Rescued By The Marine. Julie Miller
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“You shouldn’t have come here at all, old man,” Junior whined. The young hotshot poked the jagged edge of the bottle at the old man who must be Eddington. Mustache Man pulled back his jacket and reached for his gun. “Accusing me of stuff you know nothin’ about.”
As Junior lunged forward, Jason grabbed him from behind, lifting him off his feet and trapping his arms at his side, shaking him until his grip popped open and he dropped the bottle. Jason kicked it aside and set Junior down. The kid reeked of beer and smoke, like he’d just come in from camping. Jason shoved him back and pointed a warning finger at him. “You need to sober up and calm down.”
Junior smacked his hand away. “Get out of my face, Jase.”
“Who are you supposed to be?” Mustache Man sneered from behind him. “The cavalry? We got this covered.”
Jason turned on him next, unused to looking men straight in the eye, but not fazed by the man’s size, either. He nodded to the gun in his hand. “You need to put that away.”
“And he needs to back off,” Mustache Man warned.
“These boys aren’t armed.” No telling how many rifles and shotguns Junior and his buddies had stowed in their trucks outside. But Jason figured Mustache Man already knew that. This guy was a pro, former military if not a trained bodyguard for the old man and Blondie. Like Jason, he probably even knew about the revolver Kitty kept behind the bar for protection and to break up fights like this melee. But that didn’t mean Jason would allow him an unfair advantage over a group of young men who were too plastered to think straight. “I said put it away.”
“You ain’t fightin’ any fights for me, Jase.” Jason heard Junior squirming against the restraining grip Marty and one of the twins had on him. “I ain’t afraid of you, Eddington, or your peacekeepers you brought with ya.”
“Dante.” The silver-haired man in the pricey suit put a hand on Mustache Man’s shoulder. “Put the gun away.” But his eyes were fixed at a point beyond Jason’s shoulder. “I’ve been watching you for two years now, Mr. Cordes, and I’ve been content to keep my distance. As far as I’m concerned, justice was served the day of your father’s execution. But if you’ve done anything to my daughter, I will make it my business.”
Junior’s lips buzzed with a beer-fueled curse. “Justice, my ass.” He elbowed Marty in the gut, freeing himself. “You here to take my land, too? The way you took my daddy’s?” He charged the older man. “You’ll see how we do justice around these parts.”
Dante was definitely Eddington’s protector. The big man moved forward to block Junior. With barely a twitch of his mustache, he twisted Junior’s arm behind his back, pushing him into the dark-stained pinewood bar and smashing his face down onto the polished bar top.
One of the twins lunged forward to help his buddy. But he pulled up short, raising his hands in surrender as Mustache Man pulled his gun and aimed it squarely at the young man’s face.
“Back off,” Mustache Man warned.
Enough. Jason pulled the young man out of harm’s reach and stepped forward to take his place. The gun was now pointed at his chest, but it didn’t waver as Mustache Man’s dark eyes narrowed.
“Take a deep breath, mister,” Jason stated in a calm voice. The other suit had pulled his gun, too. An MK-23. He hadn’t seen a laser-sighted pistol since his last deployment. Didn’t know why any man would need hardware like that stateside. These two meant business.
Mustache Man pushed a little harder on Junior’s skull to keep him pinned to the bar. The damn gun didn’t move. “You are outmatched, my friend. There are two of us, and you’re not armed. I am Dante Pellegrino, owner of Pellegrino Security.”
“Good for you.” Jason wasn’t impressed by the posturing.
“Yo, Jase.” Marty Flynn materialized at Jason’s side, dusting off his cap and plunking it backward on his head. “This is Jason Hunt, Mr. Eddington. The guy I told you about. Served with him in the Corps.”
“Dante.” Like a superior officer, the bulldog who answered to Mr. Eddington spoke to his man in a tone that said he expected him to listen. “Let Cordes go. I need to talk to this man. Put your gun away. Brandon, you, too.”
With a deliberate chomp on the gum or chew he held in his cheek, Pellegrino released Junior and holstered his weapon. His sidekick did the same. When Junior sprang toward Pellegrino, Jason tripped him and shoved him out of harm’s way, warning him to walk away from the fight before Jason chose a different side.
“You, too, Kitty.” Jason’s tone was a little more indulgent with the barkeep, since she reminded him of the mother he hadn’t spoken to in two years.
“Jason Hunt, if you didn’t look so much like your daddy...” With some noisy grousing about people telling her what to do in her own place, she circled back behind the bar and put the revolver away in its drawer. “Cathy, get the broom and dustpan out of the back room.” The young waitress eagerly hurried off to do her boss’s bidding. “Wash your face while you’re back there, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Only after the weapons were all accounted for did Jason take his eyes off Pellegrino. He glanced over to where Junior was downing a surviving shot of some dark liquor and grinning like an idiot. “Go on home.” He nodded to his cohorts who were already gathering their jackets and hats. “One of you sober enough to drive?”
One of the twins—Orin, he thought—nodded. He’d been the one with the gun shoved in his face. He shrugged into a lined denim jacket. “Yes, sir.”
But Junior had been the son of a fiercely independent militia leader. In addition to inheriting his father’s rebellious attitude toward all things authoritarian, he was a little too drunk to choose keeping his mouth shut and leaving as the wiser course of action. He adjusted his stained and twisted cowboy hat over the crown of his head. “You owe me, Eddington. You owe my family. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”
Kitty circled around the bar with a tray and wet rag to clean the messy table. “Please, Junior, just go. Drinks are on the house. Whatever beef you’ve got with these people—”
“You don’t need to do me any favors. I ain’t so broke that I can’t pay my debts.” He tossed a couple of bills onto the table before turning to volley one last shot. “You took my daddy from me, Eddington. You watch out or I’ll take something from you.”
“Damn you, Cordes.” The older man surged forward. “If you’ve harmed my daughter in any way... I’ll give you the money right now if it means getting her—”
“You can’t give him the cash.” Pellegrino moved to intercede, but Jason hooked his arm around Pellegrino’s shoulder to stop him from turning this argument into another fight, especially when Kitty would be caught in the middle of it. Pellegrino sloughed off Jason’s hold and bounced a warning glare from his dark eyes.
Kitty stepped in front of the older man. “I told you, Junior has been here all night, playing cards. He couldn’t have taken your daughter.”
Taken? That word left a very bad taste in Jason’s mouth. What had Marty gotten him into?
“I’m goin’, Kitty. I’m goin’.” With his posse urging him toward the door, Junior put on his jacket. He paused when he brushed past Jason’s shoulder, looking up as though seeing him for the first time. “I could have taken him, you know.” No, he couldn’t. Not with the buzz on that clouded his judgment and coordination. Not against firepower like Pellegrino and his man were carrying. “You talk to your daddy recently? You’re lucky you still can. I heard Nolan’s been to see the doctor a couple of times this last month. You ought to call home sometime, instead of spending all your days building that cabin up in the woods. Or interferin’ with my business.”
A flash of concern that Jason’s father, Nolan Hunt, was facing