bucked and flopped like a fish out of water, pushing with elbows and heels. He nearly threw the biker off, succeeding in loosening his grip enough to draw a rattling breath before the fingers tightened once again. Inspired by panic, Halsey brought up his hands, clapping them over the Diablero’s ears in unison, driving a lance of pain through his attacker’s eardrums.
As the biker howled and fell away from him, Clay Halsey rolled in the other direction, pushed up to his hands and knees, then into a crouch. The biker was tough, already recovering, spewing profanity with no regard for coherent insults.
From his crouch, Halsey launched himself into a wild looping swing, saw his fist strike the biker’s large nose, felt the cartilage snap on impact. Another howl of pain and rage erupted from his opponent, as Halsey pounded the guy’s blotched, bloody face.
He could have kept punching all night, would’ve loved it, but Halsey regained his composure in time to stop short of manslaughter. Around him, the fight was still raging, onlookers still hooting and cheering.
I might as well give them a show, Halsey thought, as he rose to his feet and went back to the fray.
BOLAN PUNCHED HIS THIRD opponent in the gut, then drove a knee into his face as the Diablero folded, riding the pain. The biker’s hairy face felt spongy, but his beard and mustache weren’t effective bumpers. Impact flipped him over like a turtle on its back, sprawling.
Three down.
The soldier turned in time to see another Diablero boot one of Halsey’s friends in the face. He wondered for a second if the undercover Feds enjoyed the opportunity to cut loose on an adversary, virtually without rules and then dismissed the notion as irrelevant.
Bolan was here to win a fight, not act as referee. And if he lost, his shot at joining Halsey’s crew would vanish.
So he rushed the hairy figure who was kicking Halsey’s friend around the floor with evident delight, came at the brawler from his blind side with an elbow shot that caught his target just behind one ear. It could’ve been a knockout blow, but Bolan pulled it, spared the guy from a concussion.
Big mistake.
The phony biker rounded on him, growling like a junkyard dog, and swung a big, ring-studded fist toward Bolan’s face. The soldier dodged most of it, felt something tear his cheek. He gripped the hurtling arm and twisted it, cranking the elbow to an angle that evoked a squeal and let him spin the Diablero like an awkward dancing partner.
When he hit the Fed a second time—same ear, same elbow—Bolan put his weight behind it, making sure he got the job done.
There was no time for self-congratulation, as the last three Diableros rushed him, coming on as one. Bolan had time to wonder if their briefing had included orders not to cripple him, then he was lashing out to slam a kneecap with his steel-toed boot, rewarded by a stream of high-octane profanity.
He followed with a stiffened knife hand to the hopping biker’s abdomen, an inch or so below the sternum. Not a killing blow, although it could have been, but but Bolan’s target might believe that he was dying for a few tense moments, while his lungs remembered how to work.
He was turning toward the last two Diableros when they hit him, slamming Bolan with a fist, a knee, maybe a forehead, as they drove him back against the nearest wall with stunning force. The pair of them, together, weighed at least four hundred pounds, and the soldier’s ribs felt every ounce of that on impact, registering pain even before the bikers started pounding him.
No pulling punches here. These two had seen their friends laid out, and they were getting in their licks, regardless of their marching orders.
Payback was a bitch.
Bolan fought back with everything he had—fists, elbows, knees, a head butt for the biker on his left—but they ducked some of it, absorbed the rest and hammered him with a determination that was almost gleeful in its sheer ferocity.
If this was what they called taking a dive, Bolan was glad he didn’t have to fight the pair of them for real.
Or, then again, maybe he was.
A right hand to his forehead dimmed the lights for just a second, left him vulnerable, but before his two opponents had a chance to take advantage of it, someone grabbed the guy on Bolan’s left and dragged him backward, fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper ponytail. Squinting through his pain, Bolan saw Halsey throwing hard right hands into the reeling biker’s face, then it was time to deal with number two.
A knee slashed toward his groin, but Bolan blocked it with his thigh, taking the hit, rebounding with a straight-arm shot into his adversary’s throat. Again, Bolan pulled the killing blow and left his opposition gagging, trying to remember how he’d breathed for all the years before this night.
While he was working on it, Bolan hooked a fist into the man’s ribs—once, twice—and thought he felt one give. It was time to wrap this up and get the hell away from Scoots before the next wave hit, with badges, clubs and guns.
Halsey was moving toward him through a crimson haze. Bolan wiped blood out of his eye and braced himself, fists clenched.
“Hey, I’m not one of them,” Halsey said, raising open hands. “You jumped in on my side, remember?”
“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “Okay.”
“You want to tell me why you did that, stranger?”
“I didn’t like the odds,” Bolan said. “Looking back, it didn’t seem like such a great idea.”
“I owe you, anyway,” Halsey said. “How about a drink, somewhere without the riffraff.”
Bolan used a precious second, feigning doubt, then nodded. “Sure. Why not?”
“Okay.” Surveying his companions, Halsey added, “All I have to do is get these guys back on their feet.”
“We’d better hurry up,” Bolan replied, “before the riot squad gets here.”
THEY MADE IT TO THE parking lot with sirens wailing in the middle distance, drawing closer by the second. Bolan helped the bruised and bloodied into their vehicles, reflecting that it would be simple enough to let a pistol do his talking for him, leave them where they sat for the police to find.
Another desert mystery.
But Brognola needed evidence that Halsey and his men were up to “something big,” not simply one more group of weekend warriors with an ax to grind against big government, vague threats of socialism, or a black person in the Oval Office.
For his own sake, Bolan needed proof, as well. He hadn’t signed with Brognola and Stony Man to be a troubleshooter for the thought police. In fact, he’d fought and killed halfway around the world from home to guarantee that all Americans retained the right to curse their government in a variety of languages, for any reason they could think of.
That was freedom.
But when dissent turned into terrorism, it was time to draw a line. And when the local, state, or federal authorities were faced with clear and present dangers that defied all rules and regulations in the book, then Bolan was prepared to try a more aggressive strategy.
Illegal?
