A low, controlled growl rolled from his chest.
The biker’s hand emerged holding something dark.
My eyes locked onto it.
“Rex—” 👇
The dark object cleared the biker’s vest.
A pistol.
Not a phone. Not a wallet. A compact semiautomatic handgun in his right hand, muzzle turning toward me through a diner full of civilians.
I did not finish Rex’s name.
“Down!”
The command was for everyone.
The waitress disappeared behind the bar. Two customers dropped beneath tables. The biker with the pool cue hesitated just long enough for me to move.
I shoved Butch’s shoulder sideways and rolled behind the overturned table as the armed man raised the pistol.
Rex broke from the wall.
I had not released him.
He did not need one.
He crossed the diner in three strides and hit the gunman’s forearm from the side. Not a wild bite. A trained grip above the wrist. The pistol fired once into the ceiling.
Plaster rained down.
People screamed.
Rex drove the man into a booth.
“Out! Drop it!”
The gun clattered beneath a table.
“Rex, release!”
He let go instantly and stood over the man, teeth bared, waiting.
The other bikers froze.
Even Butch stopped struggling beneath me.
I looked at the man with the knife.
“Set it down.”
He did.
The pool cue followed.
For a few seconds, the only sound in The Rusty Spur was the ringing in my ears from the gunshot and Rex’s breathing.
