I wasn’t expecting trouble when I pulled off the highway. It was meant to be a quick stopover for dinner.

The neon sign shining in the distance simply said: Bar. To the point. No fuss. A sign above the entrance claimed: Best burger in town. I had been on the road for ten hours – so long as they had buns with meat inside, I didn’t really care. But what town? It was the middle of nowhere.

The joint was a flat wooden structure, standing by itself, just east of the border between Utah and Nevada. Another 150 miles to my destination – Little Butte, Nevada. A little over two hours. Not many vehicles on the highway.

I got out of my pickup and stretched. It was a cool, early April evening. Just about getting dark. The crunch of my cowboy boots on gravel filled the quiet evening as I walked towards the entrance.

The inside of the joint was as lacking in personality as the name on the sign outside. A rectangular set up with tables laid out along three walls. Tables with chairs, not booths. The fourth wall had a bar, with a door on each side – one leading to the kitchen, the other to the restrooms. There was a jukebox beside the restroom door. Didn’t look like it worked.

The place was practically empty. That suited me fine. I’m not what folks call a “people person”.

There were two men at the bar. The one with a bored look was the bartender. He clearly didn’t give a hoot about the troubles the drunk was trying to share with him.

As I entered, the waitress standing beside the kitchen door looked up from her phone. Late thirties, pleasant face, bored look. Doing this a long time? Maybe too long.

I asked for the table in the far corner. Slightly hidden by the jukebox, but with a clear view of the entrance and the entire place. Restricting the directions of approach. It had become second nature – identifying positions of dominance in any terrain. I wasn’t expecting trouble. But doesn’t hurt to be watchful. Second nature.

“Take your pick. Not exactly rush hour,” the waitress replied with a wry smile.

She was efficient. My drink was in front of me within three minutes. A double shot of bourbon. Spreading a map on the table, I studied the remainder of the route. I folded the map when the waitress appeared again with my burger.

She had just returned to her spot by the kitchen door when the main door was flung open. A hulk of a man occupied the frame. At least six feet five. Close to 300 pounds. The kind of man who doesn’t go down with a single bullet.

I could see trouble written all over him. In large letters. I’ve spent years dealing with lowlifes – from terrorists during my days as a special forces Ranger to drug runners and gangsters as a US marshal.

I knew the tell-tale signs. There hadn’t been any warning of the man’s arrival – no sound of any vehicle pulling in. He didn’t look the walking type – he surely hadn’t trekked to that joint out in the boondocks. Must have parked his wheels at a distance and walked over. You wouldn’t do that if your intentions were noble.

The hulk had a phone in his right hand. He glanced at it briefly as he stepped in, before pushing it back into his pocket. He held his left hand slightly crookedly over his loose shirt. Definitely a shotgun inside the shirt.

He was followed by another man. About my height – a couple of inches over six feet. But wiry, at least 25 pounds lighter than my 200. He seemed jumpy. Dilated pupils. Possibly high on meth.

I groaned. I was on a tight time frame. Places I was meant to be. Urgent matters to be dealt with. I didn’t have time for messing with lowlifes.

“Where’s Mitch?” the hulk asked the bartender.

“No idea, buddy. I haven’t seen him for a few days,” the bartender tried to sound friendly, but couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.

The hulk suddenly placed his hand on the side of the bartender’s head and banged it down on the bar. It was fast. Unexpected. The drunk almost fell off his stool and moved away.

“You lie again, I crush your skull. I know he was here today,” the hulk shouted. He took out his shotgun. A 12-gauge double barrel. Sawed off. Could be really messy in that enclosed space.

The drunk began edging towards the door. The wiry guy took out a Glock tucked inside the back of his jeans.

“No one’s going anywhere today,” he almost sounded excited.

The underlying threat of the words did not register on the drunk. He kept edging away. Without another word, the wiry guy shot him in the chest. The waitress screamed as the man collapsed.

“What the f… Stop shooting, you damned junkie. We don’t kill anyone until we get Mitch,” the hulk yelled at the wiry man.

“I was aiming for the shoulder… But he was part of Mitch’s crew. I’ve seen him dealing,” the junkie replied in a whiny tone, trying to justify himself.

