall and ripped the thin television off its cabinet. Cables disconnected or tore as he yanked it loose. The flat-screen was roughly the size of a small tabletop. Its hard plastic casing made it light and easy to yield. He walked back and swung the flat surface of the screen in a wide arc. Jed was still hunched over, holding his aching gut. The television cracked across the top of his skull. The screen shattered at the same time as he dropped. His legs gave out and he began to topple to the floor, knocked off balance by the colossal impact. King dropped the broken television and kicked out again. This time he aimed for Jed’s ribs. The toe of his boot hit Jed in the side just as his fall picked up momentum. Another crack echoed through the clubhouse. Jed tumbled away, shrieking in agony. King guessed two or three ribs were broken.
‘That was rude, Jed,’ King said. ‘You’re going to apologise for telling me to fuck off.’
No response. Jed looked pathetic lying on the floor, moaning and cradling his wounds. Blood ran from the top of his head and dripped onto the dusty ceramic tiles. King was surprised he had remained conscious.
‘No apology? Fair enough.’
He wrenched the man up by the scruff of his neck and dragged him outside. From the far end of the porch he heard a moan of distress. He glanced across and saw the skinny guy lying on the deck amongst a scattering of glass shards. He was cut bad. He wouldn’t be a threat.
‘You,’ King said. ‘Get up and come with me, or I’ll break both your arms.’
Sniffling, the man scrambled to his feet as fast as his shaky legs would allow him. The threat of further violence obviously trumped the pain he felt.
‘Follow me,’ King said.
Still dragging Jed, he stepped down off the porch and strode to the open garage next to the clubhouse. The sun beat down overhead. Jed was in bad shape. He stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. King had to hoist him up by the collar. When they finally reached the garage he let go. The biker collapsed in a heap in the dirt.
‘These your bikes?’ King said.
Jed didn’t answer. The skinny guy trailing meekly behind said nothing.
King spun toward the man with a burst of speed. It gave him such a fright that he fell back on his rear in the dirt, still clutching his wounds.
‘I said… are these your bikes?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Yes what?’
Skinny looked at him, perplexed. ‘Whaddaya mean?’
‘You’re going to call me sir, or I’m going to give you another beating. Are these your bikes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was nothing more to be said. King stepped into the garage. It was a creaky tin building with cracked concrete flooring. Rusty tools adorned the walls. The whole place reeked of fuel. The wooden shelving running along the right-hand wall looked as if it would fall apart at any second. Several metal cans of petrol lay along the top shelf. King walked over and hefted one into his arms. It was heavy. He could cope.