Now, however, there were wireless speakers up in the corners of the room and country music pouring out of them. Three tables had people sitting at them. He knew where Bergeron and Broussard were sitting by the obnoxious language coming from the farthest table. He paid them no attention and headed for the bar. Old Man Ladner made his way to the end of the bar and stared at him. “Been a long time.”
Sage nodded. “B-Bourbon.”
Ladner glanced over at the far table. “You looking for a fight?”
Sage shook his head. He wasn’t looking for one, but he wouldn’t run from one either. Ladner’s bushy eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling, but he didn’t say anything else. Grabbing a glass, he poured Sage a drink. Sage pulled out his wallet and dropped a twenty on the bar.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t one of the Bienvenu Bastard Brothers. What the hell are you doing back here?” Gary Bergeron’s voice was loud and obnoxious.
Sage put his wallet in his pocket, lifted his middle finger without turning around, and flew the bird at his childhood bully.
The sound of chairs scraping on the cement floor wasn’t unexpected. “Care to repeat that?”
Sage glanced at Old Man Ladner and smiled, lifting his finger again. Ladner rolled his eyes and backed away from where Sage was leaning against the bar.
He felt the hand land on his shoulder and pivoted on his heel, spinning faster than Bergeron expected. The man’s eyes widened. “Look at you. Lots of jewelry, faggot.”
Sage lifted his hand. Three heavy silver rings delivered one hell of a punch when he formed a fist. He also wore a silver chain and cross around his neck. “S-so”
“What? Is the sissy scared? He’s stuttering.” Bergeron pointed at him and hooted.
Broussard laughed and took a step forward. “Maybe we should remind him that his type isn’t wanted around here.”
“M-my type?” He knew what the man meant. Those guys had terrorized him for as long as he could remember. Gus had called him a sissy-boy in front of them once, and they’d taken it to extremes. Thank God he’d left that backwater hole. He wasn’t bisexual or gay, but he didn’t give two thoughts about whom a person slept with or loved. It shouldn’t matter to anyone. Except people like those two narrow-minded bigots always cared.
“Yeah, a queer,” Bergeron added as if Sage needed the explanation.
Sage smiled and then winked at Broussard before he pursed his lips in a kiss. That was the ignition point. Broussard had always been the hot head. The man lunged at Sage, who sidestepped to his right and ducked the bull rush. Bergeron moved quickly, ramming a poorly aimed fist at Sage.
Sage caught the bastard’s fist in his hand and pulled it past him, coming up behind Bergeron and locking the man’s arm behind his back. Sage jacked the fist up almost far enough to pop the man’s shoulder out of the socket. Damn, to think he used to kowtow to these fucktards. A howl of frustration from Bergeron, who had lifted onto his toes to lessen the pressure, brought Broussard to his feet. Sage saw the confusion on Broussard’s face. He lifted his arm a bit farther, heightening the tension, and Bergeron howled again. Broussard grabbed a chair and hefted it skyward. Sage ducked behind Bergeron, who took the brunt of the blow. He let go of the man’s fist when he felt the shoulder go with a sickening pop.
Broussard grabbed Sage’s jacket. Sage slipped out of it and held the sleeves like he’d been taught. He wrapped the material around Brossard’s arm and spun, twisting the man like a pretzel. Then Sage pulled the jacket up, locking Broussard’s arm behind him, just as he had Bergeron’s. “Not your p-punching bag, n-not your b-bitch.” Sage lifted the sleeves of his jacket, and Broussard screamed when his shoulder dislocated. Sage unwrapped his leather jacket as quickly and efficiently as he’d coiled it around the man’s arm. He draped the leather over the barstool next to him and reached for his bourbon.
“I’m pressing charges,” Bergeron groaned from the floor. Good to know the chair hadn’t knocked him out.
“For what?” Old Man Ladner chuckled. “You started it, and your friend slammed you with a chair.”
“I got witnesses.” Bergeron held his arm as he tried to stand.
“So does Sage. You’re damn lucky I don’t want to do paperwork tonight, or I’d be taking you in for disorderly conduct. It’s beyond stupid to take on a federal officer. Don’t you know Sage is a Fed now?” Beau spoke from where he stood in the doorway. Sage glanced at him and lifted his bourbon to his lips as Old Man Ladner’s head snapped in Beau’s direction. His friend had given him credibility. He didn’t need it or want it from that town, but still, the taste of the rotgut whiskey he’d been served was the sweetest thing he’d had in years. Sage had served himself a big ole helping of ice-cold revenge. It tasted damn good.
Ladner poured him a second drink as Beau sorted out the trash on the floor. “They’ve been running roughshod over people around here forever. Glad to see someone take them down a peg without even throwing a punch.” The old man cackled. “This time tomorrow, they won’t be able to show their faces without people knowing you’d had enough of their shit. You’re welcome here anytime, officer.”
Sage downed the second drink and grabbed his jacket. He sent a two-finger salute to the bartender and walked out the door—time to go home.
2
Present day, almost a year after the Siege:
Honor Buchanan poured vodka into her tumbler. The orange juice had run out sometime yesterday. She didn’t care. Since the day she’d landed in Dallas a year ago, she’d been drinking. At first, it was to calm her nerves. She’d left DC after emptying her savings account and had covered her tracks while leaving. She’d used cash for everything, leaving no digital footprint. To ensure she was safe, she’d hacked into every truck stop she’d stopped at, wiping out any video imagery of her face. Losing herself in Dallas, she’d found an apartment near a liquor store and deleted her many trips from the store’s camera … when she was sober enough to remember to do it.
Jewell had found her three days ago when she’d accessed her bank account to liquidate investments after running out of money. Or was it four days? Maybe five. She didn’t fucking care. But Jewell had been persistent. Honor hadn’t answered any of the attempts at communication. She’d been using a burner phone, but she had her Guardian cell powered up now. She wouldn’t put it past Jewell to send a team to find her if she didn’t.
Her phone rang beside her computer. Honor leaned over and looked at the face of the phone. She huffed and swiped to connect the call. Before she could say a word, Jewell, her boss, spoke, “Why are you hiding? Why haven’t you answered before this?”
Honor snorted and took a hit of the vodka. “Why do you care?”
“What?” Jewell’s voice held a bit of hurt in the tone.
Damn it. Honor dropped her head back on the couch. “I’m not hiding from you.” Much. There were others she prayed wouldn’t find her. But if Jewell had tracked her down, it would only be time before a lesser skilled person could find her, too. She didn’t have it in her to run farther. She was done. Done running. Done hiding. She took another sip of the vodka.