

Road House Legacy

By

Ivan 'Doc' Holiday

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Ivan 'Doc' Holiday

All Rights Reserved.

Dedicated to

Patrick "Dalton" Swayze

August 18, 1952 – September 14, 2009

# Chapter 1

In the city in Vero Landing summers were hot and sticky. This one was no different. The metal fence that surrounded the brick building that had once been a church showed its years in water stains and rust spots. There was no wind to combat the heat today. The flagpole out front stood tall as the overhanging roof; the flags hung motionless. A Marine Corps flag just below the stars and stripes was starting to show its age in its faded colors. Music can be heard in the distance as a vehicle rounds the street corner and enters the front gate. AC/DC rock music is screaming from the stereo.

A black jeep pulled into a VIP parking spot that had a metal sign with the word _Sensei_ on it.

A big man with a blonde buzz cut in Oakley shades pounded the steering wheel as he drummed to the beat.

Marty Daggert killed the tunes as he cut the engine and slid out of the jeep. He pulled a canvas gym bag off the passenger seat and stood back to admire the view of his school. The words _Iron Tiger Dojo and Gym_ were painted on a big sign that hung over the front entrance.

Marty advanced to the front door and unlocked it. A couple of marine dog tags rattled against his keys as he pulled them from the lock and entered the gym. He turned on the florescent lights that hung from the tall ceiling. Marty opened an old wooden door directly to his right and stepped into his office. He moved behind a large oak desk and threw his gym bag in the chair. He noticed the red blinking light on his answering machine and pressed the button.

Katherine Boone's voice was soft but direct and to the point.

"Marty, I got your message. I appreciate your offer to go to dinner and a movie, I'm flattered, but I don't feel it's fitting for an owner to date an employee. I think our dating would send the wrong message to our other staff at the bar but thanks. Bye."

Marty slammed his finger down on the erase button. He breathed in deeply through clenched teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fuckin' bitch," he hissed as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Two years working that number and still no dice. Well if I ain't tappin' that keg nobody's tappin' it either."

Marty finished undressing and put on his black Gi. On the back of the gi was an embroidered image of a serpent with nine heads, an exact duplicate of the tattoo on his back. Marty stepped out of the office and entered the main gym area to prepare for the evening class. He snapped a salute in the tall mirror that ran the length of the gym wall.

He rocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck like a whip as he flexed and stretched out his six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty-pound frame. "You still got it, Marine," he sneered at his reflection in the mirror. " Semper Fi - Do or Die!" Marty growled as he struck a muscular pose. In the mirror, Marty saw a rock solid fighting machine, a Veteran, a war hero. He refused to see it any other way. As far as he was concerned, the Marines did him wrong. They screwed him over. The military court martial was one hundred per cent political bullshit as he saw it. Marty stared hard into the gym mirror, his eyes almost trance-like.

"You self-righteous sons of bitches," Marty spoke to the imaginary image just behind his reflection in the mirror. Soon that image took the shape of four high-ranking military officers seated at a large wooden table, thumbing through Marty's military file.

The ghosts of war were back for the reckoning.

General Court-Martial proceedings:

Dept. of Defense –

United States Marine Corp Docket #B114525454

Defendant :

Gunnery Sergeant Marty Daggert

2nd Marine Div. 9th platoon - Desert Storm

The investigation was conducted pursuant to Article 32, USMC by a commissioned officer. The accused, his defense counsel, and a government representative were present during the Article 32 investigation hearing.

The following is the Record of one

Corporal Wayne Williams

2nd Marine Div. 9th platoon - Desert Storm

The Al-Wafrah oil fields were not too far away. The minefields had been under the watchful eyes of Marine Snipers throughout the night. Sgt. Marty Daggert deployed a two man recon team. The already dark night sky was made much worse by the oil well fires that burned like giant birthday cake candles in a dark room.

Thick black smoke shot high into the air, blocking all the natural light. The fires themselves could be seen from horizon to horizon as the flames lit up the dark desert. The recon team radioed back that they had spotted two Soviet made Iraqi T-55 main battle tanks. But, to be sure, they were going to have to get a closer look. Fifteen minutes later it was confirmed that the tanks had been previously destroyed by allied air strikes. The whole area showed signs of a war zone. Other fires burned in the distance of what used to be enemy armored vehicles, artillery cannons, and supply trucks. Now they were nothing but worthless twisted pieces of melting steel. Five clicks (kilometers) north we found an area that was littered with Iraqi debris. 9th platoon participated in clearing operations of the houses, buildings, and bunkers in the Al-Wafrah Forest sectors.

Shots were fired. However this was standard operating procedure when clearing houses or buildings. At various places, dead enemy soldiers lay in the sand. The nauseating smell of burning flesh was thick in the air. Our platoon began to search the area and found bunkers stockpiled with Soviet ammunition. Sgt. Daggert found folding stock AK-47 assault rifles in a tunnel outside one of the bunkers. Sgt. Daggert reported these findings to Intelligence at HQ. HQ came back a few minutes later with a report that these weapons specifically belonged to either an Iraqi Republican Guard unit or to an Iraqi Special Forces/Commando type unit.

_This confirmed what the Intelligence at HQ had suspected all along. Somewhere close by was an Elite Iraqi unit. HQ ordered us to stop. They wanted us to deploy security and recon patrols for the night. On the morning of February 28_ th _, 1991, HQ radioed us that a ceasefire was in the works and would most likely be implemented within hours. Sgt. Daggert took this information with anger and disbelief. He seemed angry that the war was actually winding down. As far as he was concerned there were still hostile Iraqi soldiers in Kuwait._

Sgt. Daggert was really ticked off because we had been in the combat zone for several days now and had not been allowed to engage the enemy in a single firefight. Sgt. Daggert then said, "I'm a Marine, not a fucking babysitter." A few hours later the official report was received by myself and Sgt. Daggert. All offensive combat operations were to cease immediately.

Sgt. Daggert ordered me to disregard the report and to prepare the men to move out. Sgt. Daggert informed the platoon that we would be engaging an Iraqi Republican Guard unit at a stronghold three clicks northwest of our position in the Al-Wafrah Forest region. In private I told Sgt. Daggert that this was a direct violation of the ceasefire. Sgt. Daggert replied, "What ceasefire, Corporal?"

We later arrived at our target zone, where Sgt. Daggert and 9th platoon engaged an Iraqi military unit. When it was over, we had killed twenty Iraqi insurgents and lost four marines. I knew at this point I needed to do something. Even my fellow marines suspected that Sgt Daggert had had a mental breakdown and was not fit for command. In private I radioed command with our coordinates and reported that Sgt. Daggert had gone rogue.

I was ordered to subdue Sgt. Daggert by any means until the special MP unit arrived by Black Hawk chopper. I and the remaining men held Sgt. Daggert at gunpoint until the MPs arrived. Sgt. Daggert was taken into custody approximately six hours after this.

The imaginary Military Judge reading the deposition stopped and looked up from the report he held in his hands. His eyes became black sockets blazing hellfire as he pointed a boney finger at the accused. Marty's eyes were now wide open and glaring intensely into the gym mirror. Fear and anger kicked his paranoia into overdrive as he began to shout at the specters in the mirror. "Cpl Williams is a traitor!" Marty yelled. "He is a coward and a fucking disgrace!" Marty paused for a second to gather himself. "Disobeying orders! You fuckers! I got the job done. Yes, yes goddammit, I lost men. But they knew the risk when they signed up!" Marty spat. "It's called collateral damage, you goddamn pimps!" Marty pointed a finger at the specter in the mirror.

"You can stick that General Court Martial up your fuckin' ass!" The tribunal vision began to fade away, giving way to ghosts in white hospital jackets that began to surround Marty's reflection in the mirror, each one holding a large hypodermic needle. Marty howled like a demon locked in a pentagram as he reeled back from the mirror.

A powerful roundhouse kick sent the nearest heavy bag propelling backwards like a dead man swinging on the gallows. Marty landed and crouched with both feet planted firmly on the floor. He lunged at the returning heavy bag with a solid hammer punch, sending it flying off in another direction. The heavy bag chain screeched under the strain. Marty followed up with a flurry of punches and elbow strikes. He kept hitting the bag until the phantoms in the white hospital jackets were again locked away in his head. In the end, when Marty stopped, he was totally exhausted. He walked slowly toward the locker room and showered.

A migraine pounded his skull like ocean waves hammering the hull of a grounded ship. Marty pressed his right palm against his forehead in an attempt to relieve the nauseating pain above his right eye.

A trail of sweat marked his every step. Ten years and the hellhounds still ran his trail. At first it was just in his sleep, but in the last couple of years it had become worse. PTSD with Antisocial Personality Disorder, the VA doctors said. They described him as "an interesting study" during his incarceration at the mental health unit following the court martial.

The waves before long would subside and Marty would be back in rare form. The students were in for a hard night tonight. Marty liked to take his frustrations out on the students' asses, more so tonight given that Katherine had denied his advances at the Saloon.

Marty didn't take rejection well.

# Chapter 2

Katherine stood at the kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes. She periodically gazed out the window at her ten-year-old daughter, Casey, playing on the dock. It's a beautiful, sunny Florida day, with a warm breeze that made the small boats rock back and forth in their slips. Katherine, her father, Chet, and Casey lived in a modest brick house that shared ten acres of land with their family business _The Booncat Seaside Saloon_. A small two-storey bait and tackle shop sat just one hundred feet off the east side of the bar.

A large wooden deck ran around two-thirds of the saloon. The saloon was located directly in front a small boat dock that joined the Inter-coastal waterway.

The land, the water rights and the two buildings had been in the Boone family since the whaling days. Chet "Pops" Boone came in the door, stomped his boots on the mat and removed his gray cheese cutter hat to reveal a semi-bald head.

"Sons of bitches," he mumbled. "Those suits just don't take no for an answer! If I wanted to sell my place, hell, I'd put up a damn sign!" Pops shook his head as his words trailed off.

"Don't cuss, Dad, Casey might hear you," Katherine said as she walked over to the coffeemaker. She pulled a ceramic coffee mug from the cabinet above the sink and began to fill it.

At the kitchen table Chet pulled out a chair and threw a business card down on the table. "Casey hears worse at school," he smirked. Katherine just shook her head and smiled as she handed her father his coffee.

Katherine's strawberry blonde hair hung in waves off her shoulders, but on most days she preferred it braided thick and long like a Viking maiden as her father liked to call her.

Emerald green eyes complemented her fair complexion and attractive facial features. At thirty-three, she had a soft voice and hadn't changed since her teens. Small freckles dotted her cheeks, adding to her schoolgirl smile and charm. Katherine was athletically built from gymnastics as a young girl. Womanhood took care of the rest, blessing her with a perfection of curves and angles.

"You're as beautiful as your mother, God bless her soul." Her dad sighed as he put on his cheese cutter. At sixty-six years old "Pops" looked good. A serious middleweight back in the day, he many times recalled with great pride sparring with the likes of Sugar Ray Robinson and Jake La Motta. It was an era when prize fighters were hungry and hard as nails. Pops was old school and didn't take any bullshit.

Back in the day he packed beer and bartended with a reputation respected by all who knew him. But there were those who were strange or just plain stupid who decided to push an issue or pick argument and ended up on the receiving end of his bone crushing left hook.

"Grandpa," Casey yelled as she came running through the kitchen door.

Casey was: a smaller version of her mother: blond hair, green eyes and a smile that could melt a glacier.

"How's my princess this fine day?" Pops greeted his granddaughter.

"I'm fine grandpa. I was just playing on the dock," she said, beaming. Katherine smiled as she pulled the drain plug and emptied the dish water from the sink. She remembered when Casey was born.

David was home on leave.

_He loved his daughter so much and was so proud the day we came home from the hospital_ , she reminisced.

Katherine stood motionless as she stared past Casey and her dad at the wedding picture of her and David hanging in hallway. Her heart filled with sadness as she recalled that dreadful day – the day all military wives feared; the knock at the door from the men dressed in class "A"s. She could still remember her watery eyes locked on the one soldier's medals, afraid to look the death dealer in the face. The words ripped thru her like shards of glass.

David's jet had crashed in the desert and she really didn't need the rest of the story. They had left her with an official looking envelope and their sincere condolences.

She couldn't recall how long she had stood at the door after watching the officers drive off, nor could she remember how long it had taken her to open the letter.

All she could remember of David's military funeral was the flag-draped casket and how the regiment's rifle fire made her jump. She couldn't recall the officer's words as he handed her the folded American flag at the end of the ceremony.

Katherine quickly turned back toward the window above the kitchen sink fighting to keep the tears at bay. Pops recognized the dark clouds of sadness hanging over his daughter and decided she needed a quick change of scenery.

"Let's go in the boat for a ride," Pops declared.

"Oh yeah!" Casey shouted.

"Katherine?" Pops said

Katherine turned back from the window with a strained smile.

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea."

# Chapter 3

BOOM BOOM BOOM. 50 Cent hip hop music blasted out of a boom box sitting in the sand. Sticks was into his rap, pumpin' to the beat as he lip-synced the rapper's songs word for word. A long tall skinny frame hidden under baggy clothes, Sticks pulled out his nuchakus and spun them as he took a kung-fu stance.

Sticks gyrated as his free hand shot a gang sign at his fellow G-Men. The beach was deserted and a cool night breeze blew off the water.

A large bonfire lit the area as its ominous light reflected off the Japanese motorcycles that surrounded the encampment.

"All Raw baby," Sticks took a pound from his homie T-Bone.

"Thug-life dawg," T-Bone fired back.

T-Bone, at three hundred pounds, was the big man of the group with a mouth full of gold grill set into a large oval face. T-bone turned to Tommyhawk and shouted, "Yo, Chico, come off a line of that cake, dawg." Tommyhawk ignored T-bone as he snorted a thin line of cocaine off the flat side of his chrome-bladed Tomahawk. Tommyhawk sat cross legged in the sand. He looked more Mexican than the Comanche birthright he concocted. "I'm talkin' to you, you wetback motherfucker," T-bone shouted.

"I'm not fucking Mexican!" Tommyhawk yelled back.

"And I don't share my white shit with black shit!"

T-bone stared at the cross-legged figure. "If the King wasn't here, I'd bust a cap in your rollin' ass, beaner!"

A loud voice boomed across the sand. "Cut the shit!" Beef did not tolerate fighting among the brothers. Way he saw it, there should be no doubts when it came to the hierarchy of the group or respect for the chain of command.

Beef was Sergeant-at-arms and second in command of King Cyrus's gang, The Demon Legion. Six feet two inches in height and weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, Beef was solid. Years of steroids and pumping iron in the prison yard made him one bad mother.

"We got a problem, Beef?"

The words of impending doom came from one of the two shadowy figures just out of the reach of the bonfire's light. "No problems, my King," Beef replied.

The leader, King Cyrus, and his number one bitch, Lady Medusa, were too busy to join the pack. King Cyrus, at forty, was a solid two hundred pounds and built like a prizefighter. His head supported a platinum white Mohawk. His square jaw sported a small devilish silver goatee.

No one fucked with King Cyrus; he was a solid leader, both admired and feared by his men. A sleeveless leather duster showing off his seventeen inch rock-hard guns and a mojo walking stick with a hidden Katana blade inside were King's tell-tale trademarks. He considered himself supreme warlord and had the strength and skill to back his claim.

A self-proclaimed Samurai warrior, it was going to take a big dog to dethrone him. Every King needed a queen, and Lady Medusa was Queen of the Dammed. Lady Medusa stood five feet five inches in her stocky athletic skeleton. She hailed from the Louisiana bayou and was of Creole descent. She had dark eyes and jet black hair braided in small quarter inch braids tied with small sharp silver spearheads.

Tattoos and piercings marked her body in pentagrams and ancient symbols. Lady Medusa was a self-proclaimed Voodoo priestess. She claimed to be a direct descendant of the great Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau. Her dabbling in dark magic and animal sacrifices made the gang members nervous, and they avoided her whenever possible.

They held on solid to the notion that Medusa had a spell on their leader.

Fear is a mighty leash that binds even the fiercest.

None of the gang members ever forgot the argument that their brother JoJo had with Medusa a few months back.

He had called her "Janky Hoe cake." King Cyrus stepped in and iced the situation, but Medusa felt she had been disrespected and her reputation slandered. She was not a person to let bygones be bygones.

With the dark eyes of a killer shark, she spat and pointed a claw-like fingernail at JoJo who stood behind King Cyrus. Her eyes rolled back as she began to chant some dark Voodoo incantation. Two days later, they found JoJo dead, his eyes bulging out of their sockets and white foam flowing from his lips. It was even rumored that there was a snake crawling out of his ass! This shot fear through the gang like a plague. Even TommyHawk wore a Comanche medicine bag and Booman would kiss the Christian cross chained around his neck each time she crossed their path. Even King Cyrus himself feared Medusa at times. She was a master of mind games and manipulation.

Much like a person who keeps a poisonous snake for a pet – a dangerous liaison is the end result. In the eyes of the many, Medusa ruled as queen but wore the King's crown.

In a Cajun accent that sounded like the hiss of a cobra, Medusa whispered in the ear of the King, "What do you fear, my love?"

"I fear nothing," King Cyrus replied, pulling Medusa closer and kissing her hard. Medusa bit down on King Cyrus's bottom lip. The King recoiled and growled, "Fuckin' bitch!"

Drawing back a hand to strike out at the cause of his pain, he hastily reconsidered his decision as he felt the cold point of Medusa's sacrificial dagger against his ribs.

Medusa licked the blood off her lips as her black eyes became as cold as the blade she wielded.

"You mean 'fucking witch' my love," she mocked seductively. King Cyrus's anger quickly turned to desire as he dropped to his knees in the sand before her, his head against her stomach as he embraced her. "My queen," he spoke softly.

"My king," Medusa purred as she stroked his head.

The bizarre romantic moment was cut short when King Cyrus rose quickly and stepped away to answer his cell phone.

On the phone was his unknown employer, a voice known only as Mr. Hyde. King Cyrus received cash by mail and instructions by phone.

That was it. King Cyrus was tense as Mr. Hyde spoke.

"We have an agreement. You have half your money and my people want the land. Now, I need the heat turned up and the Boone clan out so I can close the deal."

Mr. Hyde continued, "I can't pay you the rest of the money if you don't deliver on time. I don't get paid, you don't get paid. Do I make myself clear?"

King Cyrus grunted. "Crystal."

"Then handle it," Mr. Hyde snapped and was gone.

King Cyrus spoke to the darkness in an angered voice, "Nobody tells me how to handle my shit. The fucker wants heat, I'll crank up the heat!"

# Chapter 4

The Booncat Seaside Saloon had weathered with the ages and the wrath of father time. It had been in the Boon family for three generations. Back in the early days of the saloon, seamen, bar maids and whiskey were the norm. The Booncat was the place to be then. But much of the days gone by lingered only in the old timers stories and long forgotten pictures that were stored in the family attic. A jukebox had replaced the antique player piano and worn wooden signs were swapped out for neon. These days the Booncat played host to rednecks, bikers, truckers and school teachers. It was the local watering hole, and folks enjoyed the family-owned establishment and the beautiful view of the Intracoastal waterway that passed behind it.

The saloon inside had four well-aged wooden bars that served the patrons in two rooms. Some patrons wondered how many old time buccaneers had bellied up to the bronze rail for a shot of rot gut. Large wooden poles adorned with anchors and sea brass were staggered throughout the building to support the barn style roof. The main barroom had a reasonable size dance floor with a small DJ booth. Square wooden tables and matching chairs adorned the main floor along with two pool tables situated in the rear corner just across from the jukebox.

Long blue Budweiser lights hung from small chains hovered over the pool tables. Next to the pool area was a set of western style swinging saloon doors that led to the outside deck overlooking the boat dock. It was a quiet place Monday to Wednesday. Just regulars, a jukebox and drink specials. But Thursday to Saturday, the Booncat got hoppin' pretty good. It was now seven p.m. and the night shift staff started straggling in. Customers were already starting to gather for happy hour drink specials.

The DJ, Russell "The Love Muscle" Valdez is a short fifty-year-old Spanish man, semi-bald, with black greased-back hair and a pencil thin mustache. His signature macho long sleeved disco shirt was unbuttoned to the waist to reveal a number of gold chains nested in his thick dark chest hair. Skin tight black slacks and a pair of white python skin cowboy boots completed what Russell called "The total package – a self-proclaimed cross between John Travolta and Don Juan Demarco. Handing out free roses and hand kisses made him a hit with the older ladies in the crowd. He played everything from Spanish love songs to country rock to Kid Rock. All in all, it was the best place in town and it got packed with patrons quick. One of the bouncers, Blueboy, came out of the bathroom slicking back his jet black hair as he hummed an Elvis tune. Blueboy was an Elvis fanatic and impersonator. At twenty-four, his blue eyes and dyed blue-black hair made him popular with the local ladies. Blueboy was a good looking young man with a touch of the King's Rock & Roll looks. On Karaoke night, he could sing a damn good version of "Blue Suede Shoes." He had worked as a bouncer at the saloon for about six months.

Blueboy passed by Russell and shouted, "Russell theee Looove Muscle! What's the good word, baby!"

"Cruisin' amigo, ready for a big night with the ladies," Russell replied in his thick Spanish accent. Blueboy snapped an Elvis karate stance and pointed his finger at the DJ. "TCB Baby!"

At the other end of the bar sat another bouncer, Croft. He liked Blueboy, but hated Elvis music. "Hey, Blueboy, why don't you sing down in the valley and I'll pack you a lunch?" Blueboy pointed his comb at Croft, snapped his hips and replied, "Don't be cruel, man," in his best Elvis impression as the black comb glistened thick with hair grease.

