passed him the blond man’s wallet. She’d lifted it from his pocket as she pushed him outside. He flipped it open and pulled out an I.D.
‘Sam Archer,’ he said, reading the card. ‘You a cop?’
‘No.’
‘You look like a cop.’
‘Check the I.D again. And listen to my voice. I’m English. Guys like me don’t work for the NYPD. We can’t.’
The guy’s eyes narrowed, and he checked the I.D in his hands again.
‘England, huh? So what the hell are you doing here? How come we’ve never seen you before?’
‘I’m visiting.’
‘Who?’
‘No one in particular. The city.’
‘You alone?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t realise that was a crime. Is this how you treat every guy who walks in here to grab a beer?’
The guy looked at him. He was about to speak, but the other man with the shaved head behind him spoke, an edge of concern in his voice.
‘Sean.’
The big guy turned, as his friend beckoned to their right with his head. Archer looked in the same direction.
And saw six men walking straight towards them from up the street.
Every one of them was over six feet tall and thickly built, guys who were naturally strong and who had hit the weights to take that strength even further. They’d appeared out of nowhere. They took up the whole sidewalk as they approached in a line, and came to a halt five yards from the foursome from the bar. The leader of the second group was staring straight at the guy called Sean opposite him, his eyes narrowed, his face tense. They’d walked down the street with purpose, not casually, almost like they’d been waiting for the foursome to leave the bar. One thing was for sure, these weren’t just pedestrians or a gang of American football players out on the town.
These guys oozed aggression and impending violence.
The way the two groups lined up, it was six-on-four. Archer glanced to his right and saw the woman still had the pistol jammed in the back of her waistband. That could be a game-changer if she decided to pull it. If she did, the difference in numbers would mean shit.
But to his surprise, she made no effort to reach for it, her hands staying by her side. She was just staring at the guy across from her, not a glimmer of intimidation in her body language, front-on, staring him down. She looked almost like she was relishing it, swaying side-to-side slowly, savouring the confrontation.
‘Keep walking,’ Sean told the other group. ‘Save yourself some trouble.’
The leader on their side didn’t move. He just smiled.
‘And why should I do that, Farrell?’ the man said, thick Irish accent. ‘This is our pub. My family owns this bar. And to be honest, we’ve had enough of you and your wetback bitch hanging out here. You’re bringing us a shitload of trouble we don’t want.’
As he spoke, Archer suddenly realised he was standing in line with Farrell and the three who had pulled him from the bar.
Which meant one of the six guys opposite was staring straight down at him.
Archer cursed inwardly.
Shit. He thinks I’m part of their group, he thought.
And his recent luck dictated that he was facing the biggest one of them all.
The guy was six three and over two-twenty easily, probably a line-backer in his high-school days or a wrestler, a guy used to getting his hands on someone and slamming them around. He looked down at the smaller man, an arrogant and self-satisfied sneer on his face, looking every inch a bully. He had probably never lost a fight in his life, being the size that he was. And from the look on his face, he figured he was going to stomp this little guy across from him like he was squashing a bug. It was written all over him, that smirk of victory on his lips. He thought he’d already won.
He was wrong.
The leader of the other gang, the Irish guy, threw the first punch.
It was a wild right hook, the shot that had started pretty much every street fight in history. That or the head-butt. The guy pushed his considerable bodyweight and muscle-mass behind it and swung with all his strength, trying to take Farrell’s head off. No technique, just pure and brutal power, a haymaker, swinging for the fences. If it connected, it would have done some considerable damage.
But Farrell saw it coming. It was so telegraphed, he probably could have spotted it from New Jersey. He swayed to the side and threw a cover hand up, blocking the