Cole might have done him a favor by not telling him about her attack immediately after the fact, Scott thought grimly. Twice X’s attacks had gone unanswered. Perhaps he was getting cocky, or careless. Both attitudes would work in Scott’s favor.
Still not satisfied about what he’d be walking into, Scott called one of the task force guys who lived in Baltimore to ask about the place.
“It’s a recreational bar. Caters to youngish commuters who like to think they’re still the shit, and college students with IDs that say they’re twenty-one. Then you got your hard-core video gamers and assorted sports fans. The drinks are cheap and the food’s a step up from movie-theater popcorn fare. Got enough of an edge that it sometimes lures the fringe element looking for a weekend experience.”
When he pulled into the parking lot, Scott noticed the patrol car parked at a discreet distance. Message: As long as everyone played nice, the doors would remain open.
At least it wouldn’t take long for law enforcement to respond if things went sideways.
Even so, he walked Izzy around the lot. He counted several motorcycles. Two sported Pagan insignia. Izzy didn’t sign on anything except a couple of joint roaches on the pavement. Satisfied that he had been as thorough as he could without backup, he tucked Izzy back into his truck and headed for the door.
Scott paused just inside the huge open space, cop senses on full alert as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
The atmosphere was downscale Vegas. Despite air-conditioning, the sultry heat of the August night penetrated as far as the entrance. The place smelled faintly of beer and bodies. Strategic lighting that pierced the darkness was all aimed downward, offering the illusion of intimacy for the hundred-plus customers playing pool, paddle boards, darts, shuffleboard, or arcade games.
The bar area itself was dark—dark walls, black tables and chairs. On the far wall above the bar a bank of big-screen plasma TVs offered a variety of sports broadcasts. Here and there signs spelled out popular beer brands in electric neon lettering.
Closer in, a stage whose spotlighting barely penetrated beyond its immediate arc was occupied by a local band running through a cover of “Home” by Phillip Phillips.
To one side a line had formed under a sign that read KARAOKE COMPETITION for patrons to sign up for when the band took a break.
Scott took it all in quickly. It was a good place for a confrontation. Plenty of witnesses. Yet the half walls that separated the different gaming areas gave a sense of privacy that would make it easier to deliver the warning he’d come to give—if X was here.
A watchful suspicion tightened in his gut as he moved forward. Something else stirred as well, tied to that darker side of him. The lust for life on the edge. The rush of knowing that you were the biggest, baddest SOB screaming down the road. He would never be quite free of it.
Scott swallowed, as if the old life had a flavor he could taste.
But the image didn’t hold. The reality was that he was a cop, first and last. The sheepdog guarding the flock from the real wolves. He had come here to corner a vicious wolf who called himself X.
It turned out not to be a problem to locate him. Three Pagans and their girlfriends lounged in and around the seating along the far back corner where two pool tables formed a ninety-degree angle. They were watching two men play pool. One of those men was X.
The smile that stretched Scott’s features would have sent a civilian ducking for cover. The thrill of the chase lit his eyes. It was on.
He came up behind X and grabbed the back of his pool cue just as he was about to sink the final shot and jerked it out of his hands. X’s body motion carried him forward in an action that nearly had him sprawled on the table before he caught himself.
“Fucking shit!” He spun around, one hand going to his waist where Scott knew he kept his Ka-Bar in a hidden sheath.
Scott brought the pool cue up in a defensive position.
“Hello, birthday boy. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
The biker’s lean leathery face looked ghoulish in the stark overhead lighting. There were so many seams and ridges that shaving must be a bitch. His gaze narrowed down to slits. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the guy you’d been throwing spitballs at from the back of class. If you wanted me to ask you out all you had to do was say so.”
A smile jittered at the corners of X’s mouth. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Fuck off. I don’t know you.” He turned his back and reached for another pool cue.
As he did so, Scott stepped up and sank the shot X had been about to make. Scott grinned at X’s astonished expression as X looked around. “Can’t say I didn’t give you a present. Now I’m going to give you a little advice. Stay outta my shit.”
Snickering from his friends arrayed in the booth jerked X’s head around. “Shut the fuck up.”