"Son, you are one crazy-ass white boy," Croft fired back as Blueboy went back behind the main bar. Croft was a forty-five year old black man with a scatman-like raspy voice. In his late teens, Croft had been a baseball prodigy scouted by the Dodgers in his senior year. Back in his glory days, when Crawford "Downtown" Brown was at the bat, shit was going downtown, which happened to be directly behind the home run fence deep in the cheap seats. Home runs were his trademark and he hit a shitload. But fate dealt Croft a shitty hand when a drunk driver hit him walking home on a dark rainy night. One year in rehab and two surgical procedures on his lower back ended Croft's chances of ever going to the big show. Croft figured the Lord had his reasons and never questioned them. Crawford Brown liked working as a bouncer. It took his mind off of yesterday and what might have been.

Crystal Cail, known as CC, came in the back door, her dirty blonde hair in a ponytail and thick black frame glasses that were classic CC. Still rubbing her eyes from a hard night of partying, Crystal headed straight for the coffeepot. CC was the only female bouncer working at the saloon. She was a twenty six year old surfer girl with a stocky build and a healthy body. But it was Crystal's glasses that were her Achilles heel. Without her thicker than normal lenses, CC's vision was about as good as a blind mouse's. She grew up in a tough New England town with four older brothers and learned to fight to survive.

A wildcat with a hell of a temper, if the glasses came off in a brawl, she hit any blur that moved. Quick to prove she was good as any man, CC was one tough chick.

Bouncer Bongo Bob, at thirty years old, was five feet eight inches tall and three hundred pounds. He was a hard core cowboy who was scared of horses, go figure. A hippo-size cowpoke in a traditional hat and boots, Bongo Bob could Texas two-step like Fred Astaire and fight like Jack the Bear. He loved to dance and all the ladies knew it.

Bongo Bob started in early with picking on CC. "You look like shit dipped in misery."

CC lifted her eyes from her coffee mug and made a face. "Well, you look like a pile of shit in a cowboy hat."

Bongo Bob was satisfied now that he got CC all fired up. She always worked better that way.

The doorman, Skeeter , on the other hand was just a good ol' country boy, arriving two minutes before shift.

He loved his 4x4 truck, rebel flag and football. At twenty-four, Skeeter Miller stood six feet tall at one hundred and ninety-five pounds.

His messy dirty blonde hair was stowed under a University of Alabama ball cap and the spit bottle in his hand was evidence of the chewing tobacco that bulged out his right cheek.

Sammy Bolen the bar back was the odd man out when it came to the bar staff. His job was to keep the bartender's bar stocked with beer and liquor. At thirty-six, his short lanky frame was as out of place as his marionette-like features. Staff members all agreed that his face resembled that of a ventriloquist's dummy. Thus he was commonly referred to as "The Dummy" or "Marty dog's blow-boy." The staff unanimously agreed that if Sambo could find the right doctor, he would have his lips permanently sewn to Marty's ass!

The Bouncers at the Booncat Saloon were a different bunch, but the one point they all united on was that the chief of security, Marty Daggert, was a Grade A asshole!

Marty arrived at the saloon late, as usual. But he didn't much care. Who was going to take his place? The sorry-ass shit bags that old man Boone had hired to work with him were useless at best. Marty looked over at the main bar for Katherine, but she was nowhere to be seen. He spied his number one bag licker, Sambo the Dummy, behind the second bar stocking liquor.

Marty shook his head and continued walking toward the main bar.

Marty couldn't help but go through his bouncer shit list as he hung his jacket behind the main bar.

Marty thought to himself , _Back to work tonight with these sorry sacks of shit. Croft – just a washed up old nigga ball player with no ass and a bad back. Bongo Bob – that fat bastard better stick to dancing with girls who feel sorry for him. Skeeter – stupid redneck who couldn't find his ass with both hands and an ass map._

Blueboy – a closet homosexual with an Elvis fetish.

And last but not least CC – the split tail is half blind and dumb as a rock. Jesus, if she didn't act like such a fuckin' dike, I'd make her blow me in the beer room whenever that bitch Katherine stressed me out and pissed me off.

Sambo ran up to his idol to fill him in on all the inside gossip.

"What's up, Boss? I got your work shirts dry cleaned today."

"Where's Katherine at, Dildo?" Marty grabbed Sambo by the back of his neck.

"Out back. She's out the back!" He stammered. Marty dog let Sambo go as he nodded his head up and down. "Make sure you stop by the Dojo tomorrow and clean the shitters."

As Marty walked away, Sambo straightened his shirt collar and stated, "You got it boss tomorrow...fuckin' aye right!"

Marty didn't give two shits about his fellow bouncers, and the feeling was mutual. Marty spied Skeeter across the bar talking to CC.

He walked up behind Skeeter and snapped him up in a rear naked choke hold.

Skeeter began to struggle as surprise and panic settled in. His hands tugged at the large forearm around his neck. Marty was as much a master as a bully. His arms, like the coils of a python, began to apply pressure. "Let him go, you asshole!" CC yelled. Marty stared at CC and smirked.

Croft came up from the pool table area. "Let him go, Marty!"

Marty turned Skeeter to face Croft. "Want to take his place, pussy?"

Just then Marty saw Katherine come out of the walk-in beer cooler. Marty released Skeeter, pushing him into Croft.

"You shit bags need to toughen up. I'm getting tired of carrying your asses" Skeeter slumped down on the nearest stool.

His color was coming back slowly, but his eyes were still glassy. Marty turned to Sambo and snapped, "Get me a cup of coffee, shithead."

Sambo executed a Boy Scout salute and jetted off.

Marty rolled his head in the group's direction and grunted "losers" before making his way to the bar to hit on Katherine.

It was going to be a long night at the Booncat Seaside Saloon.

# Chapter 5

It was midnight when the Demon Legion members showed up.

Beef, Sticks, T-Bone and Tommyhawk. They parked their crotch rockets side by side in the handicapped parking area. T-Bone stayed with the bikes as the other three outlaws made their way to the entrance of the Saloon. Skeeter was the first to see them arrive. He was checking IDs but stepped aside as Beef and his reaper crew stared him down. Skeeter turned his eyes to the tomahawk in the belt of the gang member behind Beef. The crew moved inside and walked up to the main bar. Katherine saw them coming in the mirror behind the bar.

"I'll take a Budweiser, bitch," Beef said.

Katherine's eyes narrowed as she stared at Beef in the mirror. Her blonde eyebrows lowered on her brow. "You and your friends are not allowed in here," Katherine replied in a defiant tone.

" _You and your friends are not allowed in here,_ " Sticks repeated, mocking Katherine. "How about I just help myself behind the bar," Beef said as he spotted Bongo Bob and Croft heading his way. Marty saw what was unfolding and moved in quick. He stepped up to the bar and confronted Beef.

"You heard the lady, man," Marty said.

"Fuck you, Jarhead," Beef growled, and confronted Marty.

"Let's take this outside and discuss it so the lady here doesn't get caught in the crossfire," Marty replied, winking at Katherine. Beef and his crew turned and headed for the exit, with Marty following behind. The patrons barely even noticed the three gang members and Marty leaving. As Croft, Bongo Bob and Blueboy began to follow, Marty turned and faced them.

"Where the fuck are you girls going?" Marty asked.

"You might need backup," Croft said.

"I don't need backup," Marty scowled.

"You wankers just stay put.

Last thing I need is one of you morons escalating the problem."

Marty turned his back on the bouncers as he strolled over to the bikes to talk with the gang members. In the past, all that the bouncers had witnessed was Marty talking shit to Beef and his crew. Never had they seen a punch thrown. Just a lot of jawing and finger pointing.

It just didn't make any sense.

The Demon Legion members got on their motorcycles and left as Marty wandered back to the door. Marty avoided his fellow bouncers for the rest of the night. He seemed to be preoccupied with hitting on Katherine and drinking whiskey shots. Katherine watched Marty down a whiskey shot.

_I just don't get how Marty can stand up to the Demon Legion members without consequence. Are the members scared of him? Is Marty really that good a fighter? He's a pain in the ass, but he keeps the Demon Legion out of the Saloon, so his relentless hounding is worth it for now,_ Katherine thought to herself.

On the down side, Katherine didn't know just how long she could take Marty's constant advances that pushed the boundaries of sexual harassment.

It was closing and cleanup time when Pops entered the back door of the saloon. Three a.m. and it had been a long night. Everyone was tired and ready to go home. Sambo left early. He said he was sick. Pops always helped close and liked to have a short employee meeting to raise morale and give positive feedback.

"It was a good night guys," Pops stated as the employees gathered around and sat in chairs. "I know you're all tired, and I just want to say that you all are doing a good job. The Booncat has been in the family for years, and it's employees like you that make it a great place to enjoy good music and have a few drinks."

Marty sat in the back and listened. The shadows that covered his face from the bar lights were as dim as his thoughts.

_This old man is so full of shit_ , Marty thought to himself as Pops spoke to the group.

_Think I'll give him a reality check,_ was Marty's final thought as he stood and spoke over the group.

"I don't know about you old man, but the Demon Legion are getting bolder and I don't know how long I can keep them out of here."

Pops shook his head and growled, "Those bastards can kiss my ass!" Marty began to move out of the shadows. "Big talk, old man, but it's me who has to handle the heat when shit hits the fan!" Marty snapped back. Pops stared down Marty and spoke through clenched teeth, "You got something on your mind, Daggert? Go ahead and spit it out." Marty was getting irritated and tired of the small talk.

"All I'm saying, old man, is I don't know how long I can keep King Cyrus and his pack of dogs out of here."

With that Marty headed for the back door.

"Sooner or later they are going to tear this place apart, and I don't want to be here when it happens." Marty put his hand on the exit door and pushed. It creaked as it opened, like rusted hinges on a coffin.

"Hellhounds old man" Marty said. He stared out at the darkness that greeted him in the back parking lot.

"Once they get on the blood trail, it's only a matter of time." Marty's voice trailed off. "Clock's tickin', old man, and the Devil's holdin' the leash."

Pops and the others watched as Marty closed the door behind him. Pops looked at the rest of his employees sitting quietly. Skeeter 's head was almost down to his chest, asleep as he sat in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Katherine put her hand on her father's shoulder and spoke to the group. "It's been a long night all, and like Dad said, we are happy with the great job you're doing. Tomorrow, I am going to speak with Sheriff Randall and see what he can do to help us with King Cyrus and his gang."

CC rubbed her sleepy eyes, her glasses propped up on her head. "Sheriff Randall! That hillbilly cracker is a joke!"

CC pulled her glasses down. "God, everybody knows he's just cruising till retirement." Pops was just about to answer CC when a large explosion went off outside.

The building shook from the concussion as Skeeter 's chair flipped, sending him to the floor as the windows next to the exit door exploded, sending dirt and shards of glass flying into the bar.

The smell of smoke and sulfur filled the air. Everyone was now lying flat on the floor. Pops was the first to jump up and head toward the back exit.

The door was no longer on its hinges. Croft caught a glimmer of fire through a hole that had once had a window in it. Croft yelled to Skeeter, who was now wide awake and moving.

"Grab the fire extinguisher!" Croft headed for the exit door as Pops disappeared into the dark. It was like a slow motion movie. Everything was distorted, with people yelling, bodies running around like ants. Pops noticed that the bait shop too had a few of its windows blown out. When everything came back into focus, Katherine was standing in the back parking lot of the saloon.

A large fire roared, sending black smoke shooting skyward. What had once been a black jeep was now a large clump of melted metal. Across the road, the engine had landed in a ditch next to the passenger seat, which was still on fire.

Katherine's eyes burned from the smoke as she watched Skeeter and Croft attempt to put the fire out with two extinguishers from the bar.

At one point Katherine caught a glimpse of what she believed was the silhouette of a charred body buckled in the driver's seat. The smell of burned flesh confirmed her suspicions. She closed her eyes and turned toward the saloon.

Tears filled her eyes as she entered the bar, but she wasn't sure whether they were from the smoke or the vision of Marty's burnt body welded to the driver's seat. The sound of white hot metal twisting was soon joined by ambulance and police sirens. The parking lot came to life and filled the night with a mixture of flashing lights and voices. Katherine sank down into a chair next to the jukebox. It was playing, but no one seemed to notice. It was one of Marty's selections, Katherine remembered.

"I'm on the Highway to Hell. I'm on the..."

Click. She pulled the power cord on the jukebox. _Things are not going to get worse,_ she surmised. _They're already way past that point._

# Chapter 6

The funeral was on a cold rainy Sunday. A large picture of Marty in his Martial Arts gi was propped up on an easel next to a closed casket draped with a Marine Corps flag. Sambo and a few of Marty's students dressed in their gi's were the pallbearers. The congregation was small, made up of local folks and bar staff. Marty was not really popular with the locals. Many town folk only accepted him as a ruffian and avoided his arrogant attitude. The staff of the Booncat, who stood under umbrellas as the sky that poured down on them, had mixed feelings.

Raindrops soaked the flag that covered the casket as the preacher read his bible. But the rain was not the worst of it. Off in the distance, next to an old stone crypt, the vultures were gathering.

King Cyrus and his henchmen, ominous as the foul weather, sat on their bikes and observed the service. Their rain-soaked black leather jackets blended in with the dark clouds. The Demon Legion basked in the moment and relished the thought of pissing on the grave of their dearly departed adversary.

Croft was the first to notice the unwanted guests in the distance, and it wasn't long before the others became aware of their presence. Like a pack of Hyenas stalking wounded prey, the Demon Legion smelled blood but were in no hurry to claim their prize.

It was Lady Medusa who convinced the King to savor the thrill of the hunt and prolong the psychological suffering of the mourners.

Victory was all but theirs.

The weather matched the mood of the staff as they turned their backs on their tormentors and made an effort to ignore their intimidation tactics.

Due to the foul weather, the funeral ended quickly and the group walked together back to their vehicles. They figured this to be as good an excuse as any to have a drink, perhaps several.

Back at the bar, Katherine's mood was calm and quiet as she poured drinks for the group at the front bar. The staff talked among themselves and the conversation soon came to a head as the topic of King Cyrus and his Demon Legion spread concern among the group. Pops addressed his employees and told them not to worry, he had a replacement coming for Marty. He stated that he was hiring the best damn cooler in the business.

"What's a Cooler?" Skeeter asked.

Pops looked at Skeeter, then stepped up to him and he replied

"Son, a cooler is like a Professor Emeritus of bouncing. He has years of knowledge and experience with a solid reputation to back it up."

"Right." Skeeter said pulling back his ball cap and scratching his messy blonde mop. "Professor Everest..like a mountain climber?"

"Lord Jesus, give me strength!' Pops raised his eyes to the ceiling.

CC chuckled and chimed in "Skeeter you're dumb as a bag a rocks!"

The group laughed as Pops refused to convey any more information that day. Three hours and several drinks later, the security staff left in a better mood than when they had entered.

Pops assured them that the deal was in the works and as good as done.

In the back no one noticed Katherine staring at her father in astonishment, totally blindsided. She eyed her father up and down as soon as the last employee left the Saloon.

"When were you going to tell me about Marty's replacement, Dad?"

Pops looked at his daughter. "Awww, Kat, don't give me that look. Your mother used to give me that look just before I got the fifth degree." He sat down on a bar stool and removed his cheese cutter.

"I have a plan," he started.

"You have a plan?" Katherine echoed, even more determined to drill deeper.

"What kind of plan?" Katherine's eyes we're locked on her Dad. "Remember my friend from the army? Frank Garrett," Pops began.

"Yes I think so," Katherine answered. "Well, his son is the best bouncer in the business. All we have to do is write him a letter and get him here at any cost."

"That's your plan!" Katherine felt a giant crack open in the hull of her already sinking ship. "God Dad!"

"How do you know he will even come and help us?" Katherine's voice adopted a worried tone.

"I found out Wade was working at a club in Jasper, Missouri." Pops replied.

"Helping out a friend of his, last I heard."

"What if he no longer works there? What if he's retired? What if he can't come? What if he's busy? What if..." Katherine's voice cracked as she felt her throat starting to get hoarse.

"Honey, your mother was a worry wart but she always trusted me and backed my decisions. We always came out on top. Just send the letter and trust me"

Pops thought for a moment, recalling how sad he had been when he heard of Frank's heart attack ten years back. Pops had not been able to help but stare at the military flag draped over Marty's coffin earlier today and remember Frank's funeral.

The only thing worse was when Katherine's mother had passed on.

Pops couldn't remember if Wade was at his father's funeral; he wasn't really sure. In all truth, he never met Wade; but Frank always talked about him and how good he was. Now it was Pops who felt the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders.

Back at the house, Katherine sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a few sheets of writing paper. Her letter was short but hard to write. She didn't want to sound desperate or foolish. She was writing a letter to a man she had never met. Who was this Wade Garrett that her dad was staking his whole life's savings on, along with hers and Casey's? Katherine fought the fiends of doubt and fear that taunted her as she wrote. Her pen moved across the white paper as the light from the desk lamp flickered and followed her every stroke. Katherine sighed with relief as she finally signed her name at the bottom of the page.

There would be no redraft or grammar check. She wanted to mail it quickly before the feeling of doubtfulness forced her to abandon all hope. Katherine sealed the envelope and stared at the name and address written on the front.

Mr. Wade Garrett

C/O The Double Deuce

1998 Young Street

Jasper, Missouri

She hoped that her dad was right. Katherine didn't believe in asking God for a miracle, but at this moment she could use all the help she could get.

Next morning Katherine drove her father's old half-ton flatbed truck into town and was standing at the door when the postmaster opened for business. Mr. Baker was pleased to see her and was surprised not to see Casey along for the ride. "She was still sleeping," Katherine said.

"How's your Dad doing?" Mr. Baker continued as he stamped her white envelope OVERNIGHT EXPRESS. "He's still as hard headed as ever," Katherine smiled.

"Well that's nothing new when it comes to Chet Boone. I have known your father for forty years and he's one hell of a guy," Mr. Baker replied. "Watched him fight Jake La Motta back in the day. Man he was tough!" Katherine felt almost like a schoolgirl pressing the letter to her lips for good-luck. _Sent with a hope and a prayer_ , she thought as she handed over the letter.

Katherine thanked Mr. Baker and walked out of the post office.

She hoped that her Dad was right and said a prayer that this Wade Garrett would come.

# Chapter 7

The Deuce had just opened as a few more of the staff members filtered in. Jimmy Hayes, the bartender, was behind the bar cleaning glasses. The bikini contest that night was always a big draw and Jimmy expected a busy night and a rowdy bunch. He had eight bouncers working weekends. His head bouncer was a juice monkey named Butch who wore a 3X shirt. He was big and got the job done, but he was no Wade Garrett, or even a James Dalton for that matter. _Shit, he wouldn't make a wart on Wade's ass,_ Jimmy thought. _Wade Garrett was the real deal._

An ass kickin', slick talkin', pussy magnet. He had so many women chasing him, he had to hide behind a tree just to take a piss! God damn, I miss that old scooter tramp!

Jimmy's half-brother, Frank Tillman owned the Deuce and had employed both James and Wade Garrett back in 1989. But it was Jimmy who first introduced Frank to them. Jimmy had worked with Wade back in 1986 at a biker bar just outside of Dallas. Wade had later introduced Jimmy to his best friend and former student in the bouncing arts, James.

They had all become fast friends and stayed in touch over the years. When the Deuce had started to have problems, it was Jimmy who recommended his brother hire James. Jimmy was in Mexico at the time, bartending at the Cancun Club owned by his girlfriend's father.

A breeze of sadness came over Jimmy as he walked over to the wall where Wade had stood next to James and watched the crowd.

He stood facing a picture that hung at eye level. Jimmy respectfully took his bar rag and gently wiped the frame and glass. He looked his friend in the eyes as he ran his finger over the engraved plated below the 8x10 photograph.

" **In memory of Wade Thomas Garrett – Best Damn Cooler in the Business** ".

Every year on Wade's birthday, Jimmy stayed late after closing and had a few drinks with his employees in memory of this old friend.

After five years, Jimmy still missed his old friend, and James too.

James had married Elizabeth and left Jasper the year after Wade had been killed. Jimmy ran into Red, Elizabeth's uncle, every now and then. Last time, he had said that he'd received a letter from Elizabeth. James had retired from bouncing and gotten a job teaching at the local college. They had a little three-year-old girl and were expecting their second child in October. Jimmy asked Red to pass on his congrats and to tell them they needed to visit more often.

But Jimmy knew that that would never happen. As Red had driven off, Jimmy knew the painful memories the Deuce held for James would keep him away forever.

Jimmy walked back behind the bar and noticed two strangers sitting at the far end of his bar top. Two elderly gentlemen and it seemed this was not their first pit stop.

Jimmy could not help but notice their minor intoxication and major debate. They ordered crown and seven from Jimmy and continued their conversation. It seemed they were just up north on a hunting trip and were disputing the size of the moose they missed.

"God damn it, Jerry, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat!"

"I told you, dumbass, I had a tree in my line of sight!" Jerry defended.

It was going to be a long Tuesday night at the Deuce.

The mailman came through the door and gave Jimmy a wave.

"Hey, Bill, how's the mail business?"

"Same old, same old," Bill replied. "You got the Titties & Beer contest on tonight?"

"Does a grizzly bear shit in the woods?" Jimmy replied sarcastically.

"I'll be swinging by after work." Bill said and grinned.

"Cool." said Jimmy with a smile.

"Later," Bill said, and brushed past Carrie Ann Beckner coming through the door.

The waitress came up to the bar and shuffled through the mail.

"You're late, Carrie Ann Pecker," Jimmy razzed her.

"My last name is 'Beckner' you ass, and I had to stop and pick up my sister."

"Two sisters who can't get to work on time. Must be a genetic defect." Jimmy snatched the letters from her hand.

"Where's the real boss?" Carrie Ann taunted.

"Hiding from you," Jimmy answered with a chuckle.

"Bills-shit-bills-shit-more bills, more shi...

Mr. Wade Garrett

Jimmy felt like he was holding the cold hand of death as a chill went straight down his spine. A vision of Wade's heart-felt funeral filled his head. James had been really torn up and never got over his best friend and mentor's murder. In some way, Jimmy felt that James blamed himself for Wade's death. James and Wade had been like brothers. The funeral was hard on everybody.

