Don't Look Down

  "I wouldn't have let you."

  Lucy looked up at the night sky, trying to keep her temper. "You're an arrogant son of a bitch, Rambo."

  "Not always," he said, and turned away to go with Bryce, and Lucy looked past him and realized they'd had an audience.

  Across the lot, Connor watched Wilder, his face like stone. Beside him, a strange woman dressed in a flight suit, brunette but thicker and tougher than Stephanie, stared at Wilder, too, her face as hard as Connor's. Karen, the pilot, Lucy thought. Caught between them, Doc, the little ex-Green Beret with the glasses, looked way out of his league.

  And they were all probably in cahoots with Finnegan.

  "Oh, hell," Lucy said, and called after him. "Wilder? Be careful."

  He looked back, surprised. "Careful about what?"

  She walked closer to him. "The backer, Finnegan, called me this morning and told me he knew you were here. He wanted me to fire you.

  "He called you?" Wilder said.

  "Okay, the interesting part of that sentence was that he wanted me to fire you," Lucy said, exasperated. "And I never told him you were here, so how did he know that?"

  "Nash—"

  "Nope."

  Wilder went very still. "You got a spy on the set."

  "Yes." Lucy took a deep breath. "Look, it's not just Finnegan. Connor and Stephanie want you gone, too. And Doc and Karen, the helicopter pilot, are staring at you right now. You've pretty much pissed everybody off, so watch your back."

  He glanced over and nodded. "How about you?"

  "Me?" Lucy blinked at him, surprised.

  "Do you want me g—" He looked down, and she followed his eyes to see Pepper tugging on his pant leg. "Hello, P.L."

  "Hello, J.T.," Pepper said, beaming at him. "Thank you very much for the Wonder Woman stuff. I got you this as a thank-you." She held up the Superman key chain, which he took soberly.

  "Thank you very much," he said. "It's just what I needed."

  Pepper nodded. "It's okay that the doll wasn't a Barbie. Aunt Lucy says Wonder Woman can kick Barbie's ass."

  "I said 'butt,' " Lucy said.

  "Wrong doll, huh?" Wilder said to Lucy.

  "It's all right," she told him. "Pepper loves it."

  "A Wonder Woman Barbie would be good, though," Pepper said, not looking at anybody in particular.

  "Pepper!"

  Bryce called, "J.T!" across the lot, and Wilder said, "I have to go." He nodded at Pepper. "I'll be careful, but she's the one to watch out for. She's little and there's a big old one-eyed gator in the water that comes up on land every once in a while. I don't think he's much afraid of people."

  "Moot?" Lucy said.

  "Moot?" Wilder said.

  "That's what Althea called the one-eyed alligator she saw under the bridge yesterday. There can't be a lot of one-eyed gators around."

  Wilder smiled. "Moot. I like that."

  He almost seemed human, Lucy thought. But then he said, "You have a good afternoon," nodded to Pepper, and walked away to go be a hotshot and get laid with his actor buddy in Savannah.

  Well, she'd warned him off Althea and tipped him to his unpopularity. She'd done all she could. The bastard.

  "I really like J.T.," Pepper said.

  Lucy watched him climb into the car, torn between wanting to kill him and just wanting him. "Yeah," she said, "he's a peach."

  Gloom came to stand beside her. "You okay?"

  "Why wouldn't I be okay?" Lucy snapped.

  Gloom sighed. "Well, at least this time you fell for a good one."

  "I have not fallen for anybody," Lucy said and walked away before she betrayed herself again.

  The sun was setting as Wilder leaned his head against the leather rest and Bryce took a corner a little too fast. The day so far had been a bust. Bryce had driven around in circles—literally—as Savannah seemed filled with parks right in the middle of where the road was supposed to go. Plus, traffic was a bitch, and not for the first time Wilder felt slightly better about having a job where a commute meant a C-130 Hercules cargo-plane ride that ended in a parachute drop, even if the landings were always a bit dicey.

  They weren't the only ones lost; a gray Ford sedan had been behind them off and on all afternoon. If Bryce had been a master spy, Wilder would have worried, but as it was, he figured the sedan was just as confused by Savannah as Bryce was.

  The bar Bryce finally picked was a dive two blocks away from the waterfront, a place Wilder would never have gone into. But he was tired of driving around in circles and feeling bad about Althea. The right thing to do would have been to come clean: Hey, buddy, your girl was in my bed when I got there, so I screwed her brains out, but I didn't know she was yours, so no harm, no foul, right? Yeah, that would make things better.

  He went into the bar with Bryce.

  It wasn't a biker dive or he wouldn't have let Bryce go through the door. More a locals-only dive, since everyone in the place gave them the once-over as they walked in. He steered Bryce toward a booth, but Bryce had his mind set differently, and one thing Wilder had learned was that it was hard to redirect Bryce's train of thought once the tracks were laid.

  "Let's sit at the bar."

