Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

“Sinclair can handle himself,” Michael said. “And he’s in uniform. Clive wouldn’t dare touch him. He’s not that stupid.”

Apparently he was. The plan to get Isabel out of the pub changed when Clive shoved Sinclair. Knocked him clear off his feet. The back of Sinclair’s head struck the edge of the table as he fell to the floor.

“Stay in the booth, Isabel.”

Michael moved fast. One second he was sitting beside her, and the next he was nose to nose with Clive Harcus. Clive would have to go through him to get to her or Sinclair.

Both fists raised to strike, Clive lunged, but he was no match for Michael’s speed and agility. He blocked Clive’s left arm with one hand and slammed his fist into Clive’s face with the other. Clive howled as he went flying back and down, landing on his backside. Blood spurted from his nose, and Isabel was certain Michael had broken it. She found herself hoping he had.

Isabel heard Freya cry out.

Clive’s sidekick, Graeme, got up from the table where he’d been sitting with Freya and headed toward Michael. Seeing him coming, Michael shook his head and said, “You’ll want to go sit down.” There was something in his voice that got through to Graeme because he hightailed it back to Freya.

Both Sinclair and Clive staggered to their feet. Sinclair rubbed the back of his head and, when he saw the blood on his hand, muttered something Isabel couldn’t hear.

“Put him in a chair,” he told Michael.

Clive wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood all over his face. “I don’t have to sit down,” he muttered. “And I’m going to sue you, you bastard. You broke my nose.”

“Sit down,” Sinclair snapped.

Clive acted as though he was going to cooperate. He turned to pull the chair close, then spun around with clinched fist and tried to punch Michael again.

“You’re a slow learner,” Michael remarked as he twisted Clive’s arm back and shoved him into the chair.

Clive squinted up at Michael. “I’m not going to forget what you just did, Buchanan. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

Michael didn’t seem surprised that Clive knew who he was.

By now, Sinclair was standing next to Michael, staring at Clive. “You put your hands on an officer of the law.”

Clive shrugged. “I just gave you a little nudge to get you out of my way. Are you going to arrest me for that?” he scoffed.

“Yes, I am,” Sinclair answered.

Clive grabbed a couple of napkins from the table and wiped his face. Then he tossed them back on the table. He leaned around Michael to look at Isabel. His face was turning red with fury again. While he stared at her, he slowly tore up the eviction letter. “I’m not going to let you steal what belongs to me,” he bellowed. “If I have to, I’ll... ,” he began, then suddenly stopped.

“If you have to, you’ll what?” Michael demanded, pressing in on him.

Clive shook his head, refusing to answer.

“Miss MacKenna signed the papers and is now the sole owner of Glen MacKenna. If you have a problem with that, take it to the courts. In the meantime, leave her alone.”

Two police officers rushed into the pub. One of them pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Sinclair took them aside and gave them instructions while Michael stood over Clive. Twice he tried to get up, and twice Michael shoved him back into the chair.

Annie handed Sinclair a wet cloth, and he used it to wipe the blood seeping from the cut on the back of his head. She took the long way around Clive to get to the kitchen and grab a carry-out plastic bag Michael had asked her for.

Powerless to intervene, Freya had remained in her chair, looking frightened and distressed by what was happening to her son. When the officers began to put handcuffs on him, she jumped to her feet. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Please don’t arrest him,” she begged. She pointed at Michael. “That man assaulted him.”

Her pleas were ignored.

It took both officers to get Clive’s hands behind his back and snap the cuffs on.

“You won’t be able to keep me locked up for long. I’ll be out by tomorrow night,” Clive boasted.

As he was being dragged out of the pub, he pulled away from the officers long enough to say good-bye to his mother. He told her to get him a solicitor and be damned quick about it.

“Who should I call, Clive? Tell me who to call,” she pleaded.