The Love-Haight Case Files by Donald J. Bingle Jean Rabe Page B

between an auto repair business that he thought might double as a chop shop and a tattoo parlor that displayed dragons and motorcycles in the window.
    Dagger strolled in. He knew it would be dark in here, and it didn’t disappoint. The place reeked of spilled beer and sweat, the two dozen occupants an equal mix of candidates for Weight Watchers and models for Iron Man Magazine . All of them had tattoos, probably regulars of the place next door, it was just a matter of reading them to find a target. Three steps into the place he locked eyes with someone, the ink marking him a member of the Northern Structure. When Sadie had described one of the tattoos, Dagger realized Thomas Brock had pissed off someone either very powerful or very vile.
    The ganger agreed to talk to Dagger alone in the men’s room.
    Dagger had been critical of Thomas Brock for his lapse in judgment letting the fey and his handler into his office but he realized his own judgment wasn’t always perfect either.
    The largest of the three thugs grabbed Dagger’s head and slammed it against the bathroom sink. The other two had been holding his arms, no easy feat. The men’s room was small and dirty, smelling of soap, beer, and piss; and Dagger should have known better than to agree to talk to the ganger back here “out of earshot of my buddies.”
    Dagger usually smelled a setup, but he’d gotten so little sleep and was in a hurry, and those two factors had played against him. The thugs were strong, and though he could’ve easily taken any of them without breaking a sweat, together the three were getting the best of him. The tall one slammed his head a second time, and Dagger thought he saw stars. He struggled to rip himself free, but instead was pushed down to the filthy tile floor, his face near a patch of dried vomit, eyes watering from pong that was thick and choking at this level. Keen senses were inconvenient sometimes.
    They rolled him over onto his back, and the tall one started kicking his side, the other two grabbing a tighter hold. For an instant Dagger’s mind took him back to Angola, where he’d run afoul of a terrorist cell in a bar, the thrum of artillery landing nearby covering the sounds of the slugfest—that fight had been in a men’s room too. Here it was the racket that tried to pass itself off as music blaring from a jukebox on the other side of the men’s room wall. In Angola he’d ended up in ICU for a handful of days. He should have died in that godawful place, but he was tough and healed quickly.
    And he wasn’t about to die now, not in this hellhole. The two holding him tried to pin his legs too, but they weren’t quite big enough for that. Their mistake had been taking Dagger off his feet. He kicked at them now, like a wild animal filled with a frenetic, desperate energy, dislodging one while at the same time the tall guy kept kicking him. The dislodged thug tripped, and Dagger wiggled one arm free, brought it up and around, hand opening and fingers reaching. He found the right arm of the thug that still held him and dug his fingers deep into the flesh. The man wore one of those muscle shirts, big swath of skin exposed; it was an easy target for Dagger. The man howled in surprise and rage.
    Dagger had just bought himself a heartbeat, and in it he managed to propel himself up from the tile and into the tall one, lashing out, getting behind him, and pinning his arms, swinging him around to be a shield against the other two who were recovering and coming at him again. The song on the jukebox ended and another equally atrocious one began, just as the tall one caught a knife in the gut that had been meant for Dagger.
    Dagger pushed his now-dying meat shield at the thug who still gripped the knife handle, driving both men against a stall door and into the stall. Dagger kicked at the other guy, high and hard with the heel of his boot, and catching him in the groin. The man let out a reflexive wail and dropped to his knees,