  Bad idea, Wilder thought, but kept his mouth shut. Everyone was giving him shit for saying things were wrong, and then there was Althea. Bryce parked himself in the middle of the U-shaped bar, loudly pulling out one of the bar stools and straddling it. Wilder slid around the stool to Bryce's left, careful not to jostle the fat man on the next perch. He didn't like the position, but anyplace at the bar put his back to some part of the room. He wished they could go someplace a little more upscale and better populated with women, since he wouldn't be seeing Althea naked again. After all, what was the point of being out with a moderately famous actor with a toy car if you couldn't be his wingman?

  Or we could go back to the set, he thought, although the only thing there was Armstrong bitching at him, so what was the point? Although she'd been worried about him, too—

  "Hey," Bryce said.

  The bartender had been ignoring them to let them know they weren't accorded the same status as the regulars. Wilder expected this, but Bryce was apparently from a different place. Pluto, maybe, Wilder thought as Bryce slapped his hand on the bar.

  "Barkeep."

  Who the hell uses that word? Wilder wondered as everyone in hearing distance turned and looked once more.

  The bartender was a big guy with white hair and didn't look very happy to be on his feet. He slowly shuffled the short distance from where had been lounging, reading a newspaper.

  "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 fig
ured 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—

  Bryce was making strange, squeaking noises in Doofus Two's grasp. Was Two trying to hug Bryce to death?

  Wilder moved forward, short controlled steps, and Thin Man slashed the blade across his front, more a threatening preparation for attack than an attempt to actually cut, which meant Thin Man knew nothing about real fighting. Wilder went low, his left arm blocking the knife arm up and out of the way as he side kicked right into the front of Thin Man's closest knee.

  The sound of the knee snapping backward froze everyone in the bar. Thin Man's scream cut through the silence as he collapsed, but Wilder had already turned. He hit Doofus Two, who had not yet registered that he was now the Lone Ranger, a bare-knuckle shot in the temple.

  Wilder had to give Doofus Two credit: He let go of Bryce, who staggered back to the bar, but he didn't collapse. He slowly turned toward Wilder, rage competing with near unconsciousness on his face.

  Drop, Wilder thought.

  Doofus Two raised his huge arms and took a step toward Wilder. Was that the only move he knew? Wilder wondered. He backed up a step and Doofus Two came forward a step.

  Drop, asshole.

  He didn't.

  Bryce jumped on Doofus Two's back, his arm snaking around his shoulders, trying to get a chokehold, except his arms were too short and Doofus Two was too wide. Bryce was doing it all wrong, but damn, he was doing it.

  Wilder went in for his wingman. He hit Doofus Two with the knife edge of his left hand right across the throat, holding back the blow so he wouldn't crush the larynx and make him drown in his own blood, but hard enough to cause extreme pain and make him think about other things for a while.

  Doofus Two wen
t to his knees, his gasping mixed with the muted screams coming from Thin Man, who was curled in a ball, hands wrapped around his destroyed knee. Bryce let go and staggered back, as shocked as everyone else.

  Wilder checked out the bar, now stunned into silence. The bartender had not moved. He had not brought a weapon out from under the bar. He was watching, eyes dead. Wilder nodded at him and tilted his head toward the door. The bartender nodded in return and tilted his head also. Wilder peeled another hundred off his roll and slapped it on the bar.

  "Let's go." Wilder didn't wait for Bryce to acknowledge, just grabbed his arm and hustled him out the door, grateful the Glock was still in its holster and all its bullets were still in the magazine, including the one in the chamber. Men. Fucking assholes. Over nothing. Nothing.

  "That was un-freaking-believable," Bryce gushed on an adrenaline high as Wilder pushed him toward the Porsche. "Did you see that guy go down?"

  I put him down, Wilder thought as he unlocked the car doors. Of course I saw him.

  "I mean, what was the move you did?" Bryce asked. "Could you—"

  "Shut up." Wilder held a hand up to emphasize the two words while he put the other on the car roof to steady himself.

  Even Bryce could see that the hand in front of his face was shaking. "You all right?"

  No. Wilder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yeah."

  "You don't look okay. I didn't even see you get hit."

  "I didn't get hit. I maimed a guy for life."

  "But he—"

  "I know he was an asshole, and I know they started it, but it doesn't change what I did." Wilder opened his eyes, took his hand off the car roof, and handed the keys to Bryce. "You drive. And don't tell anyone what happened."

  "I'm going to have to tell Lucy," Bryce said, raising a hand to his face.

  "No, you are not—" Wilder broke off as he saw Bryce's face, the entire right side red from being mashed into Doofus Two's chest.

  "I'm sorry," Bryce said.

  "Get in the car," Wilder said. "Just get in the car."

  When they stopped shooting for second meal that night, Lucy took the shuttle back to her camper and collapsed into one of the blue swivel chairs, exhausted from wrangling people into shooting stupid scenes while keeping an eye on Daisy so she wouldn't pop any pills. Pepper's Wonder Woman loot was spread out on the table, the Kingdom Come action figure standing in the middle of it all, looking determined, rope in hand. Lasso of Truth. That would be good. She could think of several people she'd like to tie up and ask a few pointed questions. Connor. Daisy. Finnegan.