Marauder (Oregon Files 15)

“What can I get for you fellows?” she asked in a chipper twang.

“Two Victoria Bitters, please,” Juan said.

“You got it.”

As she filled two glasses from the tap, one of the Americans lurched over to the bar.

“Four more Jagerbombs for me and my mates,” he said in an exaggerated Aussie accent.

“You boys aren’t driving anywhere, are you?” the bartender asked.

The guy leaned toward her. “Why? You want to join us?”

“No, thanks.”

“Come on. We’re going hunting tomorrow at a private ranch. It’s my Christmas present. Wild boar, water buffalo, maybe even a camel.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “It’ll be more fun with you there.”

Juan was about to tell him to back off when a thick finger tapped the American on the shoulder.

“I think you should let go of the lady,” he said with an Australian drawl that was dragged through gravel. “Right now.”

The man was in his forties, six feet tall, his ropy arm muscles covered with sleeves of tattoos and his crew cut shot through with silver. The creases on his forehead made him look a bit older than the photos from his service record that Juan had seen, but it was definitely Bob Parsons.

The American released the bartender, who said, “Never mind him, Bob. I’ve handled worse.”

“You heard her, Bob,” the American slurred. “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

“I know you don’t need my help with him, Mindy,” Parsons said as he took a seat on a stool one down from Juan. “I just don’t like to see someone treat you rudely. I was hoping these loudmouths would be gone by the time I got back from the dunny. Just my luck that I have to keep hearing this one brag about the expensive vacation his daddy gave him.” He took a swig from the beer bottle that Mindy set out for him.

Max leaned over to Juan and whispered, “I’m beginning to like this guy already.”

The young American glanced at his friends and then snarled at Parsons. “Are you looking for a beating, old man?”

“You tell him, Sawyer,” one of his buddies yelled.

Parsons grinned at Sawyer. “Why would I want to give you a beating?”

“Okay, tough guy. Let’s go outside and see who’s smiling after I smack you around.”

The three other Americans stood up at hearing the challenge.

“All right,” Parsons said. “You go out and practice falling down while I finish my beer.”

Sawyer looked at the other Americans, all of whom nodded like they were giving him permission to knock the Australian out. Parsons, meanwhile, kept drinking his beer, his eyes focused straight ahead.

With a wicked grin, Sawyer reared back to deliver a sucker punch to the side of Parsons’ head, but his fist found nothing but air as Parsons leaned forward out of its path. The mirror behind the bar had made it easy for Parsons to anticipate the right cross.

With a single motion, Parsons was off his stool and grabbed the back of Sawyer’s head. He slammed it onto the bar, causing the other three to launch themselves at Parsons.

With impressive speed, precision, and power, he whipped the beer bottle around and smashed it into the head of the lead guy, kicked the second in the groin, and hammered the kidney of the third with his elbow. All of them went down, holding their various injured body parts and wailing in pain.

By then, Sawyer had shaken out the cobwebs and plucked the neck of the broken bottle from the floor, wielding it like a dagger. Parsons was so occupied with the others that he didn’t see the guy coming. Juan, who was already off his stool by this point, snagged Sawyer’s wrist and used a foot sweep to knock his legs out from under him. The tourist landed hard on his back. Parsons turned in time to see Juan bend Sawyer’s wrist until he dropped the bottleneck.

“That’s not very sporting of you,” Juan said, letting him go and kicking the weapon away.

The other three Americans staggered to their feet, but it was clear that they were all mouth and no spine. The fight was gone from them. They yanked Sawyer to his feet and carried him out the door.

“Thank you, sir,” Parsons said. “I didn’t mean to get you involved.”