but Noah’s faster. He hooks a leg just behind my foot, and charges his shoulder into my chest as hard as he can. I fly backwards, crashing into the table next to us.
Every conversation around us stops, and most of the people there gasp in surprise. People stand and begin to back away, some of them even straddling the low barrier used to mark the footprint of the cafe seating, trying to get away from the melee.
“C’mon, Ford,” Noah gloats. “This is too easy!”
I flip onto my feet straight from the flat of my back, grabbing one of the wooden bistro chairs next to me and swinging it at Noah. He can’t escape—our space is too confined to get out of the way. He does the next best thing, though, which is to distribute the blow across the broad frame of his back. Still, the force of it drops him to one knee, and he has to use both hands to avoid smashing into the pavement.
“Had enough, Porter?” That blow had to hurt—but he’s a tough son of a bitch. I know he’s not done.
He answers with a vicious uppercut, a move I see so late I unbalance myself trying to avoid it. He launches forward like a sprinter exploding from the blocks, planting his shoulder in my stomach and bearing me to the ground.
I’m not a small man by any measure, but I’m not as big as Noah. He has the advantage when his weight’s on top of me. He rains down blows, most of which I deflect with my forearms. He catches me cleanly twice, though, once over my right eye, and once on the left cheekbone. The telltale sting of blood hitting cold air tells me I’m bleeding, but thankfully it’s not affecting my vision.
Twisting my body to the right, I roll from flat on my back to my side, allowing me to cover my head with just one arm. My free hand finds a wine bottle, and Noah doesn’t see the blow coming. The bottle smashes into his temple, and his weight slumps on top of me, almost knocking the wind out of me. I lever him off of me, noticing the groggy look in his eyes, the trickle of blood pouring out from his hairline. One good shot to the button—the spot under the ear where the jaw meets the neck—and he’ll be out cold.
I place one hand flat on his chest, holding him down, and cock my other arm.
Even through his haze of pain, Noah looks at me with perfect hatred. He’s never entertained the idea what he did in Afghanistan was wrong. He probably never will. I start to throw my punch, but someone grabs my forearm.
I look up and find Luca grinning at me. “You know I hate missing a play date.”
“What in God's name is going on here?” a man’s voice calls from the cafe entrance. He’s short and fat, wearing an impeccable silver suit, complete with a burgundy neckerchief. He waddles over, his feet somehow never leaving contact with the ground.
“I’m very sorry,” I say, “Mister…?”
I need to smooth this over quickly. Noah wouldn’t break his word—he won’t arrest me for hitting him. The Nashville police won’t care one way or the other.
“George Laurent,” the man says, taking stock of my appearance: expensive, tailored suit, Breitling watch, thousand dollar loafers—all of which are either torn, scuffed, or slightly bloody. “I own this cafe.”
Noah sits up, shaking off the last cobwebs from being hit in the head with the bottle. He probably needs to get out of here before anyone realizes he’s an FBI agent.
“My friend and I had a little disagreement,” I say. “Fighting over which one of us is picking up the check.”
Laurent’s mouth presses into a grim, humorless line. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I insist. “I’d like to take care of the bill for all of your guests, and of course I’ll pay for any damages.”
The few remaining diners around us perk up at this offer, quickly changing from scowling at me to looking expectantly at Laurent.
Noah smolders, his face roiling with disgust at hearing me try to buy my way out of trouble. He doesn’t think money should change anything about life. I bet part of him even wants to be punished for fighting. But it’s not as big as the part that burns for payback, or the part that wants to be the best at everything he does. He needs me to do