Ghost Warrior II : Irish Sister

 2007

 2130 Hours
 Irish Rose Tavern
 Outskirts of Refugio, Texas

 

The Irish Rose was alive tonight. The place pulsed with the kind of energy you only got when the weather stayed warm deep into the night, the beer stayed cold, and the music was cut from outlaw cloth. The old barn-turned-bar creaked with history, its rafters shadowed in amber light and streaks of smoke curling upward from hand-rolled cigars and clove cigarettes. Thick with sweat, whiskey, and stories nobody told in the daylight.  Ceiling fans spun slow overhead, stirring the thick, humid air like they were more concerned with aesthetics than airflow.

The jukebox, tucked in the far corner near the apparel alcove, had just kicked into Waylon’s Lonesome, On’ry and Mean. A band—local favorites, tough and twangy—had just taken a smoke break, their guitars propped against amps on the stage at the back. The dancefloor was half-full, a slow circle of two-steppers making the rounds, boots thumping in rhythm on polished old wood.

Three bartenders worked behind the long, gunmetal-gray bar—poured drinks, cracked jokes, dodged flirtations. A waitress threaded between tables with practiced ease, balancing a tray of longnecks and chili fries while another leaned in to take an order, one eye on a biker’s wandering hand.

It was a full house. Locals. Drillers. Ranch hands. A few clean-cut college boys playing pool. Cowboys, ranch hands, oilfield guys, and the occasional Sunday biker mixed like oil and fire—close enough to ignite if someone sparked the wrong flame.  And that spark came from the corner that drew the most attention where there was a group of six bikers. Local MC boys. No colors tonight—they knew the rule. Leave the patches at the door, or don’t walk in. Still, they carried the weight of men who didn’t care for rules. They talked loud. Laughed harder. One of them—tall, broad through the chest, with greasy hair slicked back tight—had drunk past the point of charm. His laugh was sharp, grating.  Big guy. Mid-forties, goatee braided like he thought it gave him authority. His jacket and colors were missing, stashed per house rules, but the tattoos crawling out from under his cutoff shirt sleeves told enough of the story.

The waitress working that side—Ashley, quick with a tray and quicker with a comeback—smiled politely as she leaned in for his empty bottle.

He leered, eyes glazed, grin slanted. “That smile for me, sweetheart, or you just glad to see someone who knows how to treat a real woman?”  Ashley didn’t answer, just straightened and moved to turn. That was his invitation.

He reached out, patted the waitress’s backside as she passed. “Hey, darlin’. Bring that little peach back over here.”

She stiffened. Her eyes flicked to the bouncer, a mountain of a man named Jacob standing near the far wall, who was already in motion.

The cowboy at the next table—a wiry old man with sun-leathered skin and clear blue eyes—leaned back in his chair. “Maybe ease off, big man. Nobody’s impressed.”

The biker turned his head slowly. “What’s that, Grandpa?”

Another biker, younger, leaned in. “Cool it, man. It’s Becca’s place.”

The drunk snorted. “Ain’t scared of no redheaded barmaid.”

And then the door to the office cracked open.

Rebecca Peters stepped out into the heat and sound like she owned the night. Wavy red hair down to her waist, glinting in the dim light like copper soaked in sunlight. Sleeveless black tank, old work jeans, boots scuffed from long days in the saddle. Her eyes scanned the room once, emerald green and calm as a hunting cat’s. She moved like someone who knew every nail in the floor and every man who walked it.

She caught the scene in three seconds flat—the tension in the air, the waitress’s face, the bouncer closing the distance.

She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to.  “You know the rules in my place.”  The words cut the bar in half.  The biker froze mid-laugh.  Rebecca walked forward, each step measured, slow and deadly.  “No colors. No fights. And you treat my team with respect.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it hit like a warning bell. “You’ve had enough to drink. It’s time for you to leave.”

The man stood a little straighter, squinting through beer-slick eyes. “Or what?” he sneered, voice slurring just enough to be dangerous. “You gonna bounce me out in those jeans?”

She didn’t blink. “Step outside, or I’ll help you out.”

He chuckled, spreading his arms mockingly. “Sweetheart, I don’t hit women—”  “Good,” she said. “’Cause I do.”  The bar went dead quiet.

Jacob was ten feet away now, eyes locked on Rebecca’s face. She gave a subtle shake of her head.

Then the man lunged.  She didn’t move at first. Let him commit.  The second his hand snapped out, she stepped inside it like slipping through a door in a burning room. Her left arm came up under his elbow, twisting it in one violent jerk. A pop sounded over the music as the joint dislocated, the arm folding backward like a broken wing.

His mouth opened to scream, but she was already moving.

Her right palm slammed up into his face with the speed of a piston. His nose shattered under the blow, blood erupting in a crimson arc. The biker staggered backward, howling, his feet tangled in the legs of the stool.

Rebecca pivoted. Her leg swept out, low and precise. The inside of her boot hooked behind his calf. He flipped and went horizontal, his back hitting the floor with a thud that silenced the back half of the bar.

He tried to rise, cursing through blood and spit, but Rebecca’s boot caught him square in the ribs and dropped him again with a gasping wheeze. And then she planted her right foot on his throat.  He froze. The fight drained out of him like air from a punctured tire.

Rebecca leaned slightly, applying just enough pressure to force his gaze up to hers.  Her eyes flared—a storm green and lightning sharp. “We done?” He couldn’t answer, just wheezed.  She turned her gaze to the rest of his crew.  “Well?” she asked, calm as Sunday. “Anybody else?”

The other bikers looked at each other. One of them chuckled, held up both hands “Nope. No way, Ms. Becca. He had that comin’.”