I use him as a deadweight human shield, just before the three men still standing reach for their guns.
That’s my window of opportunity.
I cock back and throw my knife a second time. The moment it leaves my hand, I grab the gun tucked in the back of my waistband.
The knife finds its home in a second man’s beefy neck. Struck an artery, by the looks of the blood spatter. He falls to the ground, gurgling. I let my human shield go and he hits the deck like a sack of potatoes.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The third sound is the man I’ve shot thudding onto his knees. He has just enough time left in his life to look down at the bloody mess where his beer gut once was and then back up to me.
Horror is etched in his eyes. Disbelief, really.
He looks like he wants to say something to me. Ask me who I am or how I managed to do this. His fat lips sputter with the word.
But then the clock of his life ticks down to zero and he collapses on top of his friend.
Goodnight, friend.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I turn slowly and turn my attention to the bartender.
His eyes are wide with fear as he realizes just how out of his depth he is.
“Drop your gun,” I order.
He was dumb enough to pick up a pistol from somewhere behind the bar, but not brave enough or fast enough to use it on me in the fight.
He does as I say immediately. The moment the gun is down, I saunter back over to the bar.
The other lone drinkers are nowhere in sight, clearly having raced out of here the moment shit got real. Smart thinking.
I sit down on the same barstool I’d been occupying only minutes earlier and pick up my beer mug. Raising it to my nose, I take an inhale.
“Smells as bad as it tastes, I bet,” I drawl. I hurl it against the mirrored wall behind the bartender. He flinches as it streaks past his ear and shatters into a million glistening pieces. The mirror goes with it, huge shards collapsing to the ground.
The man’s hands are still raised. I can see his fingertips trembling.
“Can we dispense with the pretense now?” I ask conversationally.
The bartender looks at me with fearful calculation. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if he’s going to live to see another day.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks in a hushed voice.
I remember the words I roared over the ravine after I built Cillian’s makeshift grave.
I am death.
But I want this poor sap to be cooperative, not to piss his pants in terror. So I save the theatrics for another time.
“Does it matter?” I ask instead.
“Well, what do you want?”
“A better question,” I agree. “But first, you need to answer me.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I did. And you lied to me, which better men than you have lost their lives for. So, do you wanna try this again?”