The shot man twitched and went still. The waitress screamed again. The hulk butted her face with the shotgun. That really made my blood boil.

“Shut up,” he yelled at her.

The waitress whimpered. Her nose and upper lip had turned bloody. But she shut up, sobbing quietly.

“Who’s in the kitchen?” the hulk yelled at her again.

“Just the cook,” she replied, her voice quivering.

“You,” he motioned to his partner, “get the cook here. And check that the back entrance is locked.”

A few seconds later, the man returned with the cook. The hulk made the bartender, waitress and cook line up against the wall.

Their attention was focused on the bar area until then. They hadn’t yet noticed me sitting in the corner. Clearly not professionals. Just thugs with guns.

I sipped my drink, weighing my options, my mind in combat mode. I realized they wouldn’t stop once they found their guy Mitch. They were there to kill. They wouldn’t be leaving any witnesses.

I wasn’t carrying a gun. But I did have the boot knives in the inbuilt sheaths in my cowboy boots. Those discreetly sheathed blades had seen me get out of many tough spots.

I raised each leg of my jeans one after the other, tugged each behind the sheath. That gave me quick access to the knives. Reapr 11002 Tac boot knives. The 4.8-inches doubled-edged blade of the tactical knife was deadly at close range. The symmetrical weight distribution made it good for throwing at a target as well. It didn’t have the kill factor of the 7-inch blade of the Fairbairn-Sykes we used to swear by as Army Rangers. But a fair compromise when on the move.

Two knives against two armed men, one with a shotgun. Not great odds. Especially with that distance between us.

Knives are deadly at close range. Can be deadlier than guns – if you know how to use them. But I would have to use them creatively. Maim, not kill. Killing would be easy once the targets were within reach. But there would be too much hassle to deal with later. I was a man on a mission, didn’t have time for paperwork.

I just needed to incapacitate them. For that, I needed them closer. Take them out one at a time. Violently and painfully. Not just because they deserved it. It was simply a matter of surprise – that would be my main advantage. It makes guys freeze. That’s what I needed. Strike first. And hard. Not give them a chance to react. Put them down. Fast. And be on my way.

I kept my drink on the table for a few seconds. Flexed my wrists and neck, got the circulation going. I hadn’t touched the burger yet. Pushing the plate to a side, I picked the drink again.

It was then that the wiry guy spotted me. He jumped with nervous energy.

“Whoa… can you believe this guy?”

He swaggered towards me. Stood in front of the jukebox, gun pointing towards the floor. But still beyond my reach. The hulk standing near the bar had the shotgun pointed in my direction. But he didn’t have a clear shot – the wiry man was between me and the shotgun. Definitely not professionals.

“Excuse me, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” the wiry man addressed me in a mocking tone.

Funny guy. I needed him closer.

“Now that you mention it, I did plan to have my dinner in peace,” I replied.

“Oh, so sorry to be disturbing your dinner. And who might you be?” the man asked.

“Nobody. Just a man having his dinner.”

“Well, Mr Nobody, what are you doing here?”

“Minding my own business,” I replied, keeping the glass down.

“Hey, we have a smartass here,” the man called out to his partner.

Then he moved forward, stood in front of me, and lined the gun on me.

“Would you like some lead with your dinner,” he asked, an evil grin on his face, revealing rotting teeth.

I wasn’t happy with the meth head pointing his gun on me. But I finally had him exactly where I wanted.

“Don’t push it, pal. You’ve got no beef with me. You don’t want to be doing this.” I couldn’t help menace entering my voice. A slightly confused look appeared on his face.

“Get him over here,” the hulk shouted.

The man looked back towards the hulk. Bad move.

I rose explosively from my chair, grabbing his wrist with one hand, and the gun along with his trapped trigger finger with the other. I twisted the gun forcefully outward and upward. There were almost simultaneous cracks of bones snapping as his trigger finger broke, followed by his wrist – the proximal phalanx of the index finger, followed by the radius bone. The man yelped.

I needed to keep the gun out of the equation. If I tried shooting at the hulk, I and the wiry guy would be splattered with shotgun blast. But if I didn’t have a gun, the hulk wouldn’t use the shotgun with his partner in the way. I needed to stay unarmed and keep the junkie between us – standing, not flat on the ground.

