I didn't move. I picked up my fork, sliced a piece of my lukewarm eggs, and took a bite, chewing slowly while staring out the window at my Indian Scout.
“Hey,” a grating voice barked.
I ignored it, cutting another piece of my meal.
Footsteps approached my booth, heavy and deliberate. The kid stopped right beside my table. He smelled of cheap cologne, stale beer, and exhaust fumes. Two massive henchmen flanked him. One was a towering mountain of a man with a thick, unkempt beard—someone I would later learn was named Tank. The other was a wiry, jittery kid named Skiv.
“I said, we’re buying out the place, grandpa,” the leader said. He leaned heavily against the edge of my booth, invading my space. “That means you pack up your little retirement tour and hit the road.”
I took a slow sip of my coffee, feeling the heat radiate down my throat. “I paid for my meal. When I’m finished, I’ll leave.”
My voice was quiet, steady, entirely devoid of the panic he was used to hearing. It caught him off guard, but only for a second before his fragile ego flared.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” he demanded, puffing out his chest so the Iron Kings patch was fully visible. “I’m Kellen. President of the Mojave charter. We own this highway. So when I tell you to move, you move.”
I set my mug down gently. I didn't look up at his face. I looked at the shiny leather of his vest. There wasn't a single scuff mark on it. No bug splatters, no sun fading, no road rash.
“A patch doesn’t make you own anything, son,” I said softly. “It just paints a target on your back. Let me finish my coffee.”
Kellen’s face twisted in ugly fury.
Without a word of warning, he pulled his leg back and drove his heavy spiked boot straight into the edge of my wooden table. The force tipped the table violently upward. My porcelain plate launched into the air. The heavy metal fork spun like a shrapnel blade, catching me sharply right above my left eyebrow.
Pain flared bright and hot. The fork clattered to the floor, leaving a stinging, throbbing welt on my forehead. My plate shattered against the far wall, raining eggs and hash browns onto the linoleum.
Maria let out a frightened gasp from behind the counter. Tank chuckled deeply.
I sat perfectly still in the booth. I could feel my heart rate slowing down, not speeding up. This was the shift. The familiar, icy descent into the tactical mindset I had sworn to abandon. My muscles tightened, calculating the distance to Kellen’s throat. A localized strike to his trachea would collapse his airway in less than two seconds. I could use the shards of the coffee mug to blind Tank, and use Skiv as a human shield against the rest of the room.
No. I promised her. No more.
I took a slow, deliberate breath. I pushed the overturned table aside and stood up. I was several inches taller than Kellen, though significantly older. I kept my hands open at my sides.
“I’m leaving,” I said, keeping my tone entirely neutral.
I turned my back to him, intending to walk toward the exit. It was a calculated display of submission. I was giving him the victory he desperately craved, hoping it would satisfy his pathetic ego.
It didn't.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Kellen hissed.
Before I could take a second step, a heavy hand grabbed the back of my neck.
I let him do it. I could have thrown his weight over my shoulder, but I actively forced my body to go limp. Kellen yanked me backward with a grunt of exertion, twisting my shoulders. He drove his hand downward, slamming my face straight into the edge of the splintered wooden table.
A hollow, wet smack echoed through the quiet diner as my cheekbone hit the wood. My vision flashed white for a fraction of a second.