Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(99)
"Just make sure he's fit to talk afterwards," Connor replied softly. He addressed Billy. "Cindy told her sister that she wanted to go home. We're just here to give her a ride. We don't want any trouble."
"Hear that, guys? He doesn't want any trouble," Vega sneered. "Isn't that sweet. Too f*ckin' bad, *, because you found some."
The loose battle formation started closing in on them. He and Sean sauntered closer. He made a big show of his limp as he scanned them for signs of weapons. Miles hesitated, and hurried after them.
Connor caught Sean's eye and nicked a questioning glance toward Miles. Sean gave him a who-knows? eyebrow twitch.
Too many unknowns. He wished he'd told Erin to gun the engine and drive straight home, but she probably wouldn't have obeyed him anyhow. There was no way out of this now except for through.
Billy's eyes narrowed when they landed on Miles. "I know you. You're that stupid band's autistic sound geek, huh? What's your name again, you big ugly f*ck? Igor?"
"You hit her," Miles said. His voice was shaking.
"She was begging for it," Billy said. "The useless bitch."
Miles lowered his head like a bull and charged. Connor and Sean both hissed in anticipatory agony as Billy jerked aside, ducking the wild roundhouse punch, and rammed his fist up into Miles's belly. Miles doubled over, choking, and Billy followed up with a knee to Miles's face and a vicious elbow jammed down into his kidney. The kid went down like a felled tree. Shit. They should've coached him, but watching X-Files videos in the basement was no way to train for a street fight. Everybody had to learn the hard way. There were no shortcuts.
No time to fret, though, because Miles's opening gambit was the signal for the fun to begin. The goons closed in, and they got real busy, moving as if through unmeasurable slow-time, a state that he always slipped into in combat situations. Sean exploded into action at his side with a spinning kick that caught one of Billy's thugs in the teeth and sent him bouncing off the hood of a car. Flashy, as always.
Billy ran straight at him, bellowing. Connor flipped the cane up into guard. Billy lunged for the bait and gripped the cane, and Connor flip-twisted it, trapped Billy's wrist with his hand, and whipped it down until the bones in Billy's wrist snapped.
Billy lurched forward, sucking air. Connor tossed him away and spun to deal with the guy behind him. He parried the punch, sliced the heel of his hand down onto the bridge of the guy's nose, and kneed him smartly in the groin. A gurgling shriek; two down. Another attack; a sweep of the cane, a quick, judicious elbow jab to the throat, and he used the guy's own leftover momentum to fling him straight into his buddy, who was coming at Connor from behind. The two men crashed to the ground. The point of his boot to the kidney finished off the first guy, a forefinger stabbed into the soft pulse point under the ear finished off the second. Four down. Not bad, for a gimp.
Miles stumbled to his feet again and launched himself at Billy. Billy toppled, broke his fall with his broken wrist, and screamed. Miles started pummeling him. Good man. Connor left him to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sean smash one guy's kneecap and then spin through the air like a dervish as he went for the next attacker, but he couldn't pay real close attention; the last two guys were circling him warily and both of them had pulled out knives. He danced back, panting, and tried to keep both in his peripheral vision. His bad leg was trembling beneath him.
Darkness rippled, a flurry of movement. One of his opponents flew, shrieking, across the parking lot. He smashed into the grill of a big Chevy pickup truck and slid limply to the ground, twitching.
The other looked around himself, backed away, and fled.
"Hey, Davy," Connor called out.
Davy stepped out of the shadows, dressed in black. He tossed the blade he'd taken from the guy up into the air, and caught it, nodding his approval. "Nice balance," he said calmly. "Maybe I'll keep this one."
"Thanks," Connor said.
"You're welcome."
"But I could've taken them on my own," Connor added.
Davy looked amused. "You're still welcome."
Connor looked around. Eight guys were sprawled out in various attitudes of pain and penitence on the ground. Miles landed a wet-sounding punch in Billy's face and hauled off for another.
"Whoa. Miles! Hold off on him," he called out.
"He hit Cindy," Miles panted.
"So beat him to a pulp later. First let me interrogate him. OK?"
Miles subsided, and dragged himself to his feet. He was shaking so violently he could hardly stand. His mouth and jaw were covered with blood that streamed from his broken nose, and one of the lenses of his glasses was shattered. "I want to learn to fight like you guys."
The three of them exchanged wry glances. Miles had no idea what it cost to learn to fight like that. Their father had taught them hand-to-hand combat practically since they could walk, and lucky for them, since Crazy Eamon's wild boys were the target of every angry * spoiling for a fight in all of Endicott Falls and its environs. They would have gotten slaughtered regularly if they hadn't trained like commandos.
Eamon had been an expert in several disciplines, but as time went on, each brother developed his own preferences. Davy was drawn to the mystical stuff: kung fu, aikido, tai chi, and all the woo-woo philosophy that went with it. Connor preferred the angular, straightforward practicality of karate. Sean favored the acrobatic stuff, full of flying kicks and back flips. And that training had saved their asses. Many times. Just as their father had assured them that it would.