Six Against One
“Walk away. This ain’t your business.”
Brett Kane said it without raising his voice.
That was what made it frightening.
The Doyle Fuel Station was almost empty that evening. The sun had dropped behind the buildings on Fifth Street, leaving the parking lot washed in the last dull orange light of sunset. One fluorescent lamp above the convenience-store entrance flickered every few seconds, attracting moths and making the cracked pavement look even more broken than it really was.
An old motorcycle stood beside pump number four.
A 1959 Harley-Davidson Panhead.
The chrome was worn in places. The black paint had tiny scars around the tank. The leather seat had been repaired more than once.
But it was still beautiful.
And the six young men surrounding it knew exactly what it was worth.
The old man standing beside the bike knew that too.
His name was Walter Doyle.
Most people who knew him called him Iron Walt.
Tonight, however, nobody seemed interested in his name.
Brett stepped closer.
“Eight grand, this bike,” he said. “Maybe ten.”
Cody kicked the rear tire.
The Panhead rocked slightly.
Walter's jaw tightened.
“Take your foot off my motorcycle.”
Cody laughed.
“You heard him. Grandpa wants his toy back.”
The others laughed with him.
Six men.
One old biker.
Walter looked around the parking lot.
There were no customers at the pumps.
No traffic stopping.
No store employee coming outside.
The nearest security camera pointed toward the convenience-store entrance rather than the far side of the lot.
Walter knew exactly what kind of situation this was.
He had seen it before.
A group of young men testing how much cruelty they could get away with.
Brody Kane, Brett's older brother, held a rusted pipe wrench in one hand.
“You should've just minded your business, old man.”
Walter looked at him.
“I did.”
Brody frowned.
“Then why are you talking?”
“Because you made it my business.”
Brody stepped forward.
The wrench tapped against his palm.
Behind him, Jesse and Cody spread out.
Walter counted them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
His left knee hurt.
It had hurt for eleven years, ever since a ladder slipped beneath him while he was repairing a roof.
His right shoulder wasn't what it used to be.
His ribs had never fully recovered from a motorcycle accident in Oklahoma twenty-seven years earlier.
But he had survived worse.
Much worse.
What bothered him was not the six men.
It was the elderly stranger they had already knocked to the pavement.
The man was probably seventy.
Maybe older.
He had been carrying a paper bag from the store when Brett shoved him down.
Now he lay beside the curb, blood running from a cut above his eyebrow.
Walter looked at him.
The old man's eyes were open.
Terrified.
“Help me, please.”
Those four words changed the temperature of the entire parking lot.
Walter looked back at Brody.
“You boys have had enough.”
Brody smiled.
“Or what?”
Walter didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He had spent most of his life learning that some warnings only worked if you meant them.
But before he could move, something caught his attention.
A young woman was walking past the entrance.
She stopped.
She had a grocery bag in one hand.
Grease stained her forearms.
A small adjustable wrench stuck out of the back pocket of her jeans.
She looked at the six men.
Then at the old man.
Then at Walter.
For a moment, she did nothing.
Walter knew what she was thinking.
Every decent person thought the same thing in a situation like this.
I should keep walking.
Then the girl put down the grocery bag.
She looked toward the ground.
Her eyes found a bicycle chain lying near the dumpster.
She picked it up.
Walter almost smiled.
Almost.
The girl wrapped the chain around her hand.
Brett saw her.
“Get back in your car, girl.”
She didn't move.
Brody turned.
“What are you looking at?”
She swallowed.
Her name was Casey Marlo.
She was twenty-six years old.
She worked at an auto repair shop.
She lived with her grandmother.
She had forty-one dollars and some change in her wallet.
And she had absolutely no idea that in the next eight seconds, her life would change forever.
Brody raised the wrench.
Casey moved first.
She threw her water bottle.
It struck the back of Brody's head.
He staggered.
Six heads turned toward her.
For one second, the entire parking lot went silent.
Then Brett charged.
Casey stepped inside his swing.
Her shoulder drove into his ribs.
The plastic chair in his hand dropped and cracked against the pavement.
Cody grabbed her arm.
She twisted.
The bicycle chain snapped across his shins.
He collapsed.
Two down.
Four standing.
Brody recovered.
The wrench came swinging toward Casey's head.