Grave Consequences by Aimée Thurlo Page A

his years in ’stan, so he couldn’t understand what Mike was telling the goons. Gordon, however, despite his blue eyes and Irish blood, had grown up in a Denver neighborhood full of Latino families.
    â€œCharles, this reminds me of our first night in Honolulu. Those three lady Marines?” Gordon added, following right behind Fernando, who’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
    â€œYeah, it took us an hour to get them down to the beach,” Charlie replied. “Then there was that awkward moment when one of the girls realized she was the fifth wheel.”
    â€œYou ever have one woman too many on a date?” Charlie turned to look at Mike’s bodyguard. The Neanderthal guy packed fists the size of boxing gloves.
    â€œOne can never have too many women,” the guy answered with a grin.
    â€œAmen,” Mike added, following at the rear of the column.
    Charlie focused on his first move, trying not to tense up. Gordon had just reminded him of a night they’d both been set up for a beat down.
    Fernando turned left instead of right, then stepped behind the bar and led the way through the kitchen area, which was empty at the moment except for Meg and another waitress. They were ladling salsa into serving bowls.
    Charlie winked at her as they passed by, and he heard a faint “oh, shit” escape from her lips. “Out front, ladies,” Mike instructed firmly as Fernando reached the exit.
    Fernando unlocked the door with the turn of a lever and stepped out, Gordon right behind him. Charlie followed, watching Fernando’s hands. His fists clenched and he whirled around, throwing a punch at Gordon, who blocked it effortlessly.
    Charlie had noted the move out of the corner of his eye. He was already into his own turn, halfway around and sweeping his right leg into the door. The heavy metal door slammed into the side of Neanderthal’s skull as the guy lunged at him.
    Ignoring the thuds and grunts coming from behind him, Charlie grabbed the door handle and slammed the door into Neanderthal’s shoulder as the stunned goon tried to block the blow with his forearm. Then Charlie jumped back, careful not to bump into Gordon, who was hammering Fernando with left and right body punches.
    Blocked by his own man, Mike pushed the guy forward, slamming the door behind him. “Take that Indian down, Cesar,” Mike urged. The guy rushed Charlie like a blitzing linebacker, arms extended to make the tackle.
    It only took a couple of seconds. Charlie faked a knee kick, then pulled his right leg back, letting Cesar grab his left knee. Extending both arms, Charlie brought his hands together and slapped the heels of both hands against the man’s head, pivoting sideways as the man brushed past him. They both fell to the pavement, Charlie’s attacker still clinging to him.
    Cesar tried to wrap his arms around Charlie and save himself, but Charlie struck him on the right clavicle with a shuto strike, a chop with the edge of his hand.
    The man groaned, let go, then rolled away, trying to sit up. Charlie stood, noting in his peripheral vision that Gordon had his opponent on the asphalt facedown with an arm-shoulder pin that suggested aikido.
    â€œEnough!” Mike yelled, pulling back his silk jacket to reveal a small Ruger pistol at his belt. “Stop with this shit, guys. Clearly, you have some skills. You want to talk to me, okay, you’ve earned it. Let’s all cool down, I don’t want anyone calling the cops.”
    â€œYou okay with this?” Charlie asked Gordon, who didn’t appear to even be breathing hard.
    â€œSure, as long as everyone keeps their knives in their pockets and their guns away,” he replied, nodding at Mike’s weapon. Gordon released Fernando’s arm, but watched him carefully as the man struggled to stand. It took a few seconds because the guy was still wobbly and doubled over slightly.
    Charlie held his palms up, showing the