Shadows in the Sodium Light

Rebecca pushed through the heavy door. The cold air bit through her thin uniform dress.

“Get away from that bike,” she said. Her hands clamped hard around the cold metal.

The taller man turned, a long screwdriver glinting in his right hand. “Go back inside, girl. Mind your business.”

“It’s my lot,” she said, taking a step onto the cracked asphalt.

A low, steady voice spoke from the shadow of the grease dumpster. “She told you to back off.”

A tall man with silver hair stepped into the yellow light. He wore a scuffed leather jacket, his scarred knuckles relaxed at his sides. He didn’t look at the screwdriver. His gray eyes swept over the faded blue F-150 idling by the curb—taking in the dented rear fender, the missing tailgate, and the fresh mud smeared across the county tags.

“It’s a forty-seven Knucklehead,” the silver-haired man said quietly. He didn’t raise his voice, but the wind seemed to drop around him. “And it belongs to me.”

The taller thief sneered, shifting his weight on the gravel. “Back up, old man, before you get hurt.”

The second thief didn’t say a word. His hand dipped low, sliding beneath the front flap of his coat toward something heavy tucked into his belt.

The guy in the canvas jacket pulled his hand from his pocket, metal glinting under the parking lot light. A long screwdriver, sharp at the tip.

Rooster did not back up, but Rebecca’s pulse hammered in her throat. She thought of Leo breathing softly inside under the booth blanket, and then she thought of this old man taking a spike to the ribs. Her bruised knee throbbed, but she moved anyway.

She stepped past the rear tire, gripped her iron with both hands, and brought it down hard. She missed the man on purpose, slamming the iron into the cracked asphalt inches from his left boot.

Sparks leaped into the air with a loud crack.

The guy jumped backward, spitting a curse. “Crazy bitch!”

“Step away from the bike,” Rebecca said. Her arms vibrated from the blow against the ground, but her voice held steady.

The second thief—the short, stocky one—grabbed Rebecca by the shoulder of her uniform cardigan. Before he could haul her down, Rooster moved. His scarred knuckles drove straight into the stocky guy’s midsection with a heavy thump. The man doubled over, gasping for air, and hit the gravel on his knees.

Across the lot, a diesel engine roared to life.