"Yeah?"

Bryce straightened. ''Can I see your wine list?"

He did not fucking say that. Wilder was already pretending he didn't know the guy he'd walked in with. His wingman was flying solo.

"Red and white," the bartender growled. "That's the list." He shifted his attention to Wilder. "What do you want to see?"

"Bud. Draft. For both of us." He couldn't leave Bryce that open without some covering fire.

The bartender seemed mollified but Wilder noticed he filled the dirty mugs half full of foam.

"Thank you," Wilder said quickly as Bryce prepared to complain, undoubtedly about the dirty mugs, the foam, and the lack of a medium-priced merlot.

"Eight bucks."

Now Wilder was getting ticked. Four bucks for a crappy draft of Bud, there damn well better be naked women dancing on the bar. He was tired of getting fucked with. Plus, he had a headache, and he still hadn't sorted out the mess Crawford had handed him last night. And then there was Althea, whose effect was more powerful than any hangover and, for some reason, almost as bad. And Armstrong, mad at him and sleeping with Nash.

Fuck it. Wilder reached into his pocket and pulled out his combat pay roll, and said, "Sprinkle the infield."

"What are you doing?" Bryce asked.

Wilder peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. Considering there were only eight people at the bar, Wilder figured that would cover it and there'd better be change or a handful of naked women suddenly appearing. He'd be damned if he'd do the outfield, especially the three guys who had just walked in and taken a booth.

The bartender stared at the bill, but the pressure from the others at the bar was too much. He got everyone another round, including himself, which was on the slippery edge of bar manners in Wilder's opinion, considering they weren't regulars. Then he took the cash, rang up the bill, counted our the change, and slapped it back down in front of Wilder.

Bryce had watched all this with wide eyes. Wilder had no doubt that whatever movie Bryce was in next, there would be a bar scene and he would be sprinkling the infield.

Bryce held up his dirty mug and turned to Wilder for a toast. "To my buddy, J.T., for teaching me all he knows."

You know nothing I know, Wilder thought. He didn't want to, but he held up his mug and lightly clanked it against Bryce's. "To my man, Bryce. Anytime."

Bryce smiled and Wilder saw why he was on film. He was awkward-looking, but he had a goofy charm, something that made it impossible to stay mad at him.

"The whole movie set thing is pretty wild, isn't it?" Bryce asked as he took a sip of the tepid beer.

Fucked up was what it was. But Wilder was pretty far on his learning curve with Bryce so he didn't say that. "Yeah."

"Nash isn't too keen on you." Bryce tried to sound like a man of the world, but it wasn't coming in clearly.

"He's worried I'll interfere with his job." Wilder looked over Bryce's shoulder at the three guys in the booth. Something wrong there. Two of them looked dumb as dirt, but the third one…

"That isn't all," Bryce said.

"What do you mean?"

The guys in the booth were glaring at the bar. No drinks yet. Well, there's no waitress, dipshits.

"Lucy," Bryce said.

"What?" Fuck, he sounded like Crawford now.

"Nash and Lucy. They were married like twelve years ago, but he's still pretty possessive."

The three in the booth were still sitting there, getting steamed over not getting served. Which meant they definitely weren't locals. Of course, they'd looked pretty stoked walking in.

Bryce leaned closer. "I think Nash is mad because Lucy kind of likes you."

What are we, in grammar school? Wilder wondered. Maybe he should give Bryce a note to pass to Lucy: Meet me at the swings after school. Actually, not a bad idea. They could go down to the river together and feed Moot something. Like Nash.

He looked over Bryce's shoulder. One of the three guys was coming over to the bar. Doofus One. Stocky. Weight-lifter muscles. Definitely on 'roids. Tattoos covering his arms. Probably had fuck you on his knuckles.

The weight lifter shoved his way to the bar between the two of them, jostling Bryce's arm and splattering beer all over him. He missed Wilder because Wilder moved.

There were seventeen people total in the bar, and the way he was sitting, Wilder could account for fifteen of them; the other two directly behind him in a booth were too old to be a threat, considering their walkers were parked next to their table. Of the remaining fifteen, Wilder estimated that besides the three he'd already tagged, only the bartender and one young guy three stools to the left could be trouble, but not likely. Not good odds, considering his wingman was Bryce. He did have the Glock but he didn't want to cause a massacre and the rule was never draw unless you plan to shoot.

"Hey." Bryce had waited a couple of seconds too long to protest, probably searching his mind for the proper reply. "Excuse me!"

Doofus One turned to Bryce, his back to Wilder, which meant he was stupid, which was good. "You're excused," he said loudly. His partners at the table guffawed, though Wilder thought it was not exactly the wittiest repartee he'd ever heard. He wasn't even sure it qualified as repartee.

The partners were getting up. One looked to be an ex-high-school football player-a lineman-whose gut was now threatening to match his height. Doofus Two. The other was short and thin, the smallest of the bunch, but the most dangerous because Wilder could see it in his eyes. They were not dull and vacant like the eyes on Doofus One and Doofus Two. Thin Man, Wilder tagged him. Bad news.

"The least you could do is replace my beer," Bryce whined, and Wilder's shoulders sagged because that was such an obvious opening that even Doofus One would jump on it.

"Sure," Doofus One said. "Bartender, get me another for our friend."

The bartender looked as resigned as Wilder to what was coming. He hit the tap as Wilder considered a quick retreat, but a military axiom is never retreat while still in contact with the enemy. The sad thing was that Bryce had no idea they were in a battle.

Doofus One took the mug from the bartender and emptied it on Bryce's head, and Wilder stood up.

Chapter 7

Bryce surprised everybody and jerked his knee up hard, right into the weight lifter's balls, making him scream. Wilder reached out with his left hand and snatched the mug from Doofus One, at the same time striking hard with his right, three short quick jabs into the kidneys. The combination of smashed balls and pummeled kidneys caused Doofus One to go to his knees, then collapse forward. Down and done.

Wilder was already looking at the second wave coming in, Doofus Two, the Football Player, reliving his glory days, rushing the quarterback. Wilder dropped the mug and stepped forward to get in the open, but Bryce fucked it up by sliding in front, running interference like a real wingman.

"Get out-" Wilder didn't finish because Bryce disappeared inside Football Player's grasp. There was a muffled squeak.

Wilder felt bad for Bryce but he had his eyes on the third guy, Thin Man, whose hand was hovering over his right hip where the shirt was untucked. Wilder hoped he had a knife there, because if it was a gun, the place was going to be a mess very quickly.

Knife it was. One of those that required Thin Man to flick his hand back and forth to open it with flair. Wilder had seen that in movies but never in real life because a real soldier was as likely to carry that as he was Bryce's sword. Still, it was metal and it had a sharp edge.

Technically, he could double-tap Thin Man with his Glock considering things had now escalated to assault with a deadly weapon, but he thought of how Crawford would hang him out to dry, and then there was Armstrong-