The town was being terrorized by a corrupt businessman and his thugs. James and Wade had stood up against them and had finally taken them down, but paid a terrible price. During the feud, Wade was killed. Jimmy's hands shook a little as he grabbed a bar knife and opened the large white envelope. Jimmy carefully removed the white parchment and began to read Katherine's letter.

Dear Mr. Garrett, We own a bar called the Booncat Seaside Saloon, here in Vero Landing. My father Chet Boone was a good friend of your father's. They served in the Army together. We are in desperate need of a head bouncer to help us. We are being harassed and threatened by a gang of local thugs. The town Sheriff is afraid of the gang or is being paid off. Our security staff is good but in need of serious leadership.

Money is not a problem. We will pay you what you want, please come as soon as possible.I fear for my family's safety and the safety of our staff.

I hope and pray that you will help us, Mr. Garrett.

Sincerely, Katherine Boone

It was Carrie Ann who was staring at Jimmy when he realized he was reading the letter out loud. Jimmy laid the letter down on the bar, looked at Carrie Ann and then back at the letter. "Wade's been dead five years," Jimmy mumbled. "This lady needs the best but the best is gone." Jimmy put the letter back in the envelope.

"Here, Carrie Ann, mark it 'Return to Sender' and give it to Bill tomorrow."

One old man sitting at the end of the bar piped up, "Best is gone. Ha!"

His drinking partner joined in, "The best is alive and kickin' up north son, in the land of snowcapped mountains and big timber."

Jimmy turned to face the two old men at the rail. "Wade Garrett was the best!" Old Ed fired back, "Perhaps one of the best, but this Indian boy we seen up north was something else." Jerry added, "He was only half Indian, Ed, but I think he was Eskimo."

Ed shot back, "I don't give a rat's ass if he was a Martian, Jerry. Let me tell the goddamn story!"

"Well, get your god-damn facts straight, Ed," his drinking partner replied and went back to his drink. Ed continued.

"You see, we was on this hunting trip up north and stopped in at a bar just on the outskirts of Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory.

A joint called the Timberjack. A rough place where lumberjacks, Indians and rig pigs hang out - where they sweep teeth and eye balls off the floor at closin' time.

That's where we first saw this bouncer. His name was Doucette.

John, I believe, was his first name. His buddy's called him 'John the Deuce,' Handsome young bugger, tall, long black hair, ice blue eyes, built like a college fullback.

Wore a pair of those black-framed 'Buddy Holly' glasses.

Anyway, he walks up to a bow hunter in the bar. He had some kind of serious beef with this guy. People started gathering like flies to a shit pile.

When Doucette was done talkin' to the bow hunter, he walked back to the other side of the bar. Just then the guy notched an arrow in his bow, yelled at Doucette and let it loose.

Doucette was facing the bow hunter when he released the arrow. This pissed-off hunter was aimin' to pin Doucette's half-breed hide to the wall! Anyway, this bow hunter fires the arrow at Doucette's chest; I thought it was some kind of gag. Doucette spun sideways and the arrow struck the wall behind him. So fast this kid, he dodged the arrow and it was so close the razor blades on the arrowhead sliced his shirt!"

Ed took a big drink of his Crown & Seven, eyes wide open with excitement as he told his story. "This Indian kid was so quick, Jesus H. Christ, just like a mongoose on a snake's ass, son! He cleared two pool tables like a mountain lion and had this big ass bowie knife out and under the chin of that bow hunter faster than chain blue lightening.

Cool as ice, that Doucette, nose to nose he pressed that big blade up against that asshole's neck so hard I seen a trickle of blood run down the blade. He told him next time he comes across him hunting wolves on Inuit land it would be his skin nailed to a pole."

Ed took another haul on his drink and kept on with the story.

"All of a sudden, the bow hunter's partner came out from behind a pole. The fat bastard pulled a pistol and said, "Let's see you dodge this, Redman" The bow hunter who was about to get the shave said, "You best listen to my boy here and drop that skinner, Breed"

Doucette just smirked and said, "Your partner ain't shootin' shit with the safety on."

The fat man glanced at his pistol for a millisecond before the dumb ass realized there ain't no safety on a revolver.

POP! Doucette slammed the two bow hunter's heads together and it was game over!

Mounties came and arrested the two hunters. I never seen anything like it in my sixty-six years. Goddamn! I need another stiff one, slim!"

Jimmy shook his head. "Is this shit for real?"

"Swear on my dead mother's grave, son," Jerry said.

"No one could make this crap up. Not even a bull shitter like Ed. If that woman in the letter is looking for an ass kicker, this Indian boy is the winning ticket." Jerry added.

Jimmy thought a minute and said, "What the hell."

He grabbed a thick black marker from next to the till. "What was the name of that bouncer and the bar again?" Jimmy asked.

He covered Wade Garrett's name and address on the envelope with thick black lines. All that could be seen now was:

John Doucette

C/O Timberjack Bar, Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada

Carrie Ann took the envelope to the post office the next morning.

On the drive over Carrie Ann felt her eyes water up as she recalled the first time she met Dalton and Wade.

_God, what a blast from the past_ she thought.

Especially that one morning, when she surprised Dalton with breakfast.

She recalled it was black coffee and an egg sandwich. She felt her heart skip a beat and her face flush as she recall the vision of Dalton getting up from his bed naked and pulling on a pair of jeans. Dalton lit a cigarette, walked over and sat on a sofa chair.

He avoided the egg sandwich like it was dog food but defiantly enjoyed the strong coffee.

The image of that man naked was burned into her OMG memory forever!

Carrie Ann smiled as she entered the post office parking lot. She hopped out of the car and entered the small brick building. Postmaster Bill was super helpful and found the proper Canadian postal code. He mailed it Overnight Express.

Just like it came.

# Chapter 8

A full moon filled the night sky over the Pacific Ocean at midnight.

The Vancouver Island dockyard is lit up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. It can be seen from miles away, looking more like a small city than one of the largest shipping ports in Canada.

One mile away, a large aircraft hangar on a privately owned airfield is quiet in comparison to the round-the-clock hustle and bustle of the docks. But tonight the hangar is far from dormant as it sees the arrival of numerous expensive high-end cars driven by well-dressed people.

Tonight, however, the warehouse seemed more like an "Area 51" setup than an ordinary aircraft hangar. Armed men dressed in black tuxedos and wearing security earpieces checking the VIP passes of all the arriving cars.

Once cleared, the drivers entered one of the massive aircraft hangers. Two other hangers are dark and closed. As the cars drive in, they are systematically lined up side by side, engines off, low beams left on.

The higher ranking VIPs are privileged and park their vehicles in the inner sanctum, forming a tight circular pattern of car bumpers.

Into this arena of halogen car lights step two male figures at opposite ends. One is a tall athletically built red-headed man, shirtless except for a pair of black slacks and black trainers. Beside him was a short stocky man with a bald head.

A second man at the far end, at first glance, has the silhouette of Conan the Barbarian: long hair and a muscular build.

The man is a tad smaller than Arnold Schwarzenegger, give or take twenty pounds and a couple of inches, but overall a spitting image. His thick black hair hangs down just past his shoulders. Shirtless as well, he is much more heavily muscled than his opponent. Next to him is a small older man with long gray hair and a red bandanna around his head.

Given that he was built like a bodybuilder, people often assumed he was muscle bound and a laggard. That was, until you saw the black haired man move forward with the supple ease of a large Siberian Tiger.

His muscles rippled under his brown tan skin like steel cords.

With each stride, his thick powerful legs flexed under his black jeans. His combat boots left a distinct hefty track in the light dust on the concrete floor. The two combatants moved to the center of the makeshift arena where a smaller official-looking man was waiting.

The official looked at both men and then spoke in a thick Scottish accent.

"At the sound of the horn, commence to fightin' until one man cannot continue. There be no bitin', head buttin', gougin', scratchin'."

He cleared his throat and continued "There be no kickin' or hittin' below the belt or when a man is down. Are we clear on the rules, lads?"

Both men nodded their heads and walked back to where their corner men were waiting. The red-haired man's trainer checked his hands and spoke low in a strong Irish accent.

"You're the pride of the Doogal clan, Angus, and the best knuckler in Eastern Europe. This lad here got some size, I'll give'im that, I will, but know this for sure, he'll be slow and run out of steam fast. Just keep the pace up nice and steady. In and out boy-o and don't let the big bastard get his dick skinners on ya." Angus nodded his head and smiled.

"Aye, Uncle. To be sure."

At the other end of the make shift ring, the long-haired stranger's older helper spoke in a strange tongue. "Doctolok, Yeenji' khe' ts'at shah yiinji' gwichil'ee." (Wolf Eyes, walk up slow. Respect his skill.)

"Gwizhii shijyàa." (Wise, my friend.) Doctolok replied and smiled. Doctolok noticed a bit of worry in the eyes of his old friend.

"I will be fine, shijyàa."

"Bearclaw no trust white man or his words," the helper said in broken English as he shot a glance around at the spectators.

"Shi'ii kwaa shidrìi, Doctolok." (They have no heart, Wolf Eyes.)

Doctolok smiled as he put his hair in a ponytail.

"But they do have money, my friend."

The horn blows as Doctolok puts a comforting hand on his old friend's shoulder and smiles.

He walks carefully to the center of the arena to engage his opponent.

The Irish man sets a fast pace, with a Muhammad Ali-type fighting style, up on his toes moving in a circular motion.

Hands waist high, rocking from side to side, he snaps out a couple of fast left jabs at the face of his challenger. The bigger man, with hands held chest high, moves counter-clockwise. He quickly slips the two jabs by moving his head left then right and counters, rolling out a long left jab of his own. Both men continue to circle each other, looking for an opening. Angus jumps in with a straight- down-the-pipe, left-right combination that catches his bigger opponent on the chin. Doctolok steps back, absorbing a punch that would have staggered an ordinary man, then swiftly rolls port side, digging a hard left hook to the Irishman's body.

Angus feels the power and pain of his opponent's counter attack and slides to his left and back out to recover.

Angus is amazed at the big man's agility and stamina. He thinks to himself, _The big bastard doesn't look winded at all...hits like a damn sledgehammer too_.

Angus decides to change his modus operandi and fires a snap kick at his adversary's mid-section.

The foot strikes Doctolok in the abs, knocking him back a couple of steps. Seeing this, Angus leaps forward, faking a punch. He whirls a reverse round-house kick aimed at this opponent's head.

The big man takes the full force of the attack on the arms he's raised to protect his head. The momentum sends him crashing onto the hood of a red Ferrari just a few feet away. Angus feels victory is near and springs up in the air over top his foe, coming down hard with an elbow smash. Doctolok rolls hard right as his challenger's elbow hammers a massive dent into the hood of the Ferrari. The big man moves back and gathers himself. Doctolok rocks his head from side to side, his neck making a cracking sound. He smirks and shoots a wink at Bearclaw, who's standing on the sidelines.

_They got their money's worth. Time to end this and go home_ , the barbarian thought to himself. Doctolok emitted a growl deep in his throat as his ice blue eyes became cold and calculated.

As if possessed by some were-beast, the big man shook his black mane free and awaited his prey in a half crouch.

The Irishman's face was red with anger as he spun off the damaged car. Angus jumped forward with a rock hard right lead aimed to take the head off his bothersome opponent. Doctolok sprung like a panther jerking his head left to avoid the fist, he snapped a powerful vise-like right hand around the throat of the Irishman. With an arm like a large steel pipe and a grizzly bear grip, Doctolok hoisted his opponent off the ground and body slammed him full force onto the windshield of the already damaged Ferrari. The top gave way and folded up like a soft taco engulfing the now unconscious Irishman.

The driver and his lady friend scrambled out from inside the vehicle. They stood there for a brief moment, staring at the two legs protruding from the crevice that had once been a car roof.

They quickly turned their gaze to the large barbarian standing over his defeated foe and what was left of their sports car.

The driver, in a dark blue Armani suit, looked at the barbarian for a few more seconds and then raised his hands and clapped.

"Bravo. Bravo," he said with a big smile.

The Irishman's trainer and a couple of medics come over as Doctolok walked back to his helper. Bearclaw looked at Doctolok and said, "Neenjit dàgòonch'uu?" (How are you feeling?")

"Sheenjit gwiiinzi Bearclaw," (I am fine) Doctolok replied.

"Sheenjit gwiinzi," (Me, I'm fine too) his old friend said with a toothless grin. A tall man in an expensive Armani suit gets out of a silver Mercedes and walks over to the winner. He hands Doctolok a thick brown envelope and shakes his hand. "Never seen a man go thru a ranked fighter like that before. Especially a dark horse."

The tall man looked Doctolok up and down, then spoke, "If you'd like to try your luck with my hitter, I can set something up?"

The tall man turned toward his car and gestured to a person in the passenger seat. The car rocked as a mountain of a man slowly got out.

The huge man seemed to get bigger with every step as he approached the group. The tall man introduced his fighter.

"This is Draco Hakeem. He is Arab. Champion in forty-eight Asian countries. "

Sporting black mid-length curly hair and a small goatee, his six foot nine - four hundred pound frame was massive.

" I'll pay you ten times the prize money you made tonight, if you win." the tall man replied. Doctolok looked up at the mountain and smiled tight-lipped. "I'll think about it."

Draco grunted "Afraid infidel?"

Doctolok shook his head slowly from side to side and smirked

"Not really."

The barbarian and his old friend turn away and walked off toward the exit.

# Chapter 9

The sun was high in the midday sky reflecting off the snow-capped mountains in the distance. A cool north wind snaked through the jack pines and down into the valley. The screech of the timber mill's saw echoed through the forest. It was an old logging camp but still produced a fair share of lumber for the surrounding area. The cutting crew supervisor, known as the "bull-buck," was a hard but fair man called Buckshot Billy Bowers. Buckshot's six-man crew was respected as a high-ball gang. They worked hard, yet there were many joys in the work, including the sheer natural beauty of the deep Northwest woods.

There was also the camaraderie of men engaged in arduous labor. The sense in the old days was that they were trying to create "daylight in the swamp," as old loggers used to say.

Tom Smith, the owner and superintendent of the camp, was old school and liked it that way. Tom came from a family of loggers: his grandfather had built the mill in the 1930s. The Smith logging camp consisted of a mill, bunkhouse, cook shanty, heavy equipment building, machine shop, and a barn. In the cook shanty, the crew was up before dawn to set up the table and hustle from scratch a breakfast of pancakes, salt pork, beans and coffee.

Table talk in the cook shanty was strictly limited to requests for food. Apprentices swept the floor and helped the cook bake large loaves of bread and pies for the loggers' evening meal. The noon meal was delivered to the loggers in the woods.

In the camp store, the loggers could buy clothing, shoes, blankets, tobacco and tools. In the logging camp there was a company clerk. The company clerk was responsible for many jobs, such as bookkeeper, scaler, supplier and postman.

The bills that the loggers accumulated were settled at the end of the month. Their bills were taken from their pay.

The Smith Lumber Mill was located on Kwanlin Dün First Nation land on the outskirts of Whitehorse. It was the buzz of the chainsaws echoing off the valley walls that muffled the yells of Johnny Mule, a young Indian logging apprentice, as he walked through the large trees. It was lunch time and he was bringing food to the crew. As he stood admiring the large fallen timber, he stared up the cut line at a man coming down the trail with a large log on his shoulder.

A red bandanna tied around his forehead held down his long straight jet black hair.

Jean Doucette was a half-Indian, half-white male in his early thirties and solid as the three hundred pound maple log he carried.

He was just over six feet tall and weighed two hundred thirty-five pounds. His muscles moved like the back of a grizzly bear under the black and red checkered shirt he wore.

Jean the Deuce smiled and winked at Johnny as he approached his young friend. "Can you hold this for me" Jean jerked his head toward the large log on his shoulder. "Very funny" Johnny replied. Jean smiled as he dropped his massive payload, which slammed into the forest floor with a loud thud. Johnny, like Jean, was born of the Vuntut Gwitchin

( _People of the lakes_ ) Indians **.**

Jean removed his headband and shook his black mane free. He used the bandanna to clean his Way-fair style glasses and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans.

Johnny handed Jean a brown paper bag and sat down on a stump. "Neenjit dàgòonch'uu? (How are you?)" Johnny stated in the Gwich'in Indian language. "Sheenjit gwiinzii. (I am fine.)" Jean replied and took a bite of his sandwich.

"Are you working this weekend?" Johnny asked.

"Yes and no," Doucette smirked.

"Bukjaacg 'kad-ta," Johnny blurted out.

"Don't cuss, Johnny." Doucette squinted as he looked up at the sky.

"Please, Jean," Johnny begged.

"You are too young to come into the bar," Jean stated.

Johnny Mule's eyes lowered in disappointment.

"But I'll tell you what. I am going to old Crow reservation next week for the pow-wow and I'll take you if you behave," Jean replied.

"Oh ya, Jean. Jii kaijj' t'iinch'uu." Johnny smiled.

"You are my friend too, Johnny." Jean reached behind his back and pulled out a large sixteen inch ivory handled bowie knife, sunlight reflecting off the Damascus steel layers.

"But if I catch you drinking old Chief Many Bear's moonshine, I will have the Elders change your Gwich'in name." Johnny Mule looked at Jean in astonishment.

"Me? Drink the chief's fire water? No way, not me."

Jean shouted as his voice echoed through the forest.

"Johnny _'one who squats over a gopher hole'_ Mule!"

Johnny looked at Jean, stern faced trying not to laugh.

"Not funny, Jean!" Johnny replied.

Doucette smiled and winked, slicing off a piece of spiced moose meat and handing it to Johnny. Jean raised the knife to his mouth and bit off a piece of the moose meat stuck on the end. Then he stuck the big knife into a small flat tree stump on his right side.

Jean leaned back against the butt of a large pine tree and gazed up at the sky. Johnny stared at the large bowie knife as the blade glistened in the noon sun. Hundreds of small black lines ran through the steel from the tip to the hilt. The larger brass hilt shouldered the Ivory handle with a playing card, the two of Spades, carved on either side.

Doucette' nostrils flared as he felt the wind join the sunlight on his face. As he took a long drink of water from his thermos, the liquid leaked down his chin and onto his shirt.

After lunch Jean stood up and slid his big knife into its sheath, which he wore horizontally across his belt behind his back.

Before Johnny could get the lunch site cleaned up, his best friend walked away with the large log on his shoulder.

"Have a good day, Jean," Johnny yelled. Doucette raised his free hand and waved.

"'Yu sheenjit, little brother," Doucette yelled back over his shoulder as his silhouette disappeared into the deep shadows of the noon day forest.

# Chapter 10

Doucette drove to work and stopped along the way to pick up a cup of coffee at the local gas station. The brown-haired girl behind the counter smiled and admired Jean in his form-fitting black T-shirt. She could not help but stare at the handsome face and ice blue eyes that stood out like two sapphires against his almond-colored skin. His rock solid stature was also well worth a second glance. Jean smiled back, thanked her and left. Jean arrived at the Timberjack Bar early and parked his black Ford F-150 4x4 in the back parking lot. He entered the bar and waved at the band members who came in early to set up their equipment.

"Jean, La fucking Deuce." a French accented voice boomed out from behind the bar. Louie, the bartender, was loud and drank way too much on the job, but he was an exceptional bartender.

"Comment vas-tu, mon ami? (How are you my friend?)" Jean asked him in French."Not bad, Jean. Just waiting for this shit hole to fill up elbows to assholes!" Doucette nodded his approval.

"I need da fuckin' cheese, baby" Louie said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"You mean you're behind on your child support and Linda has the Mounties on your Québécois hairy ass," Doucette said sarcastically. "T'es un connard (You're an asshole), Doucette" Louie snapped back, flipping Jean off as he walked away adding "And for the record, I don't have a hairy ass!" Louie mumbled, walking into the back beer cooler.

"Just what I need, a French-speaking Indian to bust my fucking balls!" "Hey, Jean, you're early," Larry the manager greeted his favorite bouncer.

"Got a letter for you." Larry handed him a well-traveled envelope covered with large black marker lines.

"I didn't know you knew anyone down in Florida," his boss replied.

Doucette looked at the letter and stated, "I don't."

"Do they have Indians in Florida?" his boss asked.

"They got Indians in Cleveland that play baseball," Jean remarked with a smile. "Smart ass," Larry replied as Jean walked out of the office and sat down on a stool next to the pool table.

Jean examined the well-traveled envelope, read the short letter then folded it in half and slid it into his shirt pocket. He stared out the window at the darkening skyline. The front door opened as a tall woman with long crimson red hair entered the club like a tigress on the hunt.

Her ivory white skin, red silk dress and mid-length mink coat only enhanced her seductive curves. The tigress quickly zeroed in on Jean sitting against the pool table and slowly began moving toward him. Louie saw Annaka Dubois and greeted her with a one liner and a sexy lisp. "Sweeeeet mother of Jesus. I'd drink your bath water!"

The cougar snapped her head in Louie's direction and snarled in her thick Swedish accent, "Dawn't talk to me, stupid frog."

She again locked her sights on Jean the Deuce and confronted him.

"Why are you not calling me?" She asked, glaring at him.

"I've been busy, Anna," Jean answered.

"Jean Doucette, that is boo shit!" Annaka replied.

"I am your girlfriend. I deserve better"

Jean cracked a smile and glanced over at Louie behind the bar before responding.

"But you said you were dumping me last weekend."

"Daunt try to change the subject, Jean!" Annaka replied, and stepped forward as Jean stood up.

"Do you know that I went to see a teacup reader in town with my baby sister last night?" Annaka stepped up again to face Jean.

"I thought you had a life coach?" Jean smiled thin lipped.

"I fired that stupid cow! She told me I was too bossy and controlling," Annaka scowled.

"Go figure," Jean looked at Louie, who was now holding the drink hose nozzle under his chin like a gun.

"Well, Jean, do you know what the teacup reader told me? Well do you?" Annaka was now cross-examining her prey.

