The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) Read Online Free Page B

There would be consequences.
    But so what?
    What had he done wrong?
    Nothing.
    He was just passing through town, and he wanted something to eat and a place to lay his head. That was all.
    His table was next to another that accommodated four men. Milton gauged them automatically, like he did with everyone. They were dressed in expensive outdoor gear that would, he assessed, have been out of the reach of the local hunters and fishermen. Their hands looked clean and smooth and free of the calluses that he had noticed on the hands of the drinkers at the bar. Their table, away from the regulars, marked them as from out of town, too. Milton had seen an expensive Jeep in the parking lot adjacent to the bar, and he pegged it now as theirs. They were drinking heavily, finishing a round of beers before, one of them, a big blond man with a soft gut and mean eyes, called out to the bar that they wanted another. His voice was loud and unpleasant, slurred from all the drink that he had evidently consumed. The barman exchanged a look with one of his regulars and Milton wondered whether he would refuse to serve them. That might have been interesting. He didn’t, though, bringing over another four pints and taking away their money.
    The blond man was sitting next to a redhead wearing a black and red chequered lumberjack shirt. The shirt was fresh and laundered, probably bought for a hundred bucks from Macy’s. He was skinny, his skin a brilliant white, and his skin was marked with a constellation of freckles. “I’ve got to piss,” Milton heard him say.
    He watched as he slowly raised himself to his feet and began to negotiate the short distance from his table to the restroom. Milton’s table was between the man and his destination. The man rolled to the right and then to the left, as if he was on the deck of a ship in high seas, and then tripped, stumbling forwards two steps before falling onto Milton, bouncing off his shoulder and falling across the table.
    “Are you all right?” Milton asked, reaching out a hand to help the man to his feet.
    “You fucking tripped me,” the man drawled, his eyes unfocussed through slit-like lids.
    “No,” Milton said. “You fell. And now I’m helping you up.”
    He left his hand out. The man swept it away.
    Milton told himself to be calm. “All right,” he said. “No problem.”
    “No problem?” The man pushed himself onto unsteady feet, swaying from side to side. “I haven’t got a problem, friend. You’ve got a problem.”
    Milton stood and took a careful step back to give himself a full range of movement.
    He saw, through the corner of his eye, that the sheriff was watching.
    He raised his hands. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “All right? It was an accident. You’re fine. I’m fine. No harm done. Let’s just leave it at that.”
    The man squared his shoulders, still rolling. “What if I don’t want to leave it at that?”
    “It would be better if you did.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    Milton watched the man’s friends behind him. The blond man, the biggest, had pushed himself to his feet and had taken a step away from the table. He was even bigger than Milton had initially assumed: six foot six and surely three hundred pounds, as big as an offensive lineman, a little blubbery, but that cruel streak in his eyes was unmistakeable. A bully, used to dominating others because he was bigger than they were. The other two looked less interested in getting involved although they, too, had risen to their feet. One for all and all for one, Milton guessed, especially when they were drunk.
    “I said, is that a threat?”
    “No. It’s not a threat. I just don’t see why this needs to go any further.”
    Milton knew there had been moments in his life where, when presented with a choice of direction, the other route would have led to an easier path.
    A career in the law rather than in the army.
    Staying in the infantry rather than applying to join the SAS.
    Staying in the SAS