Free Blood Brothers by Keith Latch Page A

into the embrace of danger.
    It is no secret that many people despise
confrontation. A person will go completely out of his way, humble
himself in such a manner that will later embarrass him to no end,
in order to avoid meeting the threat of another head on. Michael
himself had once been that way.
    But no longer. And in this lay one of the
greatest secrets of his success.
    Michael Cole equated avoidance of a
confrontation, no matter the reason, as simply tucking tail and
running, the coward’s way out. Despite all the things Michael was,
he was no coward.
    “Trista,” Michael said, as he came within a
few feet. “Your water is getting warm.” He held out the bottle and
shook it.
    Before she could respond, Skinhead
intervened. “Take a hike, GQ.”
    “GQ, huh? That’s awfully kind. Thing is, the
lady owes me a dance.”
    Skinhead turned, forgetting Trista, at least
for the moment. He stepped to Michael. The man had a few inches on
him, not to mention about a hundred pounds of what looked like pure
muscle. “The thing for you to do, buddy, is take a fucking
hike.”
    Michael looked up at the larger man. But only
for the blink of an eye. Then he reached his hand out to Trista.
She accepted and he tugged her from the wall. Apparently, this
utter display of disrespect was too much for this fashionably
challenged, overgrown Aryan to stomach.
    “Okay. I warned you.” He made a huge show of
rearing back his arm and shoulder for a haymaker. Michael, who’d
been in his fair share of tussles in his time, had learned the
subtle nuances of telegraphed movements during a physical
altercation. None of those learned skills were necessary at the
moment. Stevie Wonder could have seen this swing coming.
    Michael pushed Trista back, out of the way.
He waited, waited, waited for the fist to come. When finally it
came, Michael easily ducked below it, allowing the huge rump roast
of a fist and the side of beef arm to sail safely overhead. By the
whoosh of air, Michael knew that, though the strike was pitifully
slow, there had been, nonetheless, real power in the attack. He
readied a counterstrike, but before he could properly execute it,
he was caught off-guard.
    The uppercut banged his teeth together,
jarring his vision. A bell rang somewhere deep within his head.
Shock threatened to overtake him.
    Blinking furiously, Michael struggled to
regain control of his faculties. If not, he would no doubt be
pummeled into a bloody pulp. Not the best way to end the evening.
No sir, no way. He finally got his bearings, and not a second too
soon.
    A heavy booted foot struck out in the
direction of Michael’s groin. Somehow, someway, Michael grabbed the
leg. Using his left foot as a plant, he swept the man’s remaining
leg, his only source of support, dropping him to the floor.
    The big son of a bitch toppled and dropped to
the floor like a ton of bricks. Michael was not one to leave well
enough alone. He moved quickly, like a warm knife through butter,
as he guided his leg up over the man’s upper torso and dropped a
foot down on his nose. He could have easily have crushed the man’s
larynx but that seemed, even to him, a bit excessive. Better to
damage the nose. Fill the eyes with water and the nostrils with
blood, making pursuit impossible rather than causing serious and
irreparable harm. Better to simply stun the man and get away, than
eventually be found and, worse than a beating, have to shell out
money to this punk for the rest of his natural life just because
some bleeding heart judge felt sorry for society’s lowlifes.
    Skinhead was down for the count, his hands
fussing with his now sopping red face.
    Breathing hard, Michael was ready to scram.
Trista was beside him, the heat of her body a very real, very
pleasant sensation.
    “Ready to go?” he asked.
    “Just one minute,” she replied. She, now
steeled by Michael’s presence, positioned herself like a pro
football punter and snapped out a field goal on Skinhead’s balls.
The big