"She said that you cheat on me!"

Jean smirked. "That teacup reader is pretty good."

Laughter exploded from Louie's lips as his Vodka and Red Bull sprayed the bar top!

"Bastard!" Annaka yelled as Jean stepped around and behind the pool table.

"Just kidding, Anna. Just kidding. Let's calm down." Jean raised a hand in defense.

"Don't tell me to calm down, you filthy dog. We are no longer engaged!" Jean and Louie stood frozen like two stone statues as Annaka turned up her nose and strutted out the door.

Gravel pelted the outside wall as she sped away in her Lincoln Navigator.

Louie walked up beside Jean and said, "Think she's mad now? Wait till she finds out you were nailing her younger sister when she was in Europe last month."

Jean looked at Louie and replied, "It was her sister who came up to my cabin butt naked wearing nothing but a parka and sneakers"

"Were you really engaged?" Louie grinned.

"Keep laughing pale face," Jean stated and walked away.

Customer vehicles began to enter the parking lot as the sun set behind the mountains in the distance. Jean rocked his head from side to side, stretching his neck muscles and making his ponytail roll on his shoulders as he made his way toward the arriving patrons.

# Chapter 11

It was the scent, the smell of wet fur. Jean touched the thick fur and felt the animal's hot breath on his face. He could feel the warm, wet muzzle against his cheek. But then the dark one came with his glowing red eyes and his large white fangs snarling. Jean woke covered in a blanket of sweat. Just a dream – like the others. Jean stared at the ceiling of his log cabin for a moment, then sat up on the edge of his bed.

He ran his fingers through his black mane before reaching for the hair tie hanging on the bed post.

He gazed at the dream catcher that hung on the headboard of this bed.

"You're a big help," Jean said to himself as he reached for his glasses lying on a small table right next to an old wooden chess set.

Doucette got dressed and stoked the coals in the stove as the sun peeked through the trees on the mountainside.

The early morning rays began to burn off the damp mountain fog. The smell was heaven as Jean poured his first cup of coffee and savored the aroma. He pulled open the heavy plank door and walked out onto the front porch. He raised the cup to his lips and stared out at the mist that covered the snowy mountaintops. Jean was halfway into his coffee when he spotted a red three-quarter-ton truck coming up the dirt road.

The truck pulled in and parked next to Jean's Ford F-150. The driver slowly slid out of his vehicle, cane first, as the noise of his diesel engine echoed down the valley. Jean watched his elderly visitor approach the wooden porch at a slow but steady pace.

_Good news travels fast_ , Jean thought as he greeted his uncle, Charlie Thomas, with a wave. "Sheenjit gwiinzii, Uncle"

Charlie was a highly respected Vuntut Gwitchin Elder from the Old Crow Reserve.

"Sheenjit gwiinzii, Nephew," Charlie replied.

"I know the Mounties will probably want to talk to me, uncle," Jean stated for the record.

"Leblanc diiyah gwandak.?" Charlie asked.

"No, I did not beat up the Leblanc brother. I beat up all three Leblanc brothers." Jean smiled. "You want some coffee, old man?"

"Shint'eh," Charlie replied.

Jean poured a second cup of coffee and spoke.

"Those three rig pigs were grabbing on Barbara Martin from the Pika Reserve outside Albert's Convenience Store, so I defended her honor."

" How noble of you." Charlie replied sarcastically.

Jean and his uncle stepped back out onto the porch as the sun began to clear the mountaintops.

"Wolf Eyes, you know I am not here about the Leblanc brothers."

Charlie took the cup of coffee from Jean and sat down on the porch bench.

"I figured that too," Jean said as he sat on the porch rail and took a sip of his hot coffee.

Uncle swallowed, and added with a note of discontent in his voice, "I heard about the letter." Jean took another sip of his coffee and noted, "Louie has a big mouth for a little frog."

"Wolf Eyes, these are not your people and this is not your problem."

His uncle set his cup of coffee on the deck railing.

"Next year you will be voted onto the Council of Elders.

William Silver Fox, our eldest member, wants you to run for chief."

Uncle Charlie reached for his cup and added, "Our people need strong leadership in these times."

"But who are my people, Uncle?" Jean asked, setting his coffee cup on the railing and confronting his elderly relative.

"My real father, it is said, was a white RCMP officer, my mother a banished Chief's daughter, and my stepfather an abusive French woodsman. The only real childhood love I remember came from the wolves in my stepfather's pens."

Jean restrained himself and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Uncle, but I have so many questions that have no answer. And what of the Spirit Wolf that comes to me in my dreams. Jii jùu t'iinch'u, Uncle?" (Who are my people Uncle?) Jean reached for his coffee cup and took a drink.

"Stay here with us, Wolf Eyes. You are a Vuntut Gwitchin Warrior.

The Great Spirit will guide you in your search for inner peace." Charlie looked up from his coffee.

"I have seen the Great Spirit, Uncle. He invades my dreams with glowing eyes and large fangs," Jean stared into his cup.

"I love my people, but I am born of two worlds.

When the darkness falls, the Docto-na (wolves) come for their brother."

Jean finished his coffee and added, "Eldrid Golden Eagle, the Shaman, told me the Great Spirit hawk has come to him in his dreams, showing him my path with two tracks in the morning snow, but four tracks in the moonlight."

Charlie Thomas finished his coffee, sat back on the bench and lit his Dunhill Brier pipe.

Jean took both cups, entered the cabin and returned with them refilled.

The smell of black cherry tobacco floated on the breeze as Jean stared out at the mountains in the distance. Charlie took a puff and looked out at the mountains. "I don't suppose you know anything about a brown envelope containing five thousand dollars that was left under Sister Henry's door at the Lady of Faith Orphanage last Tuesday night?"

Jean suppressed a smile and said, "Nope."

"Didn't think so." Charlie blew pipe smoke out and took a sip of coffee.

Neither spoke another word but enjoyed the morning sunrise.

# Chapter 12

Two weeks have passed since she wrote that letter. Katherine stares at the calendar hanging on the wall behind the cash register. She is deep in thought. _It's been two weeks to the day since Marty was buried and the letter was sent. We've had no real trouble. Maybe the Demon Legion has given up or gotten arrested. Maybe they found another venue to harass. One can only hope._ Katherine snapped back to reality and continued to clean up behind the bar. It was a good night at the Booncat Saloon.

The bouncers seemed to be getting along and were getting used to the idea of Marty being gone and Croft being the new head bouncer.

_Perhaps Marty was just a luxury we didn't really need,_ Katherine mused. _Luxury, yeah right, more like a nightmare!_

Katherine looked up and realized that the saloon was all but empty.

It was 3:15 in the morning. Sambo, the bar back, and Skeeter were the only employees left to help close up. The last four patrons used the bathroom and made their way out the back door.

But Katherine's mind couldn't let go of the cold hard facts.

True it had been a quiet couple of weeks since Marty's death and the saloon had been a nice place to work, but still the question of "when" lingered in her subconscious. When would trouble come knocking again?

With Marty workin' the door in Hell, it was no doubt open season for the Demon Legion, and only a matter of time before they made a move.

The back door opened with a loud thump, making Katherine jump.

The hair on the back of her long thin neck stood up, as Booman entered the bar with two other gang members.

The last patron left in haste as he witnessed the arrival of potential trouble. Knowing there was only one bouncer and a bar-back left in the club, the unwanted guests were rollin' on cruise control.

Katherine's eyes followed the three gang members as they spread out in the small bar area next to the kitchen. Booman approached the bar and leaned toward Katherine with a hissed "Taa-equila, chica."

Katherine refused to serve him, clearly stating, "We're closed."

Sambo saw Booman at the small bar with Katherine and made it a point to take the trash out. Way out. _Stupid bitch,_ he thought to himself as he quickly exited the back door. Skeeter had already left as Sambo made it a point to lie to him about Katherine, saying he could knock off early. Sambo reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of crack rock about the size of a nickel. "Compliments of da King," he said out loud as he watched a river rat hop off a garbage can.

"Think I'll just take a little smoke break then head back in, to enjoy the show." Sambo lit the pipe and took a hit. He could hear inside the bar that things were beginning to heat up.

"It's party time ho, and your fine ass is gonna be the entertainment for tonight," Booman smiled, showing off his diamond studded silver grill.

Katherine stared him down in defiance. "You all better leave now!"

"Split tail, you better gets that tight ass to pourin' liquor, less I come back there and help myself to your goodies." Booman's grill reflected the light from behind the bar.

Katherine looked for Skeeter or even Sambo, but they were nowhere to be seen. Katherine stood her ground. "I'm gonna call the police."

"You ain't callin' shit, bitch." Booman replied reaching over the bar.

Tink. Tink. Tink. They heard the sound of a coffee mug being tapped by a metal spoon.

Booman stopped abruptly and stared into the mirror behind the bar at the reflection of a sizable man with long hair sitting at a table with a cup and a spoon. Booman wheeled around to face the stranger at the back table.

" Cracker, you best take your punk ass to the street."

The stranger kept gently tapping his coffee mug with his spoon, ignoring the gangbanger.

Booman barked orders at his two men, who were guarding the doors. "Ajax, Blood, take this bitch out da back for an uptown beat down!" Booman shouted.

The two gang members walked over to the table where the stranger sat. Ajax dropped a large three foot trucker chain on the table, the padlock on the end of the chain hit the table with a heavy bang.

Blood moved up beside the seated stranger and slid a pair of brass knuckles onto his right hand, making sure the stranger saw.

The stranger's face, hidden by the corner shadows, slid his coffee cup to the middle of the small table, placed the spoon in the empty cup and slowly rose up, sliding his seat back. He rolled his neck toward his left shoulder as he moved toward the kitchen door, followed by the two thugs.

Booman turned toward Katherine and smiled. He rolled his eyes like a lizard enjoying a fresh mouse as the first sound of fist meeting flesh was heard from the kitchen. Within ten seconds the loud clang of pots and pans resonated from the other room, followed by the distinct sound of several fist smacks.

Then dead silence. Booman grinned and replied, "Dinner has been served and your sweet ass is next on the menu ho cake.

Now, bitch, I want my...What da fuck?"

Booman stared in disbelief past Katherine. The large mirror behind the bar revealed the long-haired stranger back at the corner table with his coffee cup and spoon.

Blood!! Ajax!! Booman felt his anxiety emerging.

He waited for a reply but got nothing.

"Fuck!!" A nervous twitch ran down his spine as the stranger got up from the table and emerged from the shadows.

He approached the far end of the bar.

Booman felt a shiver of fear run down his spine as he got a better look at the large brawny trespasser.

The stranger reached into his inside jacket pocket and, with two fingers, pulled out an envelope with thick black lines covering the front.

With a flick of the wrist, the stranger sent it sliding down the bar top.

It stopped, coming to rest between Katherine and her tormentor. Booman took a step back and faced the stranger.

The stranger moved slow but steady down the bar toward Booman.

In the light from behind the bar, the stranger's long raven hair seemed to blend in with the black Indian beaded jacket like the hood of the grim reaper. The stranger stopped and faced Katherine, totally ignoring the gangbanger.

"I need a refill," the stranger said.

Katherine just stared at the ice blue eyes, not hearing a word he said. Booman moved up on the stranger and slammed his left hand down on the envelope. "You think you're big ass can roll up on me, bitch!"

"I'm a Demon patch holder, motherfucker and you're a dead man walkin'!" Booman pointed to the small 1% diamond patch on the chest of his gang vest.

The stranger smiled thin-lipped at Katherine as he turned and faced Booman, who pulled out his butterfly knife and spun it open.

Metal handles and a razor sharp blade snapped and flashed as the weapon twirled like a baton until the deadly blade stopped and came to rest at the stranger's eye level. The stranger glanced at Katherine; Booman's eyes followed. Quick as a cobra strike, the stranger's right hand grabbed the thug's knife hand and slammed the blade down, pinning Booman's left hand and the envelope to the bar.

Booman howled in searing pain as he clutched the wrist of his skewered left hand. Katherine's eyes were now focused on the blood that trickled from the back of Booman's hand, down onto the bar top.

"I'll take that refill now" the stranger grinned.

But Katherine was non-compliant and still in shock, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

The stranger looked at Katherine and then down at his cowering captive.

"The lady told you the bar was closed," the stranger said as he pulled the bloody knife out of the pinned hand. "Motherfucker!" Booman yelled and slumped to the floor holding his injured paw.

"I think you should call the police," the stranger said to Katherine. Katherine's eyes were still wide but blinking now as she began to come back to the moment. "No, no police, please. I just want him to go," she said in a shaky voice.

"It's your party." The stranger shrugged as he grabbed Booman by the leather vest and dragged him with little effort to the back door, leaving a trail of blood spots on the floorboards. The stranger pushed Booman through the door and out into the parking lot.

"You're a dead motherfucker! I mean dog fucking dead!" Booman threatened through pain clenched teeth. Booman headed toward the motorcycles, grasping his injured hand. He is met by Blood, who is sporting a swollen left eye and holding a bloody bar rag to his broken nose. Ajax is leaning against his bike trying to keep his weight off his fractured right leg. His short shallow breathes tell the tale of possible cracked ribs. The stranger watched as Ajax was helped onto the back of Booman's bike by Blood. Leaving one motorcycle behind, the three thugs rode off, leaving a trail of inaudible threats blanketed by the noise of the loud pipes.

The stranger stepped back inside only to be greeted by a double barrel shotgun. His blue eyes locked on the brass bead sight on the end of the two barrels.

"Dad, stop!" Katherine screamed, running around the bar.

"Call the police, Katherine, I got the son of a bitch cold." Pops growled.

"No, Dad! Katherine frantically shook a white envelope in her father's face. "He's the one who answered our letter. It's Mr. Garrett!" Katherine felt faint as she slumped down on a bar stool.

"Wade?" Pops lowered the 12 gauge.

"God damn. Wade Garrett." Katherine had never seen her Dad so thankful to see someone. "Jesus H. Christ, am I glad to see you," Pops said, sitting down on the stool next to Katherine. Chet Boone removed his cheese cutter and scratched his head.

"You're not what I expected, but I only seen you as a kid in your dad's black and white army pictures."

The stranger spoke softly, saying, "First, my name is Jean. Jean Doucette."

Pops looked at the stranger in total confusion.

"Second, you got anything to eat here?" Jean asked.

Pops thought for a moment and then said, "Oh, I get it. You want to keep your arrival a secret. No problem, John Doucette it is."

Pops was beaming. "It's 'Jean,'" Doucette corrected him.

"Right. Whatever you want." Pops headed for the office with the shotgun over his right shoulder.

"Son of a bitch. Wade Garrett workin' my bar. Thank you, Jesus!"

Jean the Deuce watched Chet Boone walk toward the main bar and shook his head. He removed his black Wayfarer style glasses from his jacket pocket and wiped the lenses. Jean put his glasses on and looked up at Katherine, who just kept staring. Katherine's mind was spinning from the whole ordeal. "Are you ok?" Jean asked, snapping two fingers in front of Katherine's face. Katherine blinked her eyes.

"No. Yes. Maybe. Oh, I don't know."

She stammered, shaking her head. "I don't understand. Dad says you're Wade Garrett. You say you're not Wade Garrett."

Jean interrupted her "I haven't ate since yesterday. Let's go to that truck stop down the road and I'll tell you everything."

Katherine said good night to her father, as she locked the front door of the bar. She walked over to Doucette's truck and got in.

"You hungry?" Jean smiled. "Confused" Katherine replied.

"That makes two of us," Jean said as he pulled out the parking lot and headed for the 24-hour truck stop just five miles west of the Boone property on state road 60.

Katherine's eyes glanced from the oncoming cars to the stranger driving. She couldn't help but notice the beautiful bead work that adorned the black leather jacket he wore. _He must be native or something,_ she thought as she noticed the dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror.

Jean noticed her looking at the swinging dream catcher on the mirror and in jest stated

" It's supposed to stop bad dreams but that one don't work."

Katherine looked at him and half smiled.

Katherine's mind kept flashing back to the vision of the stranger and the butterfly knife sticking out of Booman's hand. _God,_ she thought, as she attempted to recall the event _he moved so fast I don't even think I saw it happen_.

"Not good to think too much." Jean the Deuce smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "The mind needs more rest than the body." He looked at his passenger and smiled.

Katherine looked at Jean. "I don't get much of either these days," she canted, turning to look out the passenger window at the lights passing by.

The A-1 Truck stop's lights lit up the night sky like a small city as Jean Doucette pulled his truck into the cars only parking lot. A large blue Freightliner XL with a long lowboy trailer rolled by and up to the diesel fuel pump. As Jean and Katherine walked through the door of the coffee shop, he noticed a number of large tractor trailers lined the back parking lot. Inside, Jean slid into the booth next to a window that overlooked the parking lot.

Doucette removed his hair tie and shook out his long black mane. Falling long and thick onto his shoulders, it settled at chest level. "Just a glass of cranberry juice, please," Katherine told him as she excused herself and walked toward the bathrooms at the rear of the restaurant. When the waitress came, Jean ordered and stared out the window at a tractor trailer across the way.

Katherine returned and sat down, wiping her hands with a paper towel.

"So let me get this straight, Mr. Garrett," she started, as she continued to wipe her hands

"Jean, my name is Jean Doucette," he corrected her softly.

Katherine found it strangely uncomfortable to look at her male companion. His solid jaw line, piercing blue eyes and a thick black mane were enchanting, to say the least.

Katherine did not expect Wade Garrett to be so native-looking or for that matter so handsome. A tall slim waitress with long brown hair in a ponytail set down a mug of black coffee, a plate of steak'n eggs, and a large glass of cranberry juice.

Katherine looked down at Jean's plate, which held a medium-rare sixteen ounce sirloin and six eggs over easy. Then she looked up at her dinner companion.

"Okay, Jean. So my father talks very highly of you and your father."

Jean sipped his coffee and replied, "Stepfather."

"Really?" Katherine continued, "Dad said he died. I am sorry"

Jean looked at the gold cross that hung on her neck, just above her breast line. "Don't be. We were not that close." Jean turned his gaze to a Peterbilt passing by their booth window.

"Dad told me it was a heart attack." Katherine prodded.

Jean looked at Katherine's strawberry blond hair and green eyes for a second then took a ravenous bite out of his steak.

Katherine could have sworn she heard a low growl as he tore into the meat.

"Killed," Jean muttered with his mouth full.

"Killed!" Katherine lowered her head and her voice to a controlled whisper.

"Killed? Dad said it was a heart attack." Katherine was now staring intensely at Jean.

"More like a knife attack." Jean swallowed his mouth full of steak and went for the eggs.

"Oh my God! Dad didn't tell me that!" Katherine's eyes searched for signs of emotion on the face of her companion.

But Jean was like a wild beast on a fresh kill. Happily wolfing down his meal, oblivious to anything and anyone around him.

"Good?" Katherine said. Doucette nodded his approval and kept eating.

"What about your mother?" Katherine's voice brought Jean back to his senses.

"My mother?" Jean stopped and swallowed the last mouthful of food on his plate. He looked at Katherine and took another sip of coffee. "My mother died years back. Woman cancer."

"I'm sorry," Katherine said.

"It's OK. She died when I was very young."

Jean could not remember his mother except for an old faded 4x7 photo he had of her on the fireplace mantle at home. He and Katherine talked for an hour or so. Jean was not a big talker so the conversation was mostly Katherine. Jean just nodded his head at times and briefly answered her questions.

On the drive back, Katherine told Jean her father had prepared the vacant apartment above the tackle shop for his arrival. Jean thanked Katherine and said goodnight as he took the key from her and walked up the stairs to the door of the apartment. The key clicked in the newly oiled lock and the door opened to reveal a small single person living quarters.

Jean crossed the room and opened the window. The salty smell of the Intracoastal waterway carried on the breeze. Jean dropped his knapsack in the chair next to a small fridge and killed the outside light. He reached behind his back and pulled out his large bowie knife and case.

Jean slid the ivory-handled bowie from its beautiful Inuit beaded sheath and admired the beauty of the oiled Damascus sixteen inch steel blade as it bathed in the neon light coming through the window from the saloon sign. The blade reminded Jean of the story his grandfather told him, that the bowie was won in a poker game by his stepfather before Jean was born. The sailor who lost it said it was crafted by a famous Solengen German knife maker. His stepfather had a French carver put a two of spades playing card on each side of the ivory handle made from an elephant tusk. It was said that his stepfather won the knife on the river card – the deuce of spades.

Jean never knew his real father, but he remembered his cruel stepfather, Big Bernard Devereux, only too well. Following the death of his native birth mother, Big Bernard Devereux ended up the single dad of a half-breed stepson he didn't need or want. Bernard would journey into town regularly to bury his demons in whores, whiskey and poker. Jean had no happy childhood memories, just ones of an abusive stepfather's drunken rage and the sting of a leather strap across his back.

Jean's icy blue eyes narrowed as he recalled the beatings and being locked in the wolf pens for days on end. Many seasons came and went, the wolves eventually became family, the pens his home.

Jean remembered it like it was yesterday, the scenes in his head were like watching himself on a black and white movie screen. The story line always the same, the ending bittersweet. It was a cold dreary day when the hunter became the hunted.

Jean stared out the window at the neon bar sign in the darkness.

His mind traveled back, back to the day his step-father, in a drunken fit of anger, had entered the pens for the last time. Jean was about thirteen years old. "Worthless bastard of a squaw whore," Big Bernard had yelled in broken English as he raised the whiskey flask to his lips. Whiskey flowed over his long thick beard and onto his shirt. Jean was in the corner when his stepfather raised his leather horse strap and struck. Jean jumped sideways and the strap missed him by inches. The wolf pack in the adjoining pen began to circle, their heads hung low in a chorus of deep menacing growls.

The alpha she-wolf sensed Jean was in danger and rammed the fence with all the fury of a protective mother. Jean's stepfather startled, dropped his flask, spraying whiskey onto the hard-packed snow.

