had dealt with him without even breaking sweat.
Milton was counting on all of that.
Milton stood and turned so that he was looking straight at him.
“What?” he said.
The big man frowned at him, confused, before his natural aggression reasserted itself. He cocked an eyebrow and pushed away from the bar, rising up to his full six foot five.
“What are you looking at?” Milton asked him.
The man glared back.
“You got a problem with me?”
The man said nothing.
“What is it? Lost your tongue?”
Ernesto was still at the table. He sat back, his arms folded, and watched. He said nothing.
Milton leered at the man. “I thought you would’ve learnt your lesson. The last time… your nose.”
The man dabbed his fingers against the tape on his nose before he knew what he was doing.
Milton stepped forwards until there was less than the span of his arm between them.
The other men quietened down. Ernesto still did nothing.
The man with the broken nose tried to hold Milton’s eye. Milton could see that he was nervous, but that he was doing everything he could to suppress the evidence. He couldn’t back down in a room full of his peers. Milton had anticipated that.
He ducked his head at the man, a sudden and unexpected movement that made him flinch.
It must have looked aberrant, the difference in size between them, the smaller man behaving as if he was calling the bigger one out.
The other men in the room laughed.
Ernesto smiled.
Milton watched the big man: the way his right fist clenched and then unclenched, the colour that gradually rose in his face, the change in the distribution of his weight, so subtle that he might not even have noticed it, the alteration that would make it easier for him to lead out with a punch.
Milton had been trained to recognise the signs.
Another prod.
It wouldn’t take much more.
“I was surprised,” Milton said, speaking to Ernesto although he didn’t take his eye off the big man. “Sending someone like this to intimidate me.” He indicated the blowsy woman behind the bar with a sharp nod of his head. “You would’ve had more luck sending her.”
That was all the big man was prepared to take. Milton noticed his fist clench and stay clenched, the whiteness around his knuckles speaking to the tension in his hand. He adjusted his own balance by small degrees as he anticipated the trajectory of the blow, watched the man draw back his right fist and throw a powerful, ugly, and ineffective cross.
He stepped forwards, pushing his forearm up and blocking the punch enough to deflect it harmlessly against his shoulder. The man was unbalanced now, and it was easy for Milton to grab the lapels of his jacket and sweep his legs. He pushed down, the man crashing into the floorboards with Milton on top of him.
Milton had to hurt him now.
He drew back his right fist and pummelled the man in the face.
Blood splashed onto the bar, across the floor, over Milton.
His fist throbbed, but he drew it back again, punched again.
More blood.
He drew it back a third time, his knuckles on fire, and drilled it down again.
The man’s head lolled helplessly.
Another one or two punches and he would kill him.
Milton drew back again.
Ernesto got out of his chair and went to Milton, pulling him away from his bloodied lieutenant.
“Enough,” he said firmly.
Milton had one chance. He turned into Ernesto, as if unsure who had just accosted him, ready to attack again. He was close enough so that the sharp motion of his arm across the Italian’s chest was not unusual. He was close enough so that it would have been difficult to notice how his index finger widened the opening of Ernesto’s jacket pocket. Most importantly, he was close enough that only someone watching him intently would have seen the tracker as he let it drop from between his forefinger and ring finger and into the open pocket. And no-one was watching him intently. The others had been captivated by his sudden explosion of
Milton was counting on all of that.
Milton stood and turned so that he was looking straight at him.
“What?” he said.
The big man frowned at him, confused, before his natural aggression reasserted itself. He cocked an eyebrow and pushed away from the bar, rising up to his full six foot five.
“What are you looking at?” Milton asked him.
The man glared back.
“You got a problem with me?”
The man said nothing.
“What is it? Lost your tongue?”
Ernesto was still at the table. He sat back, his arms folded, and watched. He said nothing.
Milton leered at the man. “I thought you would’ve learnt your lesson. The last time… your nose.”
The man dabbed his fingers against the tape on his nose before he knew what he was doing.
Milton stepped forwards until there was less than the span of his arm between them.
The other men quietened down. Ernesto still did nothing.
The man with the broken nose tried to hold Milton’s eye. Milton could see that he was nervous, but that he was doing everything he could to suppress the evidence. He couldn’t back down in a room full of his peers. Milton had anticipated that.
He ducked his head at the man, a sudden and unexpected movement that made him flinch.
It must have looked aberrant, the difference in size between them, the smaller man behaving as if he was calling the bigger one out.
The other men in the room laughed.
Ernesto smiled.
Milton watched the big man: the way his right fist clenched and then unclenched, the colour that gradually rose in his face, the change in the distribution of his weight, so subtle that he might not even have noticed it, the alteration that would make it easier for him to lead out with a punch.
Milton had been trained to recognise the signs.
Another prod.
It wouldn’t take much more.
“I was surprised,” Milton said, speaking to Ernesto although he didn’t take his eye off the big man. “Sending someone like this to intimidate me.” He indicated the blowsy woman behind the bar with a sharp nod of his head. “You would’ve had more luck sending her.”
That was all the big man was prepared to take. Milton noticed his fist clench and stay clenched, the whiteness around his knuckles speaking to the tension in his hand. He adjusted his own balance by small degrees as he anticipated the trajectory of the blow, watched the man draw back his right fist and throw a powerful, ugly, and ineffective cross.
He stepped forwards, pushing his forearm up and blocking the punch enough to deflect it harmlessly against his shoulder. The man was unbalanced now, and it was easy for Milton to grab the lapels of his jacket and sweep his legs. He pushed down, the man crashing into the floorboards with Milton on top of him.
Milton had to hurt him now.
He drew back his right fist and pummelled the man in the face.
Blood splashed onto the bar, across the floor, over Milton.
His fist throbbed, but he drew it back again, punched again.
More blood.
He drew it back a third time, his knuckles on fire, and drilled it down again.
The man’s head lolled helplessly.
Another one or two punches and he would kill him.
Milton drew back again.
Ernesto got out of his chair and went to Milton, pulling him away from his bloodied lieutenant.
“Enough,” he said firmly.
Milton had one chance. He turned into Ernesto, as if unsure who had just accosted him, ready to attack again. He was close enough so that the sharp motion of his arm across the Italian’s chest was not unusual. He was close enough so that it would have been difficult to notice how his index finger widened the opening of Ernesto’s jacket pocket. Most importantly, he was close enough that only someone watching him intently would have seen the tracker as he let it drop from between his forefinger and ring finger and into the open pocket. And no-one was watching him intently. The others had been captivated by his sudden explosion of
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