“Maybe you should invite them down for a chat."
Fire, shift right, fire, shift right fire, HOO-RA!
“HOLD YOUR FIRE, MARINE”
Two Huskers down, blood pumping from their torsos. Both have their hands on their bellies, as if trying to keep their guts from spilling out. Guns dropped. No more fight in these 2.
Third shot missed a Husker by a hair. Blew a window open. Glass crash.
Rollins (goatee) stares at the downed Huskers in shock, and then raises his eyes toward Cutter.
“Cocksucker”, he says, dumbfounded.
Then screams, as a bullet blows his shiny Mossberg from his hands, missing his man-parts by inches. No, less than inches. Instead the Mossberg drops, and he grabs his shattered hand. At least one finger blown off. Palm wrecked.
Lets out another half-scream, half-moan. Eyes wild now. Just stares at the trio, then at Kate. Doesn’t make a move to retreat the Mossberg.
3 remaining Huskers just stand there, also in shock. Sweating rivers. Scared.
“Well. I do believe that establishes our bargaining position, gentlemen."
“All I wanted was to know if you knew one boy by the name of Ronnie Junior, but I hope you're more interested in picking up your boys and going home now."
As he mentions Ronnie Jr. Frank scans the audience. Husker, husker, husker, Goatee, husker. Wait, back up. Husker #2. He knows the name, Frank can tell. He knows something. Frank catches the recognition in the behemoth’s pig-like eyes. Good enough for now.
No one says anything; finally, Rollins looks at his Huskers. “Let’s go.” He says, trying his d**ndest to sound tough. Not scared. Not in pain. In control of the situation.
Doesn’t work. He sounds whiny, and in severe pain.
Eyes still on Kate, Cutter, and Frank, the group begins backing out of the bar. Huskers lift and drag their 2 fallen comrades. One looks like he’s not going to make it. Eyes rolled in back off head. Bleeding profusely. So much blood. Other one moans, as he’s dragged out.
“This ain’t over” Rollins hisses at them. Leaves. Few seconds go by. They here truck ignitions starting.
Cutter yawns. Not from boredom. Trying to unclench his jaw.
But not for long.
BANG. Cutter down. Shot from staircase. They look. Fat man,using staircase for cover. Firing a SiG of his own.
About to fire again.
Shotgun blasts through ceiling. Big hole. Sparks fly.
Crunch-Crunch. Shot-gun reloaded.
Cutter slides down bar. Shoulder wound, maybe even the plastic arm side, Frank notices in a split second. He’ll live.