The large black alpha male raised his head and bared his large canine teeth while the other wolves spread out.

"You bitch! You spilled my fucking whiskey," Devereux spat as he pulled his revolver and fired through the fence, hitting the she-wolf. Jean saw mother wolf go down. Eight years of living in the pens had made Jean more wolf than man. Driven by anger and hate, Jean unleashed his primal fury. Two jumps, one to the top of the four foot wooden wolf house and the second onto the back of Big Bernard Devereux. Jean grabbed two fists full of beard and hair as he buried his teeth deep into the man's neck. Devereux howled in pain and dropped his gun. He spun in circles in an attempt to rid himself of the wild thing on his back. Jean lost his grip on the third spin and flew off, hitting the fence. Devereux kicked the feral child in the ribs, sending him skidding across the ice-covered ground.

He ran over to Jean, who was trying to catch his breath, and grabbed him by the neck with both hands, lifting him in the air above his head.

Devereux slammed Jean against the fence with both hands clamped on his throat. The wolf pack went wild. They hit the fence, growling and snapping with such force that the wooden posts shook like saplings in a blizzard.

Jean could feel his stepfather's large callused hands tightening on his throat. Blood pounded in his ears like a drum as he struggled for air.

Jean's vision began to blur as he attempted to kick his attacker.

His knee made contact with a large bowie knife shoved in the waistband of Devereux's pants. Quickly Jean's right hand reached down and found the handle. Breathless, but with his last ounce of strength, Jean dealt Devereux the dead man's hand. With both hands on the handle, Jean drove the blade into his stepfather's chest. Jean slid down the fence as Devereux released his death grip and stumbled away, falling backward onto the hard-packed snow.

Jean sat for a few minutes on the cold ground, his bruised throat sore.

He tried hard to catch his breath and regain his vision. Once he was feeling better, Jean walked over to the body and pulled the bowie from the dead man's chest.

The blood at the wound had already began to freeze. He grabbed his stepfather's hat and showed no emotion as he wiped the blood off the Damascus blade. Jean dropped the tuque on the dead body and walked out of the pen, eager to release and rejoin his pack next door. Trying to shake the last vision, Jean painfully remembered lying across the body of the she-wolf and crying long into the night. Jean could still hear the sorrowful howls of the pack. Eighteen years later and the bowie has always been within a hand's reach.

Jean placed his trusted companion and good luck charm under the pillow on the couch. He pulled off his t-shirt and placed his glasses on the coffee table. Jean loved the darkness, especially since his blue eyes were hypersensitive to light. He stretched out on the couch, put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. _Mother_. Jean recalled Katherine's words. Soon his dreams would take him back.

Back to the cabin, back to the pens. Soon he would feel mother wolf's soft fur, the warm wet tongue that had licked his wounds. He would hear the pups cry for her milk. And he would see red eyes burn in the darkness and hear the consoling howl of his brothers.

The dream weaver had come once again to Jean the Deuce.

# Chapter 13

Booman gasped, "I'm sorry, my King!"

King Cyrus's stare burned deep into his henchman's eyes.

"Tell me the truth or I'll rip your fucking throat out!" King Cyrus lifted Booman by his neck and threw him to the ground.

Blood ran up to King Cyrus, tape across his busted nose, his eye blackened. "My King," he insisted, "it's all true!"

In a flash, King Cyrus whipped out the hidden sword from his Mojo walking cane and stared down Blood like a tiger locked on a gazelle.

The Katana's razor sharp point was only inches from Blood's throat.

King Cyrus's nostrils flared as a dab of drool ran down his chin onto his goatee. Blood froze as his King looked away. "You mean to tell me some swingin' dick comes in off the street and kicked your asses. One fuckin' guy!"

Lady Medusa walked over to King Cyrus, stepping on Booman's injured hand along the way as he cowered on the ground. Booman howled in pain. "Fuckin' bitch!"

Lady Medusa rolled her unsympathetic "my bad" gaze toward Booman and then back to King Cyrus.

"He tells the truth, my King. I have seen this stranger in the bones."

Lady Medusa dropped to the ground and began to roll her head and chant in a strange tongue. Her eyes rolled back in her head, exposing only the whites. She rocked from side to side like a cobra following the charmer's pipe. Then, with a screech, she cast her bag of small bones upon the sand. "Yessss. Yessssss," she hisses. "It is a man. A warrior from the north."

Ajax looked at Blood and whispered sarcastically.

"Hope she's better at playin' with the King's bone,"

Lady Medusa wheeled to face the non-believer, dagger drawn.

"Filthy dog! You dare mock the Voodoo of Marie Laveau!"

She spat out the words like a hissing cobra.

King Cyrus barked, "Shut your hole, Ajax."

"I should have sent you, Beef." King Cyrus put his hand on his Number 1's shoulder as his sword tip touched the sand.

Medusa continued her soothsaying.

"This stranger is trouble, my King." She raised her eyes to her lover.

"He comes as a champion of the weak, a savior."

"We shall see," King Cyrus stated.

King Cyrus sheathed his Katana and addressed the brotherhood.

"Hit the streets my brothers. Shake the trees and break some knees, whatever it takes - I want this guy's story before the sun goes down!"

King Cyrus looked down and nodded at his soothsayer, still on her knees. Medusa quickly gathered up her bones and rose from the ground to accompany her King.

# Chapter 14

Jean Doucette walked around to the rear of the Booncat Saloon via outside deck, venturing out onto the bar's guest dock.

With a 7-11 foam coffee cup in hand, he gazed out at a sailboat motoring by. The waves slapped against the poles of the dock. The cool morning sun felt good on his skin and the tinted lenses of his glasses shielded his sensitive eyes from the glare off the water.

Jean wasn't big on the Florida heat and humidity, but he was grateful for having bought a truck with air-conditioning. He continued his stroll around the bar's deck, looking through the large Plexiglas windows that lined the wall, slowly making his way back up to the parking lot.

Doucette hopped in his truck and put his hair in a ponytail.

He figured it was as good a time as any to take a look around town and fuel up his truck.

Doucette drove across the big 17th Street bridge and took Indian River road five miles to a small gas station just on the edge of town.

Jean stepped out of the truck and noticed an older white Cadillac with chrome polished wheels parked at the gas pump nearest the front door. He entered the air conditioned store to see a large black man with dreadlocks talking to the female at the cash register.

A second lanky white man wearing a long jacket stood just off to right, thumbing through a local newspaper. The front page had a large picture of man with the caption: **BOUNCER KILLED AT LOCAL BAR**.

Doucette remembered pops telling him about Marty Daggert their former head bouncer who was murdered.

Jean walked up to the register and smiled at the tiny female cashier.

"Can I get forty bucks on pump two." He read her name off the ID tag on her shirt, "Susan."

The black male, who wore a baggy basketball jersey, stared at Susan as she replied. "Yes, sir, forty dollars on pump two." Jean couldn't help but notice a touch of nervousness in her voice. Jean smiled at the black male with the dreads then turned back and asked, "You got a bathroom?" Susan pointed to the back of the store.

"Thanks." Jean turned and walked to the back of the store.

The black male turned to Susan, who was now shaking. He pulled a pistol from under his jersey, put it to her head and whispered, "Listen bitch, I want the fuckin' money now or I will kill you and that fuckin' big Mexican in the shitter!"

The black robber looked around and in a loud whisper called out, "Ricky. Ricky, get the fuck over here, dawg. Ric..."

"Your friend here doesn't strike me as one who likes to read old news." The black thug's eyes lock on to Doucette, shielded behind his pal, the blade of his bowie knife under his chin. "Tyrone!" Ricky said, teeth clenched tightly as he felt the razor's sharp blade against his neck.

"Let my homie go, motherfucker, or I'll off this bitch right now!" Tyrone threatened.

"Then I'll have no choice but to slit your friend's throat from ear to ear"

Doucette promised. "Fuck T!" Ricky whimpered.

"Beaner, I will kill this bitch!" Tyrone grabbed Susan by the hair, slamming her head down on the counter, jamming the pistol's muzzle into her temple. Doucette raised up on the knife. A small stream of blood ran down the blade, making Ricky moan and stand up on his tiptoes.

Doucette moved within an arm's-length of the armed thug.

He moved out from behind his captive and stood directly in front of Tyrone.

Doucette knew the thug had the definitive edge in the Mexican standoff.

"Have it your way," Jean replied as he slowly removed his knife from Ricky's throat, reversing his grip on the handle and sticking it into the countertop.

Tyrone smiled as he released Susan and raised the pistol.

Quicker, Jean grabbed Ricky's hair and slammed his head into Tyrone's face. Tyrone's pistol arm was propelled upward, the pistol firing into a ceiling tile. Tyrone and Ricky fell, knocking over a candy stand on their way to the floor. Doucette snatched the big blade as he jumped toward the fallen robbers.

Tyrone struggled to raise his gun arm, rolling Ricky off him. Doucette stomped down hard, pinning Tyrone's pistol hand to the floor.

Another 9mm round blasted but failed to find its mark, striking a cooler. Containers of milk explode, spray painting the glass white.

Still stunned, Ricky rolls over in an attempt to stand only to see the pommel of Jean's big knife come crashing down on his forehead.

The lights go out.

Tyrone grabbed frantically at the foot that pinned his arm but suddenly stops as he feels the pressure of a sharp blade tip against his throat.

Tyrone slowly rolls onto his back. He raises his head from the floor in defiance and shouts, "Fuck you, beaner."

Doucette grins as a short right hand punch cracks Tyrone on the chin, knocking him out cold.

Doucette rises from the unconscious twosome and walks up to the counter.

Susan stared wide-eyed, with her hand covering her mouth.

Jean stuck his Bowie into the counter top for a second time with a thud that made Susan jump back.

He smiled and placed the pistol on the counter.

"Now the hunted becomes the huntress," he said.

Susan stepped forward and stared at the gun.

Jean pulled the big knife from the counter top and said, "Better call the police."

"What?" Susan's eyes bounced back and forth between the unconscious men on the floor and the gun on the counter.

"Police. Oh, right, got ya." Susan dialed 911 as Jean the Deuce placed his old friend in its sheath behind his back and headed for the door.

"Hey, mister, got a name?" Susan asked.

Doucette opened the door and thought for a moment.

"Garrett. Wade Garrett," he said with a Cheshire cat smile.

Jean figured he better get gas somewhere else and quickly drove off.

A local sheriff and EMT passed him two miles down the road, as he watched their flashing lights disappear in his rearview mirror.

He neither needed nor wanted the publicity.

Doucette just wanted to get back and take a nap before his shift started at the saloon. Jean's uncle on the reserve had once told him that trouble followed him around like a stray dog and now Jean was beginning to believe it.

More important, his friends used to say, "Never bring a knife to a gun fight." Doucette recalled seeing a place called 'Mason Avenue Firearm & Pawn shop' about three miles back on Indian River Road.

The big sign in the window stated they had tactical gear.

Jean decided to stop in on the way back to the saloon and check it out.

It was an hour before opening when Doucette arrived at the Booncat.

He entered through the back door and stood against the back wall as Pops talked to his security personnel seated in front of him. None of the staff members seemed to notice Jean as Pops continued to speak.

"I know it's been a tough year and I know the death of Marty didn't make things easier." Katherine noticed Jean standing in the back and relayed his presence to her Dad.

Pops grinned and looked at Doucette. He seemed to fill with a surge of new found energy as he spoke. "I promised you I would fix things and now I've hired the best damn cooler in the business." Pops continued: "From now on he will be running security and we are going to follow his lead. What he says goes."

"Guys and gals, let me introduce Mr. Wade Garrett." Pops pointed to

Jean in the back. "Holy shit," Skeeter looked at CC and then back at Doucette. Jean walked up to the front and stood smiling.

"My name is Jean Doucette."

Pops spoke up, "I'm sorry, Wade. I mean John, Damn. Okay, we are to call him John." Having addressed the group, Pops quickly sat back down.

"It's Jean," Doucette mumbled, looking at a twitchy Katherine and gently shaking his head. Hands in his pockets, Doucette broke the ice by engaging in short informal introductions and then got down to business.

"Tonight is our first night together and I don't expect a lot. Just do what you do and let me see what we got to work with," Jean said.

"Teamwork is the key element. To be a team, we have to look and feel like a team." Jean looked over at Katherine and her father.

"We must become one. We must look, move and function as a group."

"A bar is much like the forest," Jean continued.

"Many lives interacting with each other, but if one stops and is silent, the forest moves around you." Jean smiled as he spoke.

"That is why a bouncer who is standing still sees more than on who is roaming." The group watched attentively as Doucette continued.

"Bouncing is like being part of a wolf pack. Its strength lies in the pack's ability to stick together and work together." Jean stepped up.

"One wolf's mistake is the pack's burden to carry." Jean looked at Bongo Bob. "One wolf misses the kill, all go hungry.

You see, a wolf pack is less about ferocity and more about order.

Wolves naturally organize themselves into packs to not only enhance hunting but maintain stability."

Jean looked a CC. "A pack mentality of extreme loyalty and devotion to the group binds the wolves together as a unit, despite times of scarce prey or even violence. We must adopt a wolf pack mentality if we wish to survive the threat we now face."

Jean walked back and forth, eyeing his audience like a drill sergeant at boot camp.

"We are in the protection business. We protect one another, our customers and our bar." "What about the Demon Legion?" Sambo, sitting at a table far in the back, spoke up.

"They're like a pack of wild dogs, man, they got no respect for nothin'.

So what you gonna do when they pack up on you Mr. Garrett, John or whoever." Jean looked at Sambo, his eyes narrowed like a hawk eyeing a field mouse.

"No dog can take a wolf one on one, friend. Question is, which are you?" Jean turned from Sambo and faced the rest of the group.

Sambo rolled his eyes and grunted in disgust. Jean concluded, "Bouncing is brotherhood. Just watch my back and one another's."

CC added: "United we stand; divided, we're fucked."

"Basically." Jean grinned. Pops intervened: "We open in fifteen minutes." Jean nodded to the group as they made their way into the main bar area.

# Chapter 15

Beef's Yamaha R-1 was parked on the street corner just behind the police station. Sticks' 600 Honda was parked next to Tommyhawk's Suzuki GSX-R750. Sticks was on his knees next to his bike, examining his bottom plastic.

"Damn, dawg, there's a crack in my glass," he complained to his girlfriend, Coco, a tall skinny Puerto Rican chica with a love for nose candy. She was sitting quietly on his bike, playing with his nuchakus. Beef ignored Sticks and his bitch, staying focused on the back door of the station. Twenty minutes passed. Tommyhawk lay back on his bike, gazing up at the clouds through his thick black sunglasses. Beef leaned on the handle bars of his R-1, but quickly straightened up and stated, "Here she comes."

The crew was now on alert. Susie Q, a short pretty blond girl with a plus-size build, came out the entrance of the police station, a folded white paper in hand. Beef smiled.

The King's number 1 liked his women with meat on their bones.

Susie Q grinned as she hopped on the back of her man's crotch rocket. Her ample booty and skin tight jeans made Beef lose his train of thought for a second. "You got it?" Beef asked.

"Ya, baby. I talked to Tyrone's old lady in the lobby. She said he and Ricky got their shit jacked by your boy over at the gas station off 17 Street. I got a copy of the po-po report from Deputy Dog."

She wrapped her arms around Beef's neck and licked his ear as the crew jetted off.

At a restaurant just outside of town, the gang members pulled in and ordered some lunch.

Susie Q sat next to Beef, filling him in on the rest of the information she had got from talking with Tyrone's old lady in the police station's waiting room, as he reviewed the arrest report. Tommyhawk and Sticks listened and ate their food while Coco watched the bikes outside.

Back at the dock, King Cyrus stood up and walked over to the rail of his thirty foot Carver Cabin Cruiser. The small twenty boat dock was quiet as most owners were out fishing for the day. King Cyrus enjoyed the solitude of his ship, which he had named _The Dragon's Lair_. No one dared board his domain without permission. Neighbors and town folk alike who knew him and his reputation gave the ship a wide berth.

The King heard the dissonance of loud pipes incoming and was anxious to hear what his minions had found out.

Beef and the others approached their King and stopped just short of the boarding ramp. "I got interesting Intel, my King," Beef said.

"Ya, man," Sticks blurted out. "We got the shit! We..."

Beef rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Are you addressing me?" King Cyrus stared down on Sticks like a cobra eyeing a small snake. "I'm sorry, my King." Sticks stared at the wooden deck beneath his feet.

"Beef, come. The rest of you, find the brothers and tell them we meet at the clubhouse at ten o'clock."

Beef looked at his ol' lady and cocked his head.

Susie Q glanced back over her shoulder as she walked up the dock, making sure her man got an eye full of her moneymaker.

Beef cracked a smile and licked his sunbaked lips as he boarded

_The Dragon's Lair_ , following King Cyrus into the main cabin.

King Cyrus cracked two cold beers and handed one to Beef.

He sat down in his captain's chair and propped his bare feet up on the counter. Beef raised his bottle and toasted, "Long live the King and his Legion." King Cyrus mimicked his number one's toast.

"To the Brotherhood," he said, and took a drink. "So, Brother, lay it on me." Beef swallowed his mouthful of ale and spoke, "The dude's name is Wade Garrett. Tyrone told his ol 'lady at the lockup that was the name he heard the bitch at the gas station tell the cops. Deputy Dog ran the name and said it came back with no priors.

His last known address was a biker bar in Little Rock, Arkansas.

I called a brother of mine up in Memphis after lunch, and he said his old club brothers had a run in with this guy about six or seven years back.

Said he was one tough motherfucker."

The King looked out the port window, absorbing the information.

"Wade Garrett" he murmured just as his blackberry rang.

"Shit," King Cyrus growled and raised his index finger to his lips to silence his guest. "Yeah," he answered. The voice on the other line spoke briefly. "We ran into a minor complication." King Cyrus continued.

The cell cackled from bad reception.

"I know the fucking jar-headed Gorilla is out of the picture now."

The King raised his eyes to the ceiling and replied, "No, I don't expect you to handle everything yourself.

I assure you, Mr. Hyde, you'll have the saloon property before the deadline."

King Cyrus continued, "They hired a new head bouncer named

Wade Garrett, a minor problem we will be putting to rest tonight."

Mr. Hyde concluded the conversation with a reprimand and an ultimatum.

The Blackberry went silent and King Cyrus raised it above his head as if he was going to smash it to the floor. Then he lowered his arm and chucked the phone on the bench seat.

"Arrogant prick! If I ever meet this asshole face-to-face I am going to cut his fucking head off! That is, after I get the rest of our money."

The King smirked and stepped into the head.

"Beef," King Cyrus unzipped his jeans, "We need to know what we are up against here."

"Talk to that puppet-lookin' crack head, Sambo, and get his story."

Beef thought for a second and answered, "As a matter of fact, that fuck head called me the day after Booman and the boys had that run-in with Garrett."

Beef continued, "I thought the fucker was geekin' and lookin' to score some rock, so I didn't take him serious."

"We still supply his ass, right?" King Cyrus asked.

"We own his ass and the monkey on his back." Beef replied.

King Cyrus stepped out of the pisser and grabbed his voodoo walking stick that stood in the corner. The King ran his fingers over the silver dragon's head pommel admiring the craftsmanship.

"He could be useful." King Cyrus walked over to the small table in the corner of the main cabin.

"Maybe, but you can't fully trust a bitch that sucks the devil's dick,"

Beef replied and took another drink. King Cyrus pulled his Katana part way out of the walking stick and gazed at his reflection in the blade.

"I hear ya, brother, but we need to know more about this Garrett guy before we make a move," King Cyrus said.

"Get a hold of this crack head and make sure he's on the right page.

I don't want anything heavy, Beef. Just squeeze the fucker a little and see what shit comes out. Also," the King added, slamming the blade back into the walking stick. "Find that fuckin' hang around, that wannabe gangsta with the lump on his face?"

"Mikey the Monkey Boy," Beef said.

"Ya, that's it. That idiot still in town?" The King asked.

"Fuck, yes. I nearly ran over the bitch on Third Street. That is one sorry ass motherfucker!" Beef growled.

"Well bring his sorry ass to church tonight," the king smiled.

Beef looked at King Cyrus in disbelief.

"Please tell me, we're not going to probate this fuckin' lump of shit!"

The King laughed.

"Probate no, but use, yes. If you're gonna catch a big shark, you got to chum the water."

It was ten after ten when the clubhouse doors were locked and prospects stationed outside to watch the bikes. No old ladies were allowed during "church meetings," where club business was discussed and reviewed. Women were in another area of the compound called the "chicken coop."

King Cyrus touched base on a few pending issues and then got to the business at hand. When church concluded, the back door opened and in walked Beef with Mikey the Monkey Boy. Mikey grinned as he clutched his crotch, rockin' his gangsta stride from side to side.

He approached King Cyrus and shot a gang sign, accompanied by a slick hiphop rhyme :

"I wanna be the G, to light ya blunts, count ya cash, load ya rounds and drive ya V's. baby" Beef quickly grabbed Mikey by the back of the neck and yanked him close. "You'll bow down before the King of Kings, bitch."

"E-Zzzz, brother Beef," King Cyrus touched his number one's shoulder.

Moving around his Sergeant-at-Arms, King noted, "Mikey is a well-known associate of the Demon Legion."

The King winked at his minions. Beef released his captor with a grunt.

"For sure, my King, your muscle here, needs to lighten up."

Mikey said making it a point to avoid Beef's thousand yard stare.

King Cyrus dedicatedly stroked his well groomed goatee and continued.

"My friend, we have a job that fits your crew's talents,"

"I'm all about it your kingship." Mikey's smile made the lump on his cheekbone stick out like a goose egg.

King Cyrus offered the Monkey Boy a drink.

Beef handed King Cyrus a photocopy of Katherine's letter to Wade Garrett. "Complements of crack head Sambo at the saloon" Beef replied.

