Shallow Creek

But he only took one step in Fisher’s direction before strong hands locked onto his arms.  He turned his head as a solid kick to the back of his leg dropped him to his knees.  The coordination and suddenness of the attack surprised him, but he instantly shot back to his feet and lashed out in all directions.  His right arm came free from its restraint, and his fist whipped across his body to score a direct hit against the jaw of the man on his left.  The guy’s face disappeared from the cone of light, only to rebound back into it with a hellish fury etched into its brow.  Unfortunately, the man’s hands held firm.  Before Brendan could land another punch, something heavy and blunt struck the back of his skull, knocking him back to his knees, where his captors forced his arms up behind his back.  The old shrapnel injury in his shoulder protested profusely, but not a sound escaped his mouth.

“You’re pretty quick, but not quick enough.” Fisher casually came around the desk.  He parked his rear end on the table, and then bent down to lift Brendan’s face to his own.  “You’re probably thinking about how bad an idea this was, am I right?”

When Brendan said nothing, Fisher eased away, and then struck like a coiled cobra, smacking the teeth loose on the left side of Brendan’s mouth and knocking the small bud from his ear.  The taste of blood hit him almost as hard as the seething rage begging for a chance to crush Fisher’s face.  No matter how much he thrashed, Fisher’s goons held him in check, now obviously far more respectful of Brendan’s abilities.  For the first time, Brendan thought hailing Marcus might’ve been a good idea about two minutes ago.  On cue, someone pulled the radio off his belt and tossed it to Fisher.

“You didn’t come alone?” Fisher asked, feigning shock.  He placed the walkie-talkie on the desk and nodded to some unseen goons, presumably commanding them to go find Marcus.

“So you want to distribute crystal meth, Brendan?” Fisher asked, stroking his bloodied knuckles.  Brendan didn’t acknowledge the question, so Fisher continued.  “There’s two options here.  Either you’re not really a dealer, in which case, I want to know why the fuck you’re here, or you’re really a dealer, in which case I want to know why the fuck you’re here.”

Brendan just glared back at the man he thought he’d known.  Anger started to fade as embarrassment rose to take its place.  Fisher hit him again, this time a little higher, closer to the eye.  The swelling sensations started almost immediately.

“Marines are tough, but this ain’t worth it, man,” Fisher told him, once again sitting back onto the edge of the desk.  “If you just explain yourself, we won’t fucking kill you.  How’s that sound?”

The fury was back, that primal anger that knew no bounds, the rage that knew no control once the leash came off.  And now his collar felt slack.  The previous thump to the back of his head indicated he’d get one shot at this before they were on him.  His anger assured him that’s all he’d need.

Fisher was talking again, but Brendan wasn’t listening.  The thugs pinned him down as he struggled to push back.  He upped the intensity until he felt the right amount of resistance.

Faster than his captors could anticipate, Brendan ducked forward and wrenched both hands free.  Fisher flipped backwards over the desk in retreat.  Brendan swiveled and saw the man to his right caught off balance.  A quick kick to the side of the bastard’s knee evoked an unhealthy pop that left the man shrieking and falling.

Lying on his back now, Brendan’s hand went to his pocket as three shadowy figures entered the lighted circle.  The first came at him with all the brazen confidence of a man who wasn’t used to his prey fighting back.  Brendan waited for the guy to grab his shirt with both hands.  The folding knife flipped open in Brendan’s right hand as his arm shot straight towards the man’s groin.  As the knife penetrated up to the handle, the goon’s grip slackened enough to drop Brendan back to the floor.  The guy’s face twisted in pain as he jerked away suddenly, wrenching the knife from Brendan’s grasp.

Sensing his advantage dwindling, Brendan kicked the ailing man over and regained his own feet.  The desk stood to his back, and two men with billy clubs slowly approached from the front.  The one on the right sported a ridiculous bleached mohawk and some trashy facial hair.  He spoke with all the elegance of a Cockney wanker.

“You fancy a go then, mate?” Mohawk asked, slapping the club into the palm of his hand.  His shirt had no sleeves, revealing fully tattooed arms that hinted this Englishman thought he was a badass.

“How about I knock a few of those crooked-ass teeth out for you?”

To Brendan’s left, moans from his first victims echoed in the darkness beyond the reach of the overhead spotlight.  A rustle came from behind him.

Fisher.