Chasing Fire by Nora Roberts Page A

in the middle of almost-nowhere and recognize perfection.
    He wandered around the building, enjoying his cigar, thinking of facing Rowan over another six tequila shots. Next time—if there was a next time—he’d make damn sure they had a bottle of Patrón Silver. Then at least he’d feel more secure about the state of his stomach lining.
    Amused, he came around the side of the building. He heard the grunts first, then the ugly sound of fist against flesh. He moved forward, toward the sounds, scanning the dark pockets of the parking lot.
    Two of the men Rowan had dealt with in the bar held Dobie while the third—the big one—whaled on him.
    “Shit,” Gull muttered, and, tossing down his cigar, rushed forward.
    Over the buzz of rage in his ears, Gull heard one of the men shout. The big man swung around, face full of mean. Gull cocked back his fist, let it fly.
    He didn’t think; didn’t have to. Instinct took over as the other two men dropped Dobie in a heap and came at him. He embraced the madness, the moment, punch, kick, elbow strike, as he scented blood, tasted his own.
    He felt something crunch under his fist, heard the whoosh of expelled air as his foot slammed into belly fat. Someone dropped to his knees and gagged after his elbow jabbed an exposed throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gull saw Dobie had managed to gain his feet and limped over to the retching man to deliver a solid kick in the ribs.
    One of the others tried to run. Gull caught him, flung him so he skidded face-first over the gravel.
    He didn’t clearly remember knocking the big guy down, getting on top of him, but it took three of his fellow jumpers to pull him off.
    “He’s had enough. He’s out.” Little Bear’s voice penetrated that buzz of rage. “Ease off, Gull.”
    “Okay. I’m good.” Gull held up a hand to signal he was done. As the grips on him loosened, he looked over at Dobie.
    His friend sat on the ground surrounded by other jumpers, a few of the local women. His face and shirtfront were both a bloody mess, and his right eye was swollen shut.
    “Did a number on you, pal,” Gull commented. Then he saw the dark stain on Dobie’s right pant leg, and the dripping pool. “Christ! Did they knife you?”
    Before Gull reached him, Dobie two-fingered a broken bottle of Tabasco out of his pocket. “Nah. Busted this when I went down. Got a few nicks is all, and a waste of good Tabasco.”
    L.B. crouched to get a better look at Dobie. “You carry Tabasco in your pocket?”
    “Where else would I carry it?”
    Shaking his head, Gull sat back on his heels. “He dumps it on everything.”
    “Damn right.” To prove it, Dobie shook out the little left on the ass of one of the semiconscious men. “I came out for a little air, and the three of them jumped me. Laying for me—or any of us, I reckon. You sure came along at the right time,” he said to Gull. “You know kung fu or some shit?”
    “Something like that. Better go get patched up.”
    “Oh, I’m okay.”
    Rowan moved through, crouched in front of Dobie. “They wouldn’t have gone after you if they hadn’t been pissed at me. Do me a favor, okay? Go get patched up so I don’t have to feel guilty.” Then she leaned over, kissed his bruised and bloody cheek. “I’ll owe you.”
    “Well . . . if it’ll make you feel better.”
    “Do you want me to call the law?” Big Nate asked him.
    Dobie studied the three men, shrugged. “Looks to me more like they need an ambulance.” He shrugged again. “I don’t care if they go to jail, to fiery hell or back wherever they came from.”
    “All right then.” Big Nate stepped over, toed the man sitting up nursing his face in his hands. “You fit to drive?” When the man managed a nod, Big Nate toed him again a little harder. “You’re going to get in your truck with the fuckers you travel with. You’re going to drive, and keep on driving. If I see you around my place or any other place I happen to be, you’re going