"You're the man, Beef." King Cyrus smiled. The King gazed down at the letter in his hand. Beef nodded and walked outside to check on the brothers as his leader approached Mikey to discuss the task at hand.

# Chapter 16

It was an active Thursday night at the Booncat Saloon. DJ Russell the Love Muscle was cranking out the tunes, and people were dancing and having a good time. Not a large crowd, but good for a Thursday. Doucette had Skeeter and CC checking ID's just outside the front door.

Bongo Bob and Blue Boy were working the main bar and dance floor. Croft was in the pool table area. Their new security radios made teamwork much easier. No one felt lost or alone knowing help was only the push of a button away. Doucette walked around checking fire extinguishers and exits, never forgetting just how fast a fire can endanger lives in a club packed with patrons.

It was CC who spoke into the security radio and announced the arrival of four motorcycles and an older police Crown Victoria with chrome wheels and blacked out windows.

The motorcycle pipes ripped out an ear piercing blast as they lined up their rides in the handicapped parking area and shut them down.

The Crown Victoria parked next to the bikes. All the young men were dressed in hip-hop attire. Their baggy pants were sagging, cuffed and dragged on the ground, half covering the steel toed construction work boots on their feet. The image of two individuals could be seen in the Crown Vic front seat but the dark limo tint on the windows made facial recognition impossible.

Two of the riders wore extra-large basketball team jerseys with the number forty-two, while the two others wore extra-large T-shirts that were almost knee length. All had baseball caps worn backwards that were black with white stitching that read _42nd $treet Crew_. Silver and gold bling hung from the necks of three of the members in the form of large chains. Big gaudy rings adorned some of their fingers.

CC and Skeeter were nervous but still holding their mud when their cooler arrived. Jean smiled at his bouncers and said, "I got this, just watch my six and relax."

Mikey the Monkey Boy led the crew up to the front entrance and were quickly confronted by the new cooler.

CC and Blueboy watched as Doucette addressed the group.

"I am sorry, gentlemen, but we have a dress code in effect." Jean stated. "No gang apparel or club colors allowed."

Mikey the Monkey Boy began to get upset as he recognized his target. "You all are hatin' on a nigga," Mikey popped off.

"It's not about color; it's about clothing that pertains to gang affiliation," Jean responded. "Wetback, you got some fuckin' balls to be rollin' up on me and my crew with this bullshit!" Jean stated, "I'm Native, not Mexican." Mikey came back, "Well, you look like a fuckin' beaner to me!"

"We don't want to get the cops involved," Jean replied.

Mikey laughed, "PoPo ain't shit in this town, dawg."

CC looked at Blueboy and in a worried tone whispered, "Garrett is so gonna get his ass kicked."

Jean the Deuce glanced at Mikey's waist and noticed the shape of a pistol under his jersey as he bowed up.

"Look here," Doucette stepped up to Mikey, "first, it's your droopy drawers, - you all dress like a bunch of rodeo clowns'" he said, pointing his finger at belt level. As Mikey looked down, the Deuce grabbed his belt buckle and gave a quick tug. A .40 caliber Glock slid down Mikey's leg like a rock and hit the wood deck with a thump.

"You motherfucker!" Mikey swooped down to grab his fallen piece only to meet Doucette's knee coming north. Monkey Boy's face compressed against Jean's thigh as he rocketed up into the air and on to his back.

His crushed nose now swelling up to join the lump on his cheek.

A tall black kid in the group pulled out a switchblade and lunged at Doucette. Jean side stepped the blade and grabbed the knife hand as it missed its target. He jerked the arm up and back, and the attacker's feet left the ground. His body hit the deck at the same time the wrist snapped.

The attacker screamed in pain as he lay there holding his broken paw. Blueboy realized what was happening and jumped on the nearest gang member, bull dogging him to the ground.

CC called for backup as she moved to help Blueboy. Another gang member attempted to intercept CC, but a solid Sonny Liston left jab to the jaw from the Deuce sent him sprawling to the asphalt. A short fat gang banger jumped out of the Crown Vic with an aluminum baseball bat and charged Doucette. Jean cocked his head to the left as the bat sailed by inches from his head. Back and forth the baseball bat whipped as Jean dodged the killer blows.

On the fourth swing, the Deuce swooped in like a hawk .

On the back swing, he grabbed the middle of the bat and slammed it into the fat kid's forehead. The flabby batter's eyes rolled back, showing only solid white as his hands slid from the bottom of the bat.

He dropped where he stood.

Answering CC's call, Croft came from around back only to have the second car rider, wearing a red bandana around his greasy black hair, attempt to rap a steel pipe around his head. Doucette shoved Croft to one side as the pipe sailed by, making contact with nothing but air.

Jean grabbed the pipe swinger by the throat and lifting him in the air.

The gangbanger's feet dangled like a hanged man, kicking a couple of times before Doucette power slammed him to the ground.

The sickening sound of ribs cracking filled the stale night air.

Men moaned and groaned on the ground as Blueboy and CC released their captive. The beaten bangers gladly gathered up their more seriously wounded. They loaded their semi-conscious leader into the front seat of the Crown Vic. It didn't take long for the 42 $treet crew to pack up and hit the road.

CC and Blueboy looked at each other, trying to grasp what had just transpired. CC's mind could not escape the vision of Doucette power slamming the gangbanger. He had snatched him up like a rag doll and driven him into the dirt like the Undertaker of WWE fame.

Blueboy was trying to piece together how it had all gone down but could not begin to fathom Doucette's speed and power.

"You did a good job" Jean told CC.

CC replied " We. You mean you. We didn't do jack!"  
Jean smiled softly and touched her shoulder

"You had my back, that's what counts."

Blueboy was headed for the door, more concerned about his hair being messed up than his bruises.

Jean glanced through the window to his right and saw Sambo duck down out of sight. Jean shook his head, continued through the door and got back to work. The rest of the night was quiet.

As patrons made their way past the ID area out to their vehicles, Blueboy stated in a low voice to Croft, "Whoo, man, Garrett makes Jet Li look slow, bro."

"Swear to God, Croft, he fucked up four gangbangers like that."

Blueboy snapped an Elvis Presley karate move.

"They were probably all high, wacked out or something," Croft noted sourly.

"They looked pretty fuckin' straight to me, bro," Blueboy defended.

"You've been spending too much time jackin' off to porn. Causes bad eye sight," Croft joked. "Dickhead," Blueboy fired back as he ran a comb through his black hair on the way out to the parking lot.

CC helped Bongo Bob and Skeeter straighten up the tables and chairs. She recapped the story of the fight outside as her fellow bouncers listened in disbelief.

It was Pops who went up to Doucette and spoke. "God damn, son, if I didn't have it on the security camera, I wouldn't believe it."

Pops smiled. "Wade, I swear you are faster than Bruce Lee, himself."

"It's Jean," Doucette answered as he sipped the last of his coffee.

"Oh, shit right, John" Pops replied.

Katherine's voice came over the bar. "Don't let Dad bother you, Jean."

"No bother," Jean replied.

"Well it was a great night," Pops spoke out loud to his security staff as they gathered for their pay. "We showed those punks that the Booncat Saloon is not going to take any crap!"

Katherine finished cleaning the main bar and glanced over to see Doucette place his empty coffee cup in the sink.

He reached under the bar, grabbed his jacket and leather bag.

He pressed the lock on the doctor-style bag and spread open the top.

Jean pushed aside the first-aid stuff and a half pint of the chief's moonshine to find his best friend waiting at the bottom.

Jean smiled and removed his big Damascus bowie knife from the bag.

He closed the top and replaced the bag, stepping from behind the counter. Jean glanced over at Sambo sitting in the corner. The crack head quickly diverted his stare to the floor. Jean the Deuce spoke up as he placed the large knife in his belt and put on his jacket. "I don't want to be a bearer of bad tidings, but it's going to get worse from here on in," Jean said. "Tonight was just pawn play. The opposition is testing our skill level.

No doubt looking for weakness in our defenses."

Skeeter pipes up "Like football." Jean nods his head " Like football."

"We have to see trouble before it happens and defuse it quickly."

Jean turned to face Blueboy. "The door is our front line of defense.

Remember it is easier to keep trouble out than to put it out.

If we are going to fight them, it's better to do it outside, where there is more room and less chance of innocent people getting caught in the cross fire. Never start anything inside, if it's at all possible."

Jean smiled and said, "You all did a good tonight. See you tomorrow." The group said their good nights as their cooler headed out the front door.

"Thank you, Wade Garrett," Pops whispered to himself as he started to hand out pay envelopes.

# Chapter 17

The next morning, the sun was blinding as it beamed through the bus stop booth window. Sambo turned his back to the light as he talked on his cell phone. Sambo was a first class rat but never admitted to the tag.

"I sell information, bitches but I ain't no snitch," he would tell his homies. "I am like a secret agent. Bro. Double-0-7 undercover shit," he would brag. "I am the eyes and ears of King Cyrus himself!"

Sambo had his report ready.

"Ya, man, I seen it all, Beef. Swear to God, bro."

Sambo stopped talking and scowled at a stoned kid with a skateboard standing next to him. "Fuck off, dipshit!"

The droopy eyed skater calmly shrugged his shoulders, picked up his skate board and walked down to the other end of the shelter.

"What? No, no I wasn't talkin' to you, bro," he quickly said to Beef.

He was having difficulty hearing the voice on the other end of the line.

"Fuck, no, I wasn't high. I seen it all in HD, bro!" the crack head continued. "Garrett fucked Monkey Boy and his crew up!"

"Ya, I suppose the others helped a bit, but barely.

Garrett had Monkey Boy and two GITS out of commission before they knew what hit them."

"Fuck no, I told ya I ain't trippin'," he answered.

"What about that forty rock, bro?" Sambo waited.

"Five bells, I'll be there."

The line went dead as Sambo closed his cell phone and stepped out of the shelter and onto the southbound bus.

When Beef arrived at the clubhouse later that morning, he parked his motorcycle next to four other bikes.

He walked past Tommyhawk and Ajax smokin' a joint next to the door. "Wanna hit of this ganja, brother?" Ajax asked, holding his breath to keep the smoke in his lungs. Beef raised a right hand and signaled

"Not now bro. I need to talk to the man." as he slipped by and entered the clubhouse.

Medusa was lying back on the black leather sofa that adorned the far end of the room. The King was seated in a big red barber chair he referred to as his throne. One leg thrown over the left arm of the chair, he raised a hand to signal Beef to remain silent until he was finished talking on his Blackberry.

"His truck plate came back what?" King Cyrus looked puzzled.

"Open your ears, Cyrus," Mr. Hyde voice echoed in the cell phone speaker.

"Jean Samuel Doucette. He's from an Indian reservation in Yukon, Canada."

"My ears are open and I'm telling ya, your Intel is way off, man.

I got a solid source at the local cop shop that told me this guy is Wade Garrett and he is using an alias. Fuckin' old man Boone said so himself. Matter of fact, the crack head bar back got me a copy of the letter his daughter sent to get him here from Missouri!"

Mr. Hyde replied, "Regardless of who this asshole is, I want him and them gone. You've got two weeks!"

The King spoke into the phone: "It ain't gonna take two weeks."

The call ended with a click and King Cyrus chucked his Blackberry at the feet of his Voodoo Queen then picked up his beer.

"I hate that fuckin' suit. Want a cold one?" the King offered his number one. "Sounds good," Beef said and continued, "Bad news, my King. Monkey Boy and his crew got fucked up last night."

King Cyrus handed Beef a beer and sat back down on his throne.

"It was to be expected, brother," Cyrus said as he took a drink.

"If this guy is Wade Garrett, he's not going to have much problem handling a punk like Mikey."

Beef looked at his leader in astonishment. "I don't get it?"

"Just testing the waters, brother." King Cyrus's eyes glanced over at Medusa and winked as he continued, "I had Tork and T-Bone watch the show from a distance.

Seems like this Garrett guy is the real deal, so now we have to rethink our strategy. We got limited time and don't want to play to a stalemate. We can't afford to get in a deadlock with this fucker when the clocks against us. Maybe Mr. Garrett has a price?"

"Given the opportunity, we may gain a powerful ally and bring down old man Boone in a single move." King Cyrus looked at his number one and raised his beer to inspect the contents.

"Take five large from the front money. Double it if you have to.

Given Garrett's hard as nails reputation and the tight schedule we're on. We got no time to bullshit. Take Tommyhawk with you." Beef nodded his head and walked out. Outside, Beef watched as a small group of members were clustered at the end of the clubhouse.

T-Bone's large frame stood next to the wall, holding a squirming frightened female who had been invited by Stick's old lady, Coco.

She had soon gone from special guest to special entertainment.

T-bone held the sobbing blonde by the hair and neck, the right side of her tear streaked face pressed flush and tight against the wall.

From her hooker red lips protruded a large cigar.

"Don't you dare drop that stogie, Hooker or it will be your nose gettin' sheared off. Okay, red man, bring it!" T-Bone yelled. Tommyhawk looked at Beef with his eyes covered with stripe of black war paint.

Tommyhawk's eyes went from calm to thunderstorm dark as he jerked the Stainless steel tomahawk from his belt, spun and let the ax fly.

The tomahawk left his hand in a blur and struck the wall with a deep thud, cutting the cigar in half, sending the severed piece flying.

"Ho Ya!! I fuckin' love that shit!" T-Bone laughed.

T-bone grabbed the remaining half of his cigar out of the shaking blonde's ruby red lips.

The blonde, in the terror of the moment, had pissed her skin-tight jeans. T-bone shoved the blonde toward Stick's old lady.

"Get this split tail cleaned up, Coco. I think she's a keeper." He grinned.

Beef walked up to Tommyhawk as he pulled his ax from the wall.

"The King's got a mission for us, bro" Beef said.

"We don't collect from the whores till Friday." Tommyhawk said looking Beef in the eye.

" We ain't collecting bro. We are delivering a message."

" The fun kind." Tommyhawk smiled.

Beef shook his head "No jackin' shit, just talkin' shit."

"Well there goes the fun part." Tommyhawk thumbed the Tomahawk's blade for sharpness, then shoved it in his belt as the two brothers-in-arms made their way toward their motorcycles.

# Chapter 18

Katherine tapped lightly on the door of Jean's apartment.

She waited to hear a response, but all that came was silence.

Katherine turned the knob and opened the door just a few inches.

"Jean?" As she glanced around the room, she looked out the window by the sink. Across the road in the field, under a tree, she spotted Jean.

She watch him for a bit and came to the conclusion that he must be performing some kind of meditation or prayer ritual as he kneeled shirtless on a colorful blanket, his hands resting on his thighs, head bowed. She found it hard not to stare at Jean's shirtless back, his long black hair moving across his muscular shoulders like the mane of a black stallion. Katherine could feel her body heat rise as she imagined Jean's powerful embrace.

She blushed like a school girl at the thought of her mischievousness and began to back toward the door. Not paying attention, Katherine accidentally bumped Jean's knapsack that rested on the living room table. The knapsack tumbled to the floor, spilling out its contents.

Katherine jumped as the bag hit the floor.

"Dammit," she spoke under her breath as she got down on her knees and began to replace the articles. A pair of faded blue jeans, a black t-shirt, socks, a road map, a book titled _The Wild Boy of Aveyron_.

It was then that a leather bound journal caught her eye. It lay half open when it fell and two old newspaper clippings slid out from between the pages onto the floor. Bang!

Katherine's heart jumped into her throat as her head snapped in the direction of the loud noise. A large industrial mop perched up against the bathroom door fell to the floor behind her.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath. Her chest pounded as she took time to gather her wits, trying to still her racing heart.

_God what am I doing here_ , she thought. _Katherine, you need to get this stuff picked up and get your ass out of here,_ a little voice in her head scolded her.

Katherine turned her attention back to the mess on the floor, but soon her eyes were locked back on the journal. Katherine's curiosity was overpowering. She was captivated by the detail of the script.

The handwriting was exquisite, almost calligraphic in nature but written in a strange language. The old newspaper clippings that hid between the pages were faded but in English. Katherine held the two clippings up to the light to better see the print.

The Whitehorse Star - April 10, 1993

RCMP discovered a "Wolf boy" in the mountains of Red Rock area. Doctors expressed shock, saying he was found living with a pack of wolves in a remote forest den. "He's clearly dangerous to other people," said a police spokesman yesterday. He's got typical wolf-like habits and wild behavior. He is very strong and very fast which could really endanger someone." Doctors at the Yukon Medical Center concur the boy looks about 13-14 years old. Officials are puzzled because he appears intelligent but does not seem to speak English or any other language. "It is suspected he has been running wild with this pack for at least six months" said a Yukon Fish and Wildlife officer.

"He was running with wolves and searching for food with them. "

The hunters first discovered the decomposed body of a man and a wolf at a cabin in the mountains. They stated that the wolf pens were empty and they tracked the boy into the high country about ten kilometers from the cabin.

The Whitehorse Star - April 18, 1993

This week the teenage boy known as Wolf Boy was identified as the stepson of Bernard Devereux a local French trapper found dead at his cabin in Red Rock forest on September 10. An RCMP investigation confirmed today that the step-son murdered Mr. Devereux with his own hunting knife. It was also reported that severe child abuse was evident.

Local authorities stated that given the age and mental state of the accused, no charges would be filed.

_Mr. Devereux was a single parent and his departed wife, the boy's biological mother, was a member of the_ Vuntut Gwitchin _First Nation. She was the daughter of the Chief of the Old Crow Reserve._

The boy's family has come forward and is claiming custody under First Nation law.

Elders from the Old Crow Reserve petitioned the court on Tuesday and custody of the boy has been granted to his uncle, Charles Black, a tribal elder on the Old Crow Reserve.

The sun beat down on Jean, as he kneeled on a black and red woven Inuit blanket with a Raven and a Wolf embroidered on it. In front of him on the ground was his bowie knife, lying on a Métis Sash.

Jean received the multi-colored ceremonial sash from a longtime Métis friend and fellow lumberjack, Big Jaw John Delorme.

Jean closed his eyes and recalled the day Big Jaw John unwrapped it from his waist and handed it to him.

Big Jaw John sat down on a fallen tree log and lit his long pipe.

A puff of smoke swirled out from the corner of his mouth as he began to speak:

"Throughout its history, the Métis Sash has meant different things to different people, However, no one has celebrated and adopted the L'Assomption Sach as part of their proud heritage as have Métis people." John paused to hand the peace pipe to Jean, then continued.

"It takes its name from the Quebec town where it was produced.

The L'Assomption Sash was not only functional, but also colorful and identifiable as Métis dress. The Sash itself served as a temporary tapeline, key holder, first aid kit, washcloth, towel, and as an emergency bridle and saddle blanket. Its fringed ends could become a sewing kit when the Métis were on a buffalo hunt.

_In the west, the name, Le Ceinture l'Assomption, gave way to today's name, "The Métis Sash._ _The Sash was extremely popular among the mixed blood voyageurs and those who settled in the Red River area._

But today, the Métis Sash continues to be an integral part of my people's cultural celebrations.

May it bring you protection and good fortune my blood brother."

The vision of his friend and the heart-felt words vanished in the morning sunlight as Jean's voice, low but strong, chanted an Indian prayer hymn in his native tongue.

" _Ahjay-ka nata aba-koo natay_. _Oh great Spirit, hear the prayers of your people. My fears, those small that seemed so big, For all the vital things_

I had to get and reach. Yet there is only one great thing, to live to see

The great day that dawns and the light that fills the world.

O great spirit, hear your people and make us strong.

Give us your Wisdom so we may tread your path.

That we may we always be ready for the long journey.

"Purify us with your cleansing winds and guide us.

Ahjay-ka nata aba-koo natay. "Datoo-ka natay toona ka-na day-to."

A sound like a Porsche Turbo Carrera powering out of a hairpin corner on a racetrack caught Jean's attention. It was two high winding RPM engines. It didn't take long for the volume to get louder as two sport bikes rounded the last corner under the bridge.

The two riders came to a stop, surprised to spot their quarry in the middle of the small field next to the dog park, on his knees. The engines were silenced as the two riders dismounted and walked toward Doucette.

Jean remained on his knees, slowly putting his black tank-top on. He calmly adjusted his red headband and folded his Métis Sash to cover his bowie knife. Beef and his brother-at-arms approached their adversary with caution. They slowly circled around each side of Doucette until they stood shoulder to shoulder, directly in front of him.

Jean's eyes glanced at Tommyhawk and then to Beef.

"We just want to talk, Garrett, _"_ Beef stated, hands raised in peace, palms facing out.

Doucette moved from kneeling to a more relaxed crossed-legged position and replied, "Talk."

He again glanced at Tommyhawk and then back to Beef.

"Way we figure it, Garrett, you just showed up at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and you really didn't know what was going on here,"

Beef began. "You're a smart guy and you don't want to get involved in old man Boone's shit. It's not your problem." Beef continued.

"This is between old man Boone and the club, plain and simple"

Beef smiled as he decided to let it all ride on the river card and maybe save the club some cash.

"We could use a man with your talents, Garrett. What would you say to a membership in the Legion? A full cut, no bullshit!" Tommyhawk looked at Beef in disbelief, but like a good soldier held his tongue.

Jean looked at Beef and then at Tommyhawk.

"Sorry," he replied, "I'm more of the lone wolf, dirt bike rider type."

Tommyhawk's eyes narrowed like a bird of prey as he spoke through clenched teeth. "You Fuckin' Dis.." Tommyhawk's hand moved to his belt but Beef grabbed his forearm before he could pull the ax.

Beef stared into Tommyhawk's eyes, "Easy, brother," and glanced back at Doucette, who to his surprise was now standing back with a long multicolored Sash in his hands.

"Okay, lets just cool the fuck down." Beef's breathing became a little heavy.

"Look Garrett, I got ten large for you. Ten grand here and now, if you pack your shit and leave town." Tommyhawk was not aware of the money deal the King had planned and this only added fuel to the fire.

"What the fuck? I'll kill this fucking Puta for free!"

Doucette replied, " Yeenji' _sheenjit nahtsii_."

