Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis

to a fresh salad with cheese from the local goats as Gladden swung to a smooth stop at a narrow pier. They tied up, grabbed the cognac, and headed ashore to where their group was seated on an odd collection of stools and wooden chairs around little tables at a psaro taverna , a fish restaurant. Like most eating establishments in Greece, this one was called the Café Olympia. Irregular weathered stones spread along the front, and tan walls were shaded by the spreading olive branches.
    There was a problem with the idyllic scene. Four rough-looking men also were at the tavern, obviously drunk and taunting the guys and making lewd passes at the women. The money men were sitting there, embarrassed, while the girls were trying, without success, to ignore the drunks.
    “Oh, my,” said Jeff, who wore cream-colored linen trousers, a soft blue shirt, and leather sandals. Tim Gladden had on a lightweight white short-sleeved shirt, creased white pants, and Converse sneakers. Swanson was barefoot, in wrinkled khaki cargo shorts and a brilliant blue Hawaiian shirt with orange palm trees. They looked as threatening as three lost missionaries.
    “I say, chaps,” Jeff pleasantly addressed the men as he carefully placed his precious cognac bottle on a table. “Would you please be off now? We are just here for a quick and a pleasant lunch and then will be on our way.”
    The four Greeks stopped pestering the visitors and stared at the newcomers, knowing that playtime was over. Kyle shifted his weight a bit as the drunks rose from their table, pushed aside the chairs, and formed a line, one-two-three-four. In any street fight, the tough guys lead, and the biggest of the bunch was slightly forward in the two position, shoulder-to-shoulder with number three, a husky man with a face scarred like an Ultimate Fighter. The remaining two flanked them. Kyle glanced at Shari and winked. Lady Pat sat back, took another sip of ouzo, and lit a thin cigar.
    The largest guy, around six-two, spoke. “You will fuck off now, you rich bastards, and take these three other queers with you. The women can go back to your big boat when we are done.”
    “Ah, I see,” said Jeff. “Well then, lads, I guess we are for it. I’ll take this big fellow, if you don’t mind.”
    “No,” Tim disagreed. To free his hands, he also put his bottle on a table and moved to a fighting stance. “I want Mr. Big. You can have that ugly one. Scarface.”
    Kyle smashed his heavy bottle over Big’s head, catching him on the left side of the forehead, and raked the jagged edge down across the eye, cheek, and mouth for a maximum cutting effect. Deep inside Swanson, the switch had clicked into combat mode and he was running on automatic. Speed and surprise. Don’t let them regroup. Eliminate the threats in descending order of importance.
    The first guy collapsed to his knees with a scream, the strong alcohol biting into the deep and bleeding cuts. Kyle already had spun away to his left and slammed his left elbow into the nose of Scarface, knocking him backward across a table. Blood spurted from the fractured nose, and the man’s head cracked against the paving stones.
    “He is going to be even uglier when he wakes up,” Shari said to Pat.
    Kyle’s momentum was still at work and he finished the spin facing number four. He locked Four in a bear hug, slid his clasped hands up behind the man’s head, and pulled the body weight toward him. When the man leaned back, thinking Swanson was going after his face, Kyle drove his right knee deep and hard into the crotch, sending the ruptured balls somewhere up between the eyes. The man gasped for breath and crashed over a chair.
    “An emergency surgical suite for that one,” Pat commented. “Kyle is very messy today.”
    Number one, who had been at the far end, came on fast as Kyle came to rest in a squared position, perfectly balanced. The man’s right leg locked as he ran forward, and Swanson leaned back, lifted his own left foot,