Dirty fighting was maybe the most valuable thing he’d learned as a street rat. He could take on two men, maybe even three, no problem.
Keeping his gaze on the men, gauging the amount of time it’d take for him to reach them, Rowdy felt around on the ground until his fingers located a jagged rock. Focused, ready to move, he threw it past the men toward a trash can. It made a clatter, and both men jerked around, searching the area, their weapons drawn.
“What the f**k?”
“What was that? Who’s there?”
On the balls of his feet, Rowdy charged, plowing into both of them, taking advantage of their distraction. They all three went down, but he had the benefit of rage and momentum, while they were taken by surprise, floundering both physically and mentally.
Lowry’s head hit the brick wall of the bar, and, dazed, he loosened enough to drop the gun. It skittered across the ground.
Caught under them, Phelps’s face connected with the rough pavement. Cursing, he spit blood—and a tooth. He tried to haul himself free, but the combined weight of Rowdy and Lowry held him down.
Wanting this wrapped before anyone else showed up or people inside the bar were alerted to their scuffle, Rowdy hit Lowry with three rapid punches. He smashed his nose, broke his jaw, and as he cocked his meaty fist for another shot, Lowry slumped, more unconscious than not.
Rowdy shoved him to the side just as Phelps managed to crawl out from under them. The idiot turned, blood all over his face, his neck and the front of his shirt. With a guttural curse and wild eyes, Phelps took aim.
Kicking out against his legs, Rowdy tripped him, and down he went. One near-silent shot exploded, hitting the brick of the bar and ricocheting. Crying out like a girl, Phelps grabbed a mangled knee—from Rowdy’s kick, not from the stray bullet—but Rowdy was quick to silence him with a boot to the face.
Phelps dropped like a stone.
Flipping him over, Rowdy put a knee in his back and bound his hands with double cuff disposable restraints that Trace had given him. Five pairs of them, Rowdy remembered, wondering if Trace expected him to take on an entire goon squad.
Phelps groaned at the uncomfortable clench of his arms behind his back.
“Make a sound,” Rowdy told him, “and I’ll shut you up for good. Do you understand me?”
Incoherent, Phelps babbled an affirmative.
Quickly, Rowdy checked him for other weapons and found a knife. He tossed it toward the gun Lowry had dropped, then bound Phelps’s ankles, as well.
At any moment, someone could step out the back door of the bar. He had to hurry. Grabbing Lowry, he jerked a strip of material off his shirt and used it to gag Phelps. Grabbing him under his arms, he dragged Phelps over to the side of the Falcon, hidden from view.
Rushing back to Lowry, who had just started to revive, Rowdy slugged him again. He groaned. Rowdy dragged him over by Phelps and bound him the same, wrists tight behind his back, ankles squeezed together. The added pressure on his injured arm had Lowry gritting his teeth with pain.
But this man had planned to murder him. He’d laughed about the idea of using Alice. Rowdy didn’t give a damn if his arm fell off.
He searched Lowry and found another, smaller pistol, along with a stun gun. With one knee in Lowry’s chest, the other on his damaged shoulder, Rowdy said, “Want me to use the stun gun on you?”
Lowry stared at him with a steely-eyed gaze. But Phelps protested, gurgling behind his gag, struggling.
Without looking at him, Rowdy said, “Shut up before I shut you up.”
Phelps went silent.
“Well, Lowry? How do you feel about a little jolt?” He placed the barbs of the stun gun under Lowry’s chin.
“Think that’ll get you talking?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’re a dead man. Doesn’t matter what you do to us—”
“No?” Rowdy jammed the stun gun into Phelps’s gut and squeezed the trigger. Phelps went rigid, his eyes bulging and a guttural growl squeezed from his throat. His body jerked, flinched...until Rowdy let up.
With Phelps now whimpering, Rowdy smiled. “He’s gagged, so I knew he wouldn’t yell. Guess I should really gag you, too, right?” He pressed the stun gun to Lowry’s chest. “Though it might not be necessary. I hear a jolt to the heart can bring everything to a standstill.”
A bead of nervous sweat trickled down Lowry’s temple. “What the f**k do you want?”
“Answers. First of all, who’s Woody Simpson?”
When Lowry hesitated, Rowdy tapped his finger to the trigger, letting the stun gun snap and sizzle.
Lowry pressed back, trying to scamper away from that threatening jolt. “Okay, okay! Jesus.”
“Talk.”
“He’s the boss.”
“Who does he answer to?”
“No one. That’s what I’m telling you. Woody is it. Top of the line.”
Perfect. “Where I can find him?” As encouragement, Rowdy gave another quick tap to the gun. “Now, Lowry.”
And just like that, Lowry spilled his guts. “He’s in his offices on South Street.” He gave over the exact address.
“It’s damn near midnight. What’s he doing there now?”
“Waiting to hear how shit went.”
“You mean with the ladies, right?” That was too easy for Rowdy to believe, but he played along, anyway. “Cheryl and Alice?”
Probably hoping to find common ground, Lowry nodded. “Yeah. Woody wants the bitch, that’s all. You’re just collateral. You can leave now, and I’ll tell him we killed you. He doesn’t have to know.”