"What?" Tommyhawk snapped back as Beef held him at bay.

Jean taunted, "Make a move for me."

Tommyhawk shoved Beef aside as he pulled his tomahawk clear of his belt. Tommy swung and missed his mark by inches.

Doucette dodged the lethal head blow, and when the tomahawk came back in an arc, he blocked it just below the ax head with the back edge of his large bowie knife. The two combatants locked up for a brief moment as the ax and blade became interlocked. Beef stayed clear of the flashing steel as the fighters dueled for advantage with their weapons. They broke free and exchanged a series of blows and blocks.

Jean deflected the tomahawk's blows just below the steel head with the back of the blade, so as not to damage his Damascus bowie's edge.

As the two warriors circled each other looking for an opening, the loud single chirp of a police cruiser's siren brought the combat to a halt. Sheriff Randall stepped out of his car with a pump action shotgun in hand. His Deputy David Lee followed, hot on his heels.

Beef stood silent as the sheriff approached them, shotgun held level with his belt line. "What ya all got goin' on here, boys?"

Tommyhawk was puffing like a marathon runner as he glanced over at Beef.

Jean, soaked with sweat, calmly spoke up.

"Just giving a fellow Indian a lesson in the old tribal ways."

"Well, boy, when I drove up, it looked like you and your amigo here were going at it hot and horny!" the Sheriff spit a wad of chew onto the ground. Tommyhawk interjected, "Its like my Indian brother here said, Sheriff, we was just getting back to our native roots."

Sheriff Randall adjusted his dark aviator glasses as a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek "Is that what you're callin' it?

Well now, Tommy, when I drove up it looked more to me like you and your dance partner here we're lookin' to lift a scalp."

Deputy David Lee interjected, "Bullshit, Sheriff, they was fightin'!"

Sheriff Randall switched his gaze to the odd man out.

"What about you Beef? You taking the class too or just enjoying the show?"

Beef smirked. "No Indian in me, Sheriff, I'm from Brooklyn."

"I am drowning in the bullshit, y'all are tryin' to shovel here."

Sheriff Randall dropped his head without taking he eyes off the group and spit another gob of Red Man chewing tobacco into the dirt.

He waved his shotgun at the two gang members and then pointed the end of the barrel at the two parked motorcycles.

"I strongly suggest you two upstanding citizens get on your bikes and make dust. As for you, Mr. Garrett, I got my eye on you boy.

Best keep that big old pig sticker in its case."

The deputy parroted, "Yeah, boy, you better just."

Sheriff Randall cut his deputy off abruptly.

"Shut your pie hole, David Lee, I'm sure Tonto here gets my drift."

Doucette turned his back to the sheriff and walked back toward the Booncat Saloon.

When he got back to the property, Jean stepped through the half open door of his apartment and ran smack dab into Katherine.

She was so caught up watching the fight from the window she had forgotten that she was not supposed to be here in the first place.

Katherine stammered, "I am so sorry. I can explain."

"Explain what? My home is your home," Doucette answered.

Jean laid his Métis Sash and large knife on the coffee table.

"But I am in bad need of a shower." With that, Jean slowly peeled off his sweat soaked tank top. Katherine's emerald green eyes fastened onto the brown muscular physique glistening with sweat.

One of the shiny sweat bead's suddenly stopped as Katherine's fingers touched the rock-hard stomach of the Greek statue standing in front of her. She flattened her palm against the steel cords that rippled just under the skin. She felt her wedding ring become greasy and roll as her hand pushed hard against the muscle wall, sliding up the middle of Doucette's chiseled granite abs to his lower chest.

Doucette pulled Katherine's body against his as her other hand joined the first, linking together around the back of Jean's neck.

A low primal growl emitted from Doucette's throat as his strong hands cupped Katherine's firm buttocks through her thin spring dress. He lifted her off the ground with ease as her strong long legs wrapped around his waist. Eyes of emerald and ice meet for a brief moment before animal instinct took over. Lips locked and tongues embraced in a duel of passion as the man-wolf carried his prize off to the shower.

# Chapter 19

The moon was full in a cloudless night sky when the two henchmen arrived back at the Dragon's Lair. The large boat rocked gently on the lines as Medusa stared out the starboard side window and watched Tommyhawk and Beef approach the ship.

King Cyrus entered the main cabin from the V-birth, walking cane in hand. "Dusa, I take it my brethren have returned," the King said.

Medusa answered her lover, "I believe they bring bad tidings, my love." Beef was first to enter the cabin. Tommyhawk, grumbling to himself, trailed two steps behind.

"What's the word, brothers?" King Cyrus looked at his enforcers. Tommyhawk gazed at the ground as he felt the King's eyes upon him.

Beef spoke quickly in an attempt to cut the tension he felt building."We did our best, my King, but this Garrett dude is a hard-headed motherfucker. A real patriotic prick."

Tommyhawk broke in, "This is bullshit, bro. I could have taken this fuckin' guy." Beef fired back, "Yeah, right. Looked more to me like Garrett was giving you a run for your money."

Tomahawk stepped up. "The fucker got lucky. Another couple of seconds and I would of.."

King Cyrus slammed his walking cane on the floor. "Enough bickering!"

The King walked to the large captain's chair and sat down in it.

He ran his fingers through his goatee as he considered an alternative action. Medusa was quick to seize the moment and take full advantage.

She passionately slithered up to her King and said, "Allow me, my King, to send Mr. Garrett an unwelcome guest."

King Cyrus looked down at his sinister lover.

"Very well, Medusa, make it so."

Beef and Tommyhawk walk out, glaring at the King's lover.

Medusa returns their stare, her eyes beaming with a snake-like gaze of gratification, as she watch the two gang members leave the ship.

Beef and Tommyhawk rode directly back to the clubhouse, after leaving King Cyrus's ship. Beef was first off his motorcycle and first to kick open the clubhouse door, visualizing Medusa's face dead center. Pissed off to the max, Beef rips open the fridge door and snatches out a cold beer. Tommyhawk follows, grumbling under his breath.

Tommyhawk spits on the floor. "Fuckin' bitch. We can't let that Voodoo whore make us look bad, bro." Beef takes a chug and drops down on a wooden stool. "I hear ya, brother."

Sticks came out of the back room followed by a very large Hispanic male. "Whazzup' my brothers from evil mothers?"

Still irritated, Beef points his finger and beer bottle in the direction of the big Hispanic. "Who the fuck is this?"

Stick's is quick to reply "He's a new prospect, bro. Name's Cujo."

Beef takes a sip and sizes up the new probate.

"Big fuckin' dude. Can he speak English?"

Cujo cuts in, "English and Spanish."

Tomahawk's still in a bad mood. "He wasn't fuckin' talkin' to you, Probate!" Cujo stares at Tommyhawk but holds his silence.

Sticks jumps in, "My boy here is six-six, three hundred and forty-five pounds of Mexican muscle. Fuckin' Norteños Familia, bro!"

Beef pulled the beer bottle away from his lips. "Nacho's Familiar what?"

Cujo and Tommyhawk's eyes are now dead-locked in an eye fucking contest. Sticks is starting to get nervous.

"The fuckin' Mexican Mafia, bro. Dude was a hard core motherfuckin' LA gangbanger. My boy Cujo here got kicked out for killing a fellow gang member who fucked his little sister! Snapped the fucker's neck like a twig, man!" Cujo silently opened his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a Mexican sombrero covering a large Machete dripping blood.

Beef rises up with his empty beer bottle and heads for the fridge.

"Well remind me not to fuck anybody in his family."

Beef is doing some serious thinking as he grabs a couple of cold ones out of the fridge. "Perhaps our new probate can show us what he's made of. Perhaps he'd like to earn his top rocker."

Beef hands Tommyhawk a beer and raises his eye brows.

"Maybe even the whole fuckin' cut." Tommyhawk concurs and toasts brother Beef.

Beef winks at Sticks and states "I believe my Kung Fu friend, I may have a way to fast track your boy here, from prospect to patch holder."

Sticks with a big smile, replies "Let's talk business."

# Chapter 20

A paved road soon turns to gravel as Medusa's CBR600 Honda made its way down a winding backwoods road. The Voodoo lady approached her final destination, a small single-wide trailer sitting in the middle of a wood clearing.

An aging green John Deere tractor was parked next to an even older rusted half-ton truck. Medusa killed the engine of her sport bike, carefully surveying the house and small barn. She got off the seat, removing her gloves as she walked toward the small barn.

Her ears detected the sound of a woodsman's axe hard at work.

She followed the sound and licked her wind chapped lips, her tongue a viper's forked tongue searching for the scent of prey. Her eyes slit as she approached a large man chopping wood from behind.

"I knew it was you witch woman" Leon said, stopping to inspect the blade of his large axe. "My Leon, dear friend." Medusa hissed.

"Why have you come?" Leon asked.

"I know what your heart seeks." Medusa wooed.

Leon had been committed to the insane asylum years back, shortly after his wife had died while giving birth to what would have been their first child. Leon lost his mind to the mental strain and anguish. To cope with the pain, his mind created the story that his wife left him for another man. Medusa mused, _It is time to release the beast within_.

"My heart is gone," Leon said, letting the axe head fall to the ground at his feet. "She has gone," Medusa begins to spin her web, "but your torment remains, your demand for revenge still lingers." Medusa hissed when she stepped back to cast her bones in the sand before the woodsman.

"She was taken from you, Leon. The bones say it's so. The Djab spirits have spoken to me in my dreams. They have shown me the man who ripped out your heart!" Medusa pulls a small vile of clear liquid from her jacket pocket and offers it to the sorrowful giant.

"Drink, my friend, drink and you will see what I see."

Leon takes the small vial of norcuron potion in his large fingers and drinks it. "Yesss, my will be done," Medusa whispers.

The giant's eyes become almost lifeless as he obeys the voodoo queen's command to sit. Leon's eyes are blank and cold as he sits down on a large woodpile. Medusa sits on his lap like a child. Her arms wrap passionately around the giant's neck as her nose touches his Adam's apple.

She kisses his whisker rough cheek then presses her lips to his left ear.

"I know where the man is who stole your love and broke your heart." Leon remained in his zombie state as the Voodoo priestess tightened her coils and injected her venom.

# Chapter 21

The saloon had been open for thirty minutes when Doucette entered the swinging doors on the south side. His glasses were tinted dark from the sun's relentless rays reflecting off the water. Jean moved across the bar slowly. He set down his 7-11 coffee cup and removed his glasses.

He squinted his ice blue eyes, as they adjusted to the room and ran his fingers threw his long black hair, gathering it behind his head and into a ponytail. The cool summer breeze that blew through the open windows did little to ease Katherine's now rising body heat. A flashback of her undergarments being ripped off her sultry body sent shivers down her spine.

Katherine pulled herself together and managed to say, "Good morning, Jean." "Good morning, Katherine," Doucette replied, pleasure evident in his smile. "I heard you singing when I came in.

A beautiful voice, much like the soothing song of a sweet wren on the morning dew." Katherine blushed. "Thank you. I like to sing when I'm by myself or with Casey."

Jean replied, "That little one of yours is pretty as an arctic willow on the tundra in spring, just like her mother."

Katherine's face was so flushed now she felt faint.

"Kat? Katherine?" Pops called. Her dad comes around the far corner of the bar. "I can't find that damn liquor invoice for last month."

Katherine snapped out of her emotional haze.

"Daddy, please don't cuss, Casey might here you."

Katherine shook her head and continued "Did you look in the top filing cabinet or the inventory folder?"

Pops looked Jean in the face and replied

"I tell you, Wade, I am getting to old for this sh...I mean crap."

Casey, at the other end of the bar, comes running up.

She looks up at her grandfather with serious eyes.

"You mean bullshit, right, Grandpa?"

"No!" Katherine and her grandfather spoke at the same time.

"Baby, don't say that word. It's not nice," her mother said.

"Yeah, honey, it will make you get warts on your tongue," Pops added.

"Daddy! Don't tell her that." Kat rolled her eyes.

"That's what your grandmother used to tell me." Pops defended.

"Oh, Daddy." Katherine sighed, dropping her head in her hands.

"Okay, okay. Hey pumpkin, what do you say we go fishin' this afternoon" Pops stitched up the conversation. "Oh yeah!" Casey yelled.

Pops smiled and winked at Jean as he led Casey by the hand out the side door.

Thirty minutes passed as Jean and Katherine engaged in small talk. Katherine heard a noise only to see a giant figure enter the side door. _Strange_ , Katherine thought, _Leon never comes to town except for church on Sundays._ Jean watched Kat's eyes relax and so, paid the visitor no mind. Leon approached Jean from behind, as he was talking to Katherine.

Leon slowly pulled a large double bladed axe from under his long jacket. He turned, drawing the weapon up over his head.

Jean was about to speak when he saw Katherine's eyes open as wide as her speechless mouth. The flash of metal in the bar mirror was fast, but not as fast as Doucette. An instant before the ax would have split his skull, he shifted to the right and avoided certain death. The axe buried its edge into the bar top, pinning Jean's paper coffee cup and a food menu in the process. Katherine jumped back and screamed, "Leon!" but Leon's eyes were trance-like as he tugged the axe free. Doucette, moving back, tripped on a bar stool and fought to regain his balance as the giant swung a second time. Jean bent back and over in a limbo-stick posture, as the axe whooshed by his chest, missing Jean, only to bury itself in a pole next to the dance floor. "Leon, stop!" Katherine continued to scream at the giant.

Jean, still off balance, pushed himself upright using the pole and nailed Leon with a solid right to the jaw and a left hook to the body.

Leon shook it off – not missing a beat, he grabbed Jean by the neck, hurtling him against the wall next to the pool table.

Leon removed the axe and attacked again. Jean ducked the next two swings. Then, with the skill of an Olympic gymnast, Doucette ran forward and jumped onto the pool table. Timing Leon's axe swing, Jean executed a perfect back flip, over Leon, landing like a large cat behind his attacker. Jean launched himself onto the giant's back and locked his arms around Leon's neck in a rear choke hold, his legs wrapped around the giant's hips, heels locked in.

Leon dropped the ax in an attempt to pull Jean's arms off.

Katherine yelled, "Don't hurt him, Jean. He's challenged!"

Jean held on and cranked hard on the crazy mountain of a man.

"Challenged! He sure as hell wasn't challenged by me!" Jean yelled back. Leon went down on one knee as his eyes began to slowly close.

Seconds later he passed out. Jean released his grip as Leon fell to the floor unconscious. Doucette's chest was heaving as he caught his breath.

"That was one large pissed off lumberjack." Jean took a deep breath. "He must of caught one too many logs in the head!"

Katherine called the police and Sheriff Randall and his Deputy arrived shortly after. They took Leon away in an ambulance, strapped to a gurney. "I just don't understand it. We all know Leon is mentally challenged, but he has never caused trouble." Katherine's voice was sad.

"There was something not right. It was like he was in a trance. I could feel a darkness in him." Jean answered.

"But why here? Why you?" Katherine questioned.

"Didn't you say the biker gang has a shaman?" Jean asked.

Katherine put her index finger to her lips and muttered, "Matt...Madonna. No, no..Ma-dusa. That's it! Medusa!

Oh my God, I heard she's a voodoo witch!" Katherine's eyes got big as saucers.

"That could explain the lumberjack's actions," Jean said.

"Oh my God, she's turned poor Leon into a zombie!" Katherine started to panic. Jean smiled faintly. "I don't think Leon is a zombie, Katherine.

The dead don't pass out in a choke hold. But no doubt he was sent here by someone who dabbles in dark magic."

Jean picked his broken bear claw necklace up off the bar top.

"I never figured this to be a good luck charm." Jean mused.

He smiled at Katherine, examining the Bear claw and its broken silver clasp. "My people know all too well the power of dark spirits, Katherine."

"I want to check on you later to make sure you're okay," Katherine said.

Jean added, "Just to be safe and all." Katherine blushed and repeated, "Just to be safe and all."

"Well, that level of care could take some time," Doucette whispered.

Katherine leaned forward and put her lips against his ear.

"For that level of care, I have plenty of time."

# Chapter 22

The Booncat Saloon's clock read seven o'clock. Thirty-five happy hour customers were already in the club for cheap drinks and a good time.

The security team didn't start till nine but CC and Bongo Bob had arrived early. The side door opened and Cujo and Sticks entered the club.

CC was talking to Jean when Cujo walked up to them. Sticks hung back around the pool tables, not far away.

The large Mexican, wearing black leather fingerless gloves looked CC up and down before speaking to Doucette. "Hey, man, you hiring bouncers?"

"You have someone in mind?" Doucette smiled.

"Man! I mean me, dawg. I can stomp a drunk motherfucker's ass like nobody's business."

"Sorry, but we're not in the ass-stomping business here. We're in the ass protecting business, dog."

"So, what, you ain't gonna hire me?"Cujo asked.

"Sorry, I've got a full crew," Jean replied.

"Well, shit, can this four-eyed bitch and hire me," Cujo said.

Jean noticed that the Mexican's half gloves had reinforced carbon-fiber knuckles.

CC stepped up. "Say what you fat mother..."

"Let it go CC," Doucette said, his eyes on Cujo.

Cujo piped up. "You heard the man. Go lay down by your bowl, bitch." The big Mexican aimed a hard backhand at CC's face, but Jean stopped it cold, catching Cujo's wrist mid-swing.

"Not polite to hit a lady." Doucette could feel the added weight in the sap glove as he was now standing nose to nose with the aggressor.

Cujo scowled. " That dike ain't no lady."

Cujo swung a hard right fist at Doucette's head.

Jean slipped the punch. CC jumped in, throwing a punch at Cujo's face. The big Mexican shook off the blow without blinking an eye and shoved CC into two tables. The tables and CC hit the floor hard as Cujo and Jean locked up like two grizzlies fighting for territory.

Bongo Bob started to head toward the problem only to have Sticks block his way, spinning his nuchakus. Bongo Bob grabbed a bar stool in an attempt to block Stick's spinning weapon but Sticks ducked the stool and struck Bob across the left thigh, dropping him for the count. CC got back in the game and grabbed a pool cue. She stood over her downed friend, swinging and threatening Sticks to stay back. Jean slipped a straight right hand and stepped inside with a Mike Tyson left hook to the body, followed by a left uppercut to the chin. Cujo's head snapped back as he stumbled backward into a pool table.

Cujo regained his footing and charged Doucette like a mad bull seeing nothing but red. A straight right hand to the solar plexus drove the wind from Cujo. Jean slipped left and delivered a Muay Thai kick to the outside of the Mexican's right knee, sending him crashing to the floor wailing in pain as he held his busted knee. Sticks watched his champion hit the floor. He abandoned CC and Bob in an attempt to finish what Cujo had started. Jean saw Sticks coming and backed away from the injured gangbanger on the floor. Doucette moved to the opposite side of the pool table. Sticks was now spinning the nuchakus so fast that they were just a blur. "I heard you're real fast, Garrett. You think you're fast?"

"Faster than you," Jean replied. Snatching a pool ball off the table, he pitched it side arm at the Bruce Lee wannabe.

The ball streaked across the dance floor, striking Sticks in the center mass of the chest, dropping him like a shotgun blast!

The other bouncers arrived shortly after, just in time to witness the local County Mounties cart the two troublemakers off to jail.

Katherine came in the side door, eyes worried.

"I was outback with the beer delivery truck. Are you all okay?"

Doucette nodded his head "I'm fine, but you better get Skeeter to take Bobby and CC to the local hospital to have them looked at.

Me and the other boys got it here."

"I can't believe this shit man," Blueboy said.

"Believe it. King Cyrus and his thugs are not going away anytime soon." Skeeter told him as he walked by. Skeeter looked at Doucette and said, "I'll call ya with an update." as he left via the back door.

Croft and Blueboy were standing next to each other. Blueboy stated

"That big Mexican won't be dancin' at Stinko-De-My-Oh anytime soon. Garrett busted his knee all but good!"

Running a comb threw his black greasy locks, Blueboy continued, "He dropped the hammer on Mr. Kung Fool too!"

"Yup. Those boys got a grade 'A' ass whoopin'!" Croft added.

Later, Skeeter returned with CC. Bongo Bob took the rest of the night off to ice his leg. The bar was busy but quiet, with no major problems.

# Chapter 23

At the clubhouse, Medusa sat in the back cleaning her fingernails with her dagger. Bad news arrived from an informant at the local cop shop reporting that Leon had failed to eliminate Wade Garrett.

Tommyhawk and Beef's pompous smirks were soon wiped off their faces when Beef received Cujo's, one phone call from the local jail.

Medusa grinned. "Looks like your plan B failed as well."

Tommyhawk replied, "No worse than that fucking retard of yours with the axe!" Beef interjected, "Shut the fuck up both of you."

Medusa hissed, "I'd watch your tongue while you still have it in your head." King Cyrus entered the room.

He looked around at everyone present as his words took a serious tone.

"You have all failed in your attempts to derail this Wade Garrett," he stated. "But it is not how you failed to claim victory, but why you failed to be victorious that is important." The three looked at each other and then at the ground, as the King pointed his walking cane at each of his brethren. "And Jesus asked the demon possessed man, 'What is thy name?' and he answered saying, 'My name is Legion, for we are many!'"

King Cyrus stares at the three, one face at a time, up close and personal. "Because we are many my brothers! Because we are many and stronger when we work together!"

The three began to see the King's line of reasoning.

"Fear not my brothers for I have a plan that will rid us of Mr. Garrett!"

King Cyrus smiled and gathered his disciples around him.

# Chapter 24

Three days after the Cujo and Sticks incident, the Booncat Saloon was business as usual and just closing up for the night.

The bouncers were busy clearing out the last of the patrons.

Bongo Bob was at the door, watching the parking lot.

Doucette told Skeeter and Croft to close up and make sure to double check the bathrooms. He wanted to cut out and meet Katherine.

