Mirek had gotten into a fight with a stranger at the bar. Rhea entered as the two men were throwing fists and kicks at each other, knocking over tables and chairs in the process. Delton stayed behind the counter with a face twisted in anger, but he knew better than to try to intervene in a fight that involved Mirek.
Rhea rushed to the other side of the bar, nearly being hit in the head by a flying bottle. The few people in the bar made a wide circle, watching as the fighters hurled objects and fists.
“What the hell is going on?” Rhea asked Keith, who was standing a safe distance by the counter.
“Mirek is getting mad again. You going to be okay, Delton?” Keith said, looking at the man.
Delton grumbled and looked from Keith to Mirek. “If that idiot stops getting into fights with people every other day. I swear if I have to replace another table because of him ill cut his eyes out.”
“Why don’t you just kick him out?” asked Rhea.
Delton sighed. “It’s complicated. Rusakov thinks him useful, and it’s easiest to keep him in one place—for the most part.”
“And despite his difficulties, he still proves useful on jobs,” said Keith. “I hate to admit it, but he’s saved our lives more than once.”
The fighters continued to rip at each other, and Rhea was a little frightened for Mirek’s opponent. Mirek had a broad smile plastered on his face, each hit and kick he took driving him forward, unlike his competitor.
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“Should we stop him?” Rhea asked, eyeing Mirek’s opponent as he began to wither.
“Not much we can do,” said Delton, whipping the counter with a dishrag. He poured glasses of scotch and handed them to Keith and Rhea. She set the book on the bar and looked back at the fight to see Mirek smash his opponent's head into the wall. The man went limp, and Mirek dropped his grip. There was a dent and fresh blood on the surface. Rhea and Keith cringed. Delton’s fury blistered.
Mirek took a seat on one of the stools between Rhea and Keith. Delton gave him a look.
Mirek groaned.
“Will you give it a rest? This place has had worse done to it.”
“You want a drink, pay for it,” Delton said, looking away from him and compulsively wiping the counter again.
“Fuck that. Come on, I barely broke anything,” Mirek argued, but Delton stayed silent.
“Delton.”
He didn’t look up.
“Delton.”
No response.
“Delton!” Mirek smashed his fists onto the counter, left arm crashing onto Rhea’s scotch. The glass shattered and liquor spilt onto the surface.
“Hey!” she yelled at him, “That was mine!”
Mirek gave her a malicious look, and before she could move, he pushed her head down onto the bar counter, smearing scotch and broken glass across the side of her cheek as she felt his grip on her hair. He ripped her head up to smash it down on the counter with enough force to smash her skull, but before he could, the sound of a loaded gun got his attention. Delton’s Remington 870 was pointed at his head.
The few people left in the bar knew enough to leave at the sight of the loaded shotgun, and the only sounds were Rhea’s distressed breathing while Delton held Mirek’s gaze in the hope his dynamism would de-escalate. Keith watched with wide eyes, wondering if he would lose his bet with Orin and Pedro regarding how long the young woman would last in Dusara Reach. Finally, Mirek let go of her hair. She stood up, grabbed her book, and stumbled in her unlaced boots as she exited the bar in a hurry.
When she opened the door, she took a seat on the edge of the sidewalk and wiped the liquor from her face, pulling a few small shards of glass from her skin, veins ripe beneath the surface. She tried to shake the fear from her limbs, stood from the curb, and went upstairs, refusing to let fear grab a strong grip on her heart and mind.