Flinging the gun under the table, I slammed the man’s broken wrist onto the table – hand flat, palm facing up. I grabbed the knife and slammed it hard through his palm. 4.8 inches of razor-sharp steel sliced through bone and flesh and got firmly embedded in the wood of the table, impaling his hand. At the same time, I pushed him slightly away and smashed my knee upwards in a roundhouse motion, just below the back of his elbow. There was a sickening crunch as ligaments and bones snapped. The other end of his radius bone broke out through his skin. The elbow got bent at a crooked angle. The man howled in agony.

In four seconds, the man went from an armed threat to a broken, contorted mess. He was still standing but completely immobile – palm glued to the table, elbow stuck at a crooked angle. Even a shiver sent ripples of pain through his body.

One down, one to go.

The hulk had remained frozen for those four seconds. Then he came to life. He aimed the shotgun in my direction but found his partner in the way. He decided to charge. Exactly what I wanted.

I pulled out the other knife and threw it at him. 4.8 inches of razor-sharp double-edged blade sunk in just below his right shoulder bone, getting buried to the hilt in flesh and muscle, slicing through nerves and blood vessels. The shotgun fell from his hand.

I leaped forward, placed my hand on a table for leverage, and swung a mighty kick, the entire momentum of my body behind it. The steel capped toe of my cowboy boot hit him just below the chin, snapping his head back forcefully.

That kick would have knocked most men out. The hulk staggered back a couple of steps and was reeling, but still standing. Before he could recover, I kicked the shotgun away and, in a fluid motion, grabbed his wrist, stepped under his shoulder, twisted his arm, raised it, and pulled it down with force upon my own shoulder. The back of his arm above the elbow stopped at my shoulder, the rest of his arm below the elbow came crashing down. There was a loud crack as the elbow snapped and got bent at a crooked 90 degrees angle. The broken ends of the radius and ulna bones broke through the skin and stuck out. The man bellowed in pain. But he was still standing.

I took a step back and kicked him hard on the knee, the wooden heel of my boot pushing the top of his kneecap back into bone and soft tissue, rupturing ligaments and tendons, turning his knee to jelly. He flopped down. As he started falling, I swung my forearm and hit him on the side of his neck, on the brachial plexus, the network of nerves carrying signals from the spinal cord to the arms. His arms went limp. A hard kick on his temple completely knocked him out.

Twelve seconds. Both targets down.

I pulled my knife out of the man’s shoulder, wiped the blood off on his shirt, and sheathed it. I went through his pockets and took out his phone. It was one those fingerprint unlocking phones. I was curious about what he was looking at when he entered. I pressed his right thumb on the home button to unlock it. There was a man’s photo on the screen. Taken inside the bar. At a side angle – the man in the photo didn’t seem to be aware he was being clicked. He looked like a regular clean-cut guy. I set the phone to permanent unlock and kept it in my pocket.

I turned towards the wiry man, who was still standing at a crooked angle. He whimpered as I moved towards him. He screamed when I pulled out the knife, wiped it on his shirt, and put it back in the sheath on the other boot. While I was deciding how to knock him out, he passed out and dropped to the floor. Nothing in his pockets but a few dollars and an eight-ball of ice. As I suspected, he was a meth head. I shoved them back in his pocket.

The three spectators were simply staring at me. Motionless.

I went to the waitress and examined her nose. It wasn’t broken. I grabbed a handful of napkins, poured some water on them, and dabbed her nose and split lips.

“Hold it for a while. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice trembling. “Are they dead?”

“No. Maybe I should’ve killed them.”

“Yes. Maybe you should have,” she replied, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and anger.

“Maybe I should have,” I agreed, nodding. “But homicide becomes complicated. Even though scum like these two make it almost worth it. But don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.”

She nodded.

“Who were these guys,” I asked her.

“I’ve never seen them before,” she replied.

“And who’s this Mitch they were after?”

“Mitch Martin. He sort of owns this place. But he’s not around much. Comes and goes,” she replied.

I took out the hulk’s phone from my pocket and showed her the man’s photo.

“Is this Mitch?”

“Yes.”