Katherine had already booked off and was up in his room waiting for him. Doucette walked out the back door and around the corner of the club, shoving his bowie in his belt. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he scanned the back parking lot where he saw a woman being harassed by two men next to a silver BMW.

Doucette walked toward the group and barked "Hey."

The two men ignored him as they continued to badger the smaller female.

Jean raised a stern voice. "Leave the woman be."

He noticed that they did not look like gang members. The woman started crying and began to push one of the men back. The larger male pushed her against the car and slapped her across the face.

Doucette quickened his pace to a sprint. When the two men saw Doucette closing fast, they threw the woman to the ground and ran.

Jean stopped next to the woman and watched the thugs disappear into the darkness. He turned his attention to the woman on the ground.

"Are you all right, Miss?"

The blonde woman's long hair covered her face.

Her tearful sobbing suddenly turned to a sinister laugh as she blurted out "Better than you!"

As she looked up, Doucette saw it was Medusa, aiming a snub nose pistol at his midsection. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM!

The BMW's side window shattered as Jean was propelled against the car and onto the ground. Medusa stood over the fallen Doucette and fired two more rounds into his chest. Doucette slumped over as Medusa jumped in the car and sped off. Croft, Skeeter and CC ran toward their fallen friend lying motionless on the ground.

An ambulance arrived with the local law shortly after. The staff of the Booncat Saloon stood around their fallen leader on the ground.

Croft was on his knees leaning over Doucette as he lay motionless.

Jean's eyes were closed as the EMT driver pulled a white sheet over his head on the gurney. The body was taken away as Sambo hid behind the garbage cans and watched the ambulance leave.

Katherine's tears kept falling onto her father's shoulder as he tried to console his daughter. It was a tragedy felt by everyone present that night.

# Chapter 25

Two days had passed and the Demon Legion lined up on their bikes to witness the casket of Jean Doucette being loaded on a train.

The King shook his head. "And so ends the legend of Wade Garrett.

What a waste." Beef genuinely agreed. "He should of took the offer."

Tommyhawk grinned. "'Too late now." Medusa added, "Ashes to ashes, dung to dirt." The King scolded his lover "Show some ounce of respect Dusa, regardless of his fool's errand, Garrett was a formidable foe."

The King got back to the business at hand. He raised his Mojo stick above his head and commanded his minions, "Gather the Legion. We are gonna take that shithole by force tomorrow night. Old man Boone and his daughter are history!"

The gang started their bikes and rode off in different directions but with a common objective. Bring down the Booncat Saloon.

Three days had gone by and for the second time, in this lifetime the dead body of legendary bouncer Wade Garrett's had been shipped back home. The bar clock on the wall read one in the morning when the Demon Legion rolled up in full force. The King himself led the pack of fifteen riders. There would be no mistakes this time.

The gang spread out, the officers of the club led the way and approached the front door to be met by seven bouncers and Pops.

The King felt empowered and in a generous mood.

"The Devil has come for his pound of flesh old man. With your savior dead and gone, I see no need in anyone else getting hurt. Sign the paper, take the money and lets end this evening on a peaceful note."

Pops stood his ground. "Take your offer and your money and get your sorry ass off my property." The King shook his head in amusement.

"Still playing the hard line I see. You're history old man. Your hero, Wade Garrett, is dead and your club will soon follow."

King Cyrus suddenly stops talking. As a figure emerged from the shadows at the far side of the saloon. The figure begins walking toward the two parties. "What the fuck!" Beef blurted out as he recognized the new arrival.

Tommyhawk stares and stated, "No fucking way. It can't be."

"I feel pretty good for a dead man," Doucette said.

Jean touched his bruised chest and ribs, Jean recalled the event meant to end his life forever. _When Medusa had pulled the snub-nosed gun,_ _his hand had been on the handle of his bowie. He pulled the knife and the first round struck the blade dead center, sending it ricocheting off and shattering the window. Jean was propelled backwards from the impact of the second and third rounds striking the bulletproof vest under his shirt. Jean was stunned, hurt and semi-conscious as he hit the ground._

Medusa had jumped in the car and sped off as Croft, Skeeter and CC had come running toward their fallen hero. Police and EMT were called as Doucette lay motionless. When Croft had kneeled over Doucette, he had put his ear down close to Jean's lips to listen for breathing.

That's when Doucette had painfully whispered in Croft's ear.

Croft understood what Doucette was doing and played his part to a tee. He quietly filled the EMT driver in on the charade and instructed him to pull a white sheet over Jean's head on the gurney. Doucette had figured that by playing dead, all the players in the game would show themselves once word got out and come for what they thought would be easy pickings.

"And it worked like a charm," Doucette said as he returned his thoughts and attention back to the King and his court.

King Cyrus ripped the Katana blade from his Mojo walking cane.

"There will be no coming back from Hell this time Garrett!"

The bouncers sprang into action when Doucette drew his bowie and ducked the King's first sword swing. A shoulder block planted into the chest of the off balance King sent him soaring back and into the dirt. King Cyrus came up on one knee, taking a slice at Jean's legs.

A quick hop had the blade whisking under his boots.

Doucette's feet hit the ground as he kicked the gravel hard, sending rocks and dirt spraying into the King's face.

Cyrus, blinded for a moment, jumped up swinging the Katana in a criss-cross defensive pattern as he fought to gain his vision. Doucette glanced right to see Tommyhawk's ax coming at his head. Jean swooped down as the weapon missed his skull by inches. Jean could still feel the pain in his bruised chest and ribs from the impact of the bullets. Tommyhawk's second swing was blocked by Jean's big knife as the two combatants lock up. Jean head butted Tommyhawk in the face, blood exploding out of both nostrils. Tommyhawk staggered back as King Cyrus, eyes still blurry but somewhat functional, made a jousting lunge at Doucette's back. Jean blocked the King's counterattack by grabbing Tommyhawk's vest and spinning him around. The Katana ripped through Tommyhawk's back so deep that the point pierced Jean's own shirt, cutting his forearm.

Jean shoved the dead gangbanger into his King and the two fell hard to the ground. Beef, who was having a hard time with Skeeter and Croft, saw his brother fall. Insane with rage, he yelled, "I'll fucking kill you, Garrett!" and bolted straight for Doucette. Jean waited like a matador, the bowie held low as he stood in a half crouch.

Beef raised his crowbar to strike a death blow. Boom!

Beef hit the ground in a nose dive, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his right shoulder. Beef roared, fighting the pain as he forced himself to his knees, only to collapse, unconscious, into the dirt.

Sheriff Randall's voice thundered out of the dark on loud speaker.

"Drop your weapons and get down on the ground." Within seconds twenty state troopers and a SWAT armored vehicle stormed the bar parking lot with Sheriff Randall leading the charge.

Sambo looked out the window from inside the Boone house just off in the distance. He saw the flashing lights and cops flooding the saloon parking lot in a full-out assault. "Time to cut and run Sammy," he said to himself as he walked quickly down the hallway that lead to Casey's bedroom. Sambo entered Casey's room and softly shook her awake.

"Baby, it's me. Sammy," he whispered. Casey, still tired from getting to bed late, rubs her sleepy eyes.

"Your mom sent me to get you. She's waiting for us in my truck."

Confused but still half asleep, Casey got up and went with Sambo, still in her PJ's. Sambo exited the back door with Casey in tow. They hopped into his Chevy truck and drove off, taking the service road out.

Two hours later as the state police were loading up the last of the gang members, Katherine walked to the house to check on her daughter.

Within ten minutes, Jean saw her running frantically toward him.

Half filled with terror, half breathless she blurted out, "Casey Jean, Casey is missing. She's not in her bed!"

Jean grabbed her by the shoulders as her legs began to buckle.

"Are you sure she's not in the house?" Jean held her up.

Katherine puffed out, "I checked every room. She's gone!"

Jean consoled her. "We'll find her together." Katherine's cell phone rang.

A voice on the other end of the phone got straight to the point.

"Please don't hurt my little girl" Katherine's pled.

The voice spoke again and Katherine handed the phone to Doucette as directed. Doucette listened carefully.

"I got it. Just me. No cops." Jean looked at Katherine's tear-filled green eyes. The caller cut off with a click.

"Oh my God, they have my baby, Jean!" Doucette's eyes stare into Katherine's. "She is safe. They won't hurt her because she's their ace in the hole. They are using her to get to me."

Jean put his hands on Katherine's shaking shoulders.

"I will get her back safe, but you need to stay here. Tell the sheriff nothing." Jean looks Katherine in the eyes and wipes her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs. "I need you to trust me, Kat. I need you to be strong." Katherine sobs and nods her head.

"I trust you, Jean. I trust you..please just get my baby home safe."

Doucette displays a thin lipped smile and kisses Katherine on the forehead. He walks away quickly and stops for a brief second to talk to Katherine's father over by the tackle shop. The two men talk for a minute or so, then Pops hands Jean the keys to his Dodge Ram flatbed and walks away. Shortly, Jean is seen by Skeeter and Croft leaving the Boone's garage in Pops' flatbed truck.

# Chapter 26

Doucette followed the instructions the person on the phone had given him and arrived at an abandoned warehouse just off the inlet.

Sambo watches Jean arrive from a broken window next to the main door.

"Garrett's here. I don't see anyone else," Sambo continued.

"He's got old man Boone's flatbed truck. No one in the cab and nothing' on the back but two old rolled up tarps." The crack head was being sure not to miss anything. Doucette entered the large empty building.

The Deputy stepped up on his right side holding a pump action shotgun aimed right at him. Jean spies Medusa holding Casey in front of her by the shoulders.

Deputy David Lee tells Sambo, "Pat him down and cuff him, dummy."

Sambo takes the deputy's handcuffs and nervously pats Jean down for weapons. He found Jean's bowie tucked into the back of his waistband and took it. Jean stood motionless as Sambo cuffed his hands behind his back. "Just the blade. That's it," Sambo said and gladly stepped away from Doucette. The deputy stepped forward and poked his finger hard into Jean's large muscular chest hitting one of his bullet bruises.

"And no bulletproof vest this time kemosabe."

Jean gritted his teeth as pain shot through his pectoral muscle.

Deputy David Lee mocked his captive, "Not too smart bringin' a knife to a gun fight, boy. Probably the reason why you Indians lost the war."

Jean replied, "We lost the war because my people trusted white inbred scum like you." Deputy David Lee, slides the barrel of his shotgun under Jean's chin. "You got a smart mouth, don't ya, Breed!" Deputy David Lee spat through clenched teeth that held a wooden toothpick.

"Can I please kill him now?" The deputy glanced toward the darkest corner of warehouse.

An unseen man standing there, spoke from the shadows.

"Not yet. But soon." He directs his attention to Jean.

"You just couldn't take the hint. You just kept hanging around like a fucking stray dog, sticking your nose into shit." The stranger continued, "What was it, Garrett? Old man Boone's daughter's ass that hot or are you just a sucker for a sob story?" The stranger's voice sounded closer. "It was the perfect plan till you showed up."

Doucette smirked. "I've got a habit of that."

The stranger sighed. "You should have taken the money and left town." Doucette shook his head slowly from side to side.

"I don't work that way." The stranger stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself. Doucette recognizes the stranger's face from the front page newspaper photo, he saw at the gas station.

The one and only Marty Daggert in the flesh, and very much alive.

"Well, Garrett, I'm going to kill you for real and then I am going to fuck your girlfriend in the ass while old man Boone signs the bar over to me!"

Marty nodded to the deputy. "Now, you can take him back to the storage room and kill him." Deputy David Lee smiled as his tongue moved the toothpick from the middle to the side of his mouth. "Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Hyde." Jean spies Marty's dog tag hanging outside his shirt.

The deputy took a step toward Jean. Doucette goes on the verbal offensive and begins to insult Marty, "I never figured a soldier for a coward. Even a white man."

Marty fired back, "I'm not a fuckin' soldier asshole. I'm a marine!"

The deputy lowered his shotgun. Jean continues his taunt.

" I stand corrected. I never figured a Marine for a coward."

"You want a piece of me Garrett, is that it?" Marty popped off.

"What? You figure you're more man than me because your tappin' old man Boone's daughter?" Doucette picked up on the insanity in Marty's eyes and baited the hook.

Doucette sneered "She was looking for a real man, soldier boy."

Marty's eyes narrowed to a squint. "Is that a fact?"

Jean grinned and replied "It's been a while since I kicked a pussy soldier's ass, or a marine's ass for that matter."

Marty felt his blood starting to boil. "On second thought, I'll just kill you myself." Doucette laughed as he back brushed Marty's ego.

"Better get deputy dog here to do it, soldier boy. You don't want me to kick your ass in front of your girlfriend." Jean winked and pouted up his lips blowing a kiss at Medusa.

Pissed off to the max, Marty stepped forward and punched Jean in the guts. Jean anticipated the blow, taking the shot with a grunt.

Marty stood back as Sambo stepped up. Marty looked at Sambo.

"Cut this fucker loose!" Sambo stepped behind Doucette with the handcuff keys. Medusa pulled Casey closer. "No, my love, kill him now." Doucette fired at Marty, "Better listen to your bitch, soldier boy."

Marty became enraged. "I'm gonna rip off your head and shit down your neck, Garrett!" Medusa screamed, "STOP! Don't let him loose!"

Sambo, fearing Marty's wrath, unlocked one cuff but then stopped at the thought of a Medusa curse ending his life in a horrible way.

Doucette turned on a dime and grabbed the undecided dummy by the arms. He spun Sambo's back toward the deputy, using him as a shield.

Medusa shrieked like a demon in a exorcism. "Kill him. Kill him now!" In fear she tightened her grip on her captive, making Casey wince in pain.

The deputy fired his shotgun from the hip, hitting Sambo in the middle of the back. Deputy Lee started walking toward his target, pounding off a second round that hit the human shield in the shoulder blades.

Sambo, having taken the impact from both rounds, spat up a river of blood as he died. Doucette pulled his confiscated bowie from Sambo's belt and shoved the crack head's dead body at the deputy.

The deputy panicked and pulled off a third blast that ended up high and left in the wall behind Doucette. Jean dropped to one knee and threw his knife. The bowie spun end for end, covering the short distance and striking the deputy in the chest.

The shotgun slid to the floor as the deputy dropped to his knees, the large knife buried in his chest. Jean rose quickly, locking the loose cuff next to the other on the same wrist. Marty ran toward him full force, letting out a yell as he launched off the ground with a flying karate kick. Doucette dropped and rolled. His attacker sailed over him, landing ten feet away. Jean rolled to his feet and the two warriors circled each other.

Medusa drew her dagger and placed it under Casey's chin.

Medusa's eyes are now dark and demented, yelled at Doucette.

"If you win, she loses."Doucette stared briefly at the Voodoo queen as her lover stepped in with a high snap kick. Jean slipped left, stepping in with a straight right to Marty's chest and a left hook to the body.

Marty grunted as he felt the power of Doucette's sledge hammer blows. Marty took the shots and the pain. He countered with a right elbow smash that hit Jean on the side of the head. Jean shook his head to clear the daze, covering up in a boxer's defense. Marty grabbed the back of Jean's head and drove his right knee up between his arms, catching Doucette on the chin. Doucette tasted blood in his mouth as the blow sent his head snapping up and back.

Marty spun a reverse round-house kick that Jean saw coming at the last second. He raised his shoulder to protect his head. The kick sent Doucette sprawling to the floor. Jean growled deep in his throat as he rose from the floor. "Finish him, my love," Medusa felt her taste for blood mount as she cheered on her champion. "I figured you'd be more of a challenge, being the legendary Wade Garrett and all." Marty jeered, his lips and teeth stained with blood.

Jean was now less than fifteen feet away from Medusa and Casey.

His back to them, Doucette taunted Marty, raising his right hand, Jean wagged his four fingers in a "bring it" gesture.

"Come on, soldier boy," he said, "show me what you got."

Marty gritted his teeth and drove forward with a skillful combination of karate kicks and punches. Jean countered, slipping and blocking the attacker as he continued stepping back toward Medusa and Casey.

Three steps from the Voodoo queen and her terrorized captive, Jean made his play.

"Your last name, is that Daggett, or faggot?" Jean asked his opponent, who was breathing heavily. Jean smiled and turned to Medusa.

"After I whoop this pussy's ass, what you say we go back to my place and I show you a real man." Marty shrieked in ego-driven rage, "I'm gonna rip off your head and fuck your dead skull!" Marty charged at his enemy, right fist ready to land a killer blow.

Doucette timed the punch, then used Marty's momentum against him. Jean side-stepped with a hip toss, sending Marty crashing into Medusa and Casey, who were knocked to the floor. The Voodoo queen's dagger skidded across the concrete, out of reach. Casey jumped up and ran toward Jean like a scalded cat. Jean grabbed her by the shoulders and blurted, "Run to the truck, baby. Run!" Fueled by fear, Casey took off like a jackrabbit, out the door at the far end of the warehouse.

Marty was back up by then, with Medusa's dagger in hand.

"You're a dead man, Garrett."

Medusa was trying hard to stand on a twisted left knee.

Marty remembered only too well his close quarters combat training, at which he had excelled in the knife fighting class.

Jean dodged from side to side, avoiding Marty's technically perfect knife attack . Jean reached down and drew off his leather belt, wrapping it around his left forearm for protection. The two circled around, looking for an advantage. Marty had the Military expertise, but Doucette had cat-like reflexes and uncanny speed. Jean decided to take a long range weapons approach. He unwrapped the leather belt, moving his arm in a counter-clockwise motion. He stepped in, propelling his belt like a windmill, aiming the large steel buckle at his opponent's head.

Marty tried to avoid the heavy steel buckle whizzing by his head, keeping him not only at bay but off balance. Marty lost patience and lunged for a neck strike. Doucette took full advantage of the error in judgment. He grabbed the dagger hand by the wrist, and with his other hand he pulled the attacker further off balance. In a Steven Segal type move, Doucette flipped his opponent onto his back on the concrete floor.

Marty's wrist snapped like a dry tree branch, sending the dagger flying.

Jean jumps on Marty, and using the leather belt as a garrote, he began to choke the life from his adversary.

Medusa limped toward the two combatants on her busted knee with the deputy's shotgun in hand. "Enough!"

Jean let Marty go and stepped away. Marty, breathing heavy, spitting up blood, said, "Kill him baby. Kill him for me!" Medusa raised the barrel, pointed the shotgun at Doucette. Doucette got ready to roll the dice one more time, calculating a dodge and pounce move. Medusa, with her eyes locked on Doucette, slowly moves the barrel to Marty, sitting on the floor with the leather belt around his neck. Her eyes unfeeling, as she continued to stare at Jean as she pulled the trigger. The blast sent half of Marty's head spraying across the concrete floor. Medusa's eyes stayed locked on Doucette as she turned her head toward her dead lover. "Fool" she spat.

Medusa brought the barrel back to her original target, pointing it at Doucette. "Give my love to the ferryman, Wade Garrett." Medusa beamed. Jean rolled the dice but didn't move a muscle, he just smirked and said, "Ladies first." BOOM!

A high powered rifle blast echoed through the warehouse.

As if struck by a bolt of lightning, Medusa went sprawling to the floor.

The large exit wound that took out half her ribcage, was tangible proof that the Voodoo Queen was dead. Pops came walking up, his scoped hunting rifle in hand. "Sorry I took so long, Wade, I waited just like you told me but then I got stuck. Rolled up in that damn tarp, it took me forever to get my ass free!" "You were right on time," Doucette replied.

Through the broken window next to the exit door Jean saw several state police cruisers pulling up. Jean and Pops walked out of the warehouse.

Katherine's face was tear streaked but she was smiling as she came walking up with Casey in her arms. Katherine looked tired but relieved as she looked Doucette in the eyes. "Thank you, Jean. Thank you for saving my little girl." Jean just smiled and nodded his head.

# Chapter 27

On Sunday night, Doucette arrived during a staff meeting. Jean never liked good-byes. He was more the type for "Our path will cross again, my friends." Jean shook hands with the crew and made his way to the back office. Pops was still messing up the books and still had that confused look on his face. "Sure I can't convince you to stay, Wade?" Pops pleaded. Doucette smiled. "Its Jean."

Pops smiled and chuckled. "Thank you, whoever you are."

"Got something for you before you go. I figured you'd be needing a replacement," Pops said and handed Jean a new bulletproof vest.

"I saw the empty box in the trash and recognized the business label.

Joel Murphy over at Mason Avenue Pawn & Gun is a good friend of mine and I figured it's the least I can do. Plus this one's even better than the last one, guaranteed to stop knife's too."

Jean smiled and shook his hand. "Thanks, Pops." Casey came running in. Jean scooped her up and gave her a hug.

"Got something for you. It's a dream-catcher to keep you safe and catch any bad dreams." "Thank you." She smiled and kissed Jean on the cheek.

Doucette let her down and she jumped on her grandfather's lap.

"Be safe, son," Pops nodded.

"Always," Jean said as he walked out.

Doucette came around the side deck and walked toward his truck.

He noticed Katherine was standing next to the driver's door.

The sunlight made her freckles stand out.

Jean chucked his rucksack and new bulletproof vest in the window onto the passenger seat.

"I knew you wouldn't stay," Katherine said.

Katherine's eyes watered a bit. "Not this time," Jean smiled.

"Will there be a next time?" Katherine asked, sadness in her tone.

"There is always a next time," Jean smiled.

"Good-bye, Katherine." Doucette pulled Katherine close and kissed her.

Jean slid into his truck and put his seat belt on. Casey and Pops came out from around the building. Casey ran up to her mom, grabbing Katherine's hand. Jean gave a two finger salute to the Boone family as he slowly drove off. In the rearview mirror, Jean watched the two girls waving good-bye in the summer haze.

It put a smile on his face.

# Chapter 28

The nightclub is closed for the night. A young Asian girl cowers in fear behind the bar. A Yakusa thug threatens her, yelling at her in Chinese.

She stand like a statue, her body and mind frozen with fear.

The goon raises his fist in anger.

Tink... Tink... Tink...

A spoon taps the side of a coffee mug.
