Tracefinder: Contact

The bar crowd heaved and shouted, a mass of struggling men— drunk, angry, punching, clawing. It was nothing like a choreographed movie fight. No fancy punches or across-the-room throws. The bottles that connected thunked solidly instead of smashing. This wasn’t good guys against bad guys. This was bored, boozed-up, short-fused men set off by one stupid comment, some better men than others perhaps, but no saints. No white hats— not even Nick Rugo, for all that he was a cop. In another life.

Here, he was No-Knife Nick, known for starting fights as well as ending them. Also known for the time he took out a guy wielding a machete with one lucky punch. In this boonies dive bar, it was his claim to fame. Fists of steel, no knife needed.

A pair of men staggered toward him, pushing and shoving, their hands clenched in each other’s shirts, heavy boots kicking and stomping. He dodged them and slid farther down the bar, trying to find his target. There!

He vaulted over the bar, ducked the bartender’s reflex elbow jab, reached over, and dragged his quarry by the neck and arm across the bar and down to the floor behind it. The other man was big, and some of that was muscle, but he was also very drunk and caught by surprise. They fell together, and Nick got in two quick, short gut punches that drove the man’s breath from his body. Nick pinned the guy’s wheezing torso with his own weight, and growled in his ear, “When a woman says no, she fuckin’ means no.” He leaned back enough to clock the guy hard across the jaw, half-hoping he’d break it. Do him good to have his filthy mouth wired shut for a month.

A flicker of movement from behind warned Nick in time to roll away, and the bartender’s baseball bat hit his opponent’s shoulder instead of Nick’s head. He scrambled farther backward, empty hands held out, and found space at the end of the bar to clamber back to the customer side. The fight was still surging, spilling out into the street, and a far-off siren suggested someone had called the cops. It was time to be gone.

He edged to the wall, heading for the hallway into the back. A large male bulk blocked him, and he tensed to fight his way past, then relaxed as he recognized the man. Every bar had its top dog, and here, it was undisputedly Damon Kerr, but this was just Damon’s younger brother. He was no threat— a big guy but quiet, slow, and stupid, and never one for any kind of fight. He usually stayed in the shadows and kept his mouth shut. It was pretty typical to find him with his back to the wall, simply watching.

As Nick ducked past, close enough that their shoulders and arms brushed, he said on impulse, “Come on, let’s get outta here. Back door. I don’t wanna get hauled in by the cops tonight. I bet you don’t either.”

He caught one glimpse of startled light-blue eyes, as big-little brother stared at him. Then the sound of fast-approaching sirens drove Nick on his way. Damon’s brother could follow or not. Nick could not afford to get picked up, even if he was well outside his own precinct.

He dodged around three women who were yelling threats and encouragement at the men, hurried down the hall past the reeking bathrooms, and slammed the emergency bar to open the back door. The fire alarm went off, of course, but he could already hear at least three patrol cars coming, so who cared? He swung out into the alley and sprinted for the corner, hearing other footsteps behind him doing the same. As the first lit-up black-and-white squealed into view around a corner, three blocks away, he made it to the sidewalk and slowed to a steady, innocent-looking walk.

He raised one hand to rub his nose, hiding his bleeding lip. The odds were the cops wouldn’t give him more than a glance, as long as he moved casually and didn’t draw their attention. He watched with deliberately open curiosity as they sped by, ignoring him.

The black-and-whites were safely past, pulling over in front of the bar, when someone behind him said, “You fight good.”

He whirled, putting his back to the brick wall of the pawnshop beside him. Five feet away, Damon’s brother stood eyeing him. The shop’s awning cast a deep shadow, and Nick couldn’t make out the guy’s expression, but his body language was casual, not aggressive. “You’re No-Knife Nick, right? Nok Nick? I’m Brian.”

“I’m just Nick...