“This was in that big guy’s pocket. Why were they after him?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked at the bartender. I turned to him.

“Why were these guys after Mitch?” I asked him.

“Uh… I don’t know.”

“You do realize why that hulk was carrying the photo? He wasn’t looking for a chat with your boss. They were here to get him. And they weren’t going to leave any witnesses. All of you would have been collateral damage – dead.”

There was a look of alarm on their faces.

“I know. Thanks for saving our asses. I really mean it, man,” he replied.

“Chuck your thanks. Just tell me why these guys were here. They’d have killed me as well had I not put them down.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Honest. Maybe it’s about meth. Mitch has been dealing for a while. He said it would bring customers.”

“Did it?”

“What?”

“Get customers in?”

“Not many. Mostly some lowlifes we didn’t really want here,” he looked at the dead man as he spoke. “And bikers.”

“You serve them biker’s coffee? Spike it with meth?”

“No… honest. They come in only when Mitch is around.”

“Where was Mitch getting the stuff from?”

“I’m not sure. From across the border. Some big set up in Nevada. They’re flooding it all over Utah, New Mexico, Arizona… most of the west, really.”

“Where in Nevada?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Are you DEA?”

“What do you think,” I asked, irritation creeping into my voice.

“I don’t know. Umm… I don’t think so.”

“Then why ask dumb questions? So, where in Nevada?”

“I don’t know, man. It’s not as if I’m dealing myself.”

“There’s some big set up north of Vegas,” the waitress spoke up. “I heard Mitch on the phone. But no idea where.”

“How about you?” I asked the bartender. “Where exactly north of Vegas? I’m sure you know.”

“Honest, I don’t know much. But Mitch has connections in a bar in a place called Little Butte. He goes there a lot. They deal in that shit there. I really don’t know more than that.”

“Little Butte?” I was more than a little surprised. That was where I was headed.

“Some little dot on the map, man.”

“Is that place called Bar as well?”

“No, man, that anonymity is just for us,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “That place is called Dawson Bar.”

“Give me Mitch’s number. He’ll be hearing from me if I run into his pals again.”

He reluctantly gave me the number. I had all the information I needed.

“Alright, now here’s the deal. I’ll be locking the three of you in the washroom,” I addressed all three.

“But…”

“Don’t talk. Listen carefully if you want to stay alive. These two will have pals who might come looking for them. But you’ll have the cops arriving here before that. You need to have a story for the cops, so those other guys don’t come after you.”

They nodded.

“Now, here’s the story,” I said. “These two guys came, shot that man, and locked you in the restroom. After that, you’ve no idea what happened. You just heard some voices and a struggle. Let the cops make what they will out of it. Got it?”

All three stared at me.

“You need to tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” all three replied at the same time.

“You better not mention me. You don’t want these guys’ pals breaking your bones to get more info about me. Best to stick to the story that you saw nothing.”

They nodded.

“Where’s the key to the restroom door?”

The waitress took it out of a pocket and handed it to me.

“All of you, inside the restroom,” I said, herding them in.

They complied without a whimper.

“Remember, you’re lucky to be alive. Stay that way. Call 911 once I lock the door. And stay away from this place after the cops have hauled these two away.”

They nodded.

“What if they wake up?” the waitress asked.

“They won’t. Not for a while. And when they do, they’ll have to be carried out. Neither of them is going to be hurting anyone for a long time. Trust me.”

She nodded. Looked convinced.

“Who are you?” the waitress asked.

“Nobody. Just a ghost.”

I locked the door, wiped the key, put the hulk’s prints on it, and put it in his pocket. Then I set about removing any traces of my presence.

The broken man lying next to my table was beginning to come round, groaning in a half-conscious state. I kicked him on the side of his head and put him back to sleep. I picked the Glock from under the table, wiped my prints off, got the man’s prints on the gun, and flung it below a table in the far corner. I threw the shotgun in the same corner. Neither of the two would be visible if either one of the men came round before the cops arrived. Even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to do much apart from waiting to be carried out.

The last thing I did was to pick the burger plate using a napkin and place it on the bar. I was still hungry. Decided to grab the burger.

Then I walked out, taking a huge bite. Got in my pickup and began driving.