With another kiss, he was gone. He had no words of reassurance for her. This could be the last time they ever saw one another. Wouldn't that be life's divine irony? To come together for the first time, after eleven years, only to get himself whacked?
These less-than-cheerful thoughts ran through his mind like a wildcat freight train as he rode down US-1. Biker traffic petered out after Port Orange. The streets of New Smyrna and Edgewater were almost completely deserted. Risking a ticket, he rumbled down the road at sixty.
The rain cut loose as he pulled into Moose's driveway. Turning up the collar of his leather biker jacket, he lit his flashlight again and made his way to the back door. This time, the heavy-set biker gang leader sat in his favorite easy chair, his glass in one hand, a Marlboro in the other. The door slammed shut behind him, and Draven knew he was in for it.
"Man disrespects me, I thow that man a beatin'," Moose said, nodding to whoever was behind Draven.
He sensed two men. Not letting either of them get a hand on him, Draven pulled a telescoping baton from his boot. With it in one fist, he slammed back as it expanded. His other fist connected with flabby gut and a handful of nuts. Both men grunted.
Jumping forward, Draven spun around, his back unavoidably to Moose. The fat leader sat still, enjoying the show. He'd been known to taze people, so Draven risked a glance at him before he faced off with the other two men. Both were big, with bulky muscles and a hefty layer of fat. Big might mean brutal, but it also meant slow. Draven was half their bulk and twice as fast.
The one to his right was Eisley, Moose's second-in-command. Snarling, he flipped a knife open. The one on the left put on a pair of brass knuckles. Smiling wickedly, they lunged at Draven.
Hopping out of their reach, Draven swatted at them with his baton. They backed him up until his left heel hit the couch. Advancing, they both took a swing at him.
Jumping nearly a meter in the air, Draven did a back flip, landing on the couch. The baton popped forward, slamming the knife from Eisley's hand before connecting with the knuckles of the other man. He followed up with hits to the balls.
Both were on the floor howling when he heard the chair leather creak. Moose made a grab at him, but Draven was too quick. He swung his baton, only to have Moose grab it from him. A sharp crack on his right arm and it went numb from elbow to fingers. Glad he was left-handed, Draven punched Moose in the jaw as the fat man raised his arm to strike again. Getting in under his guard, Draven landed a punch to the flabby gut.
With a whoosh of air, Moose dropped the baton. Draven grabbed for it, but missed as his right hand still refused to work properly. Instead, he put his foot on it so Moose couldn't pick it up again. The two men on the floor wisely chose to remain there, not offering any aid to their boss. They might pay for it later, but they'd obviously decided that Draven wasn't any fun to play with.
With a flick of his toes, Draven retrieved the baton, wielding it like a sword in front of Moose.
"You don't own me," he cautioned. "I did a favor, that's the only reason I'm here. That favor is done, I'm gone. You come after me and mine, pieces of you will go missing. Are we clear?"
Moose said nothing.
"Don't mess with me, fat man. I don't play nice with others. Remember that."
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