Chapter 55

"I…am a hooker."

Eight times out of ten, that excuse worked. Owen seriously did not want to be affiliated with these people in way, shape, or form. Hopefully this would get them off his back.

"...oh. Sorry." Captain Yasser put the cash back in his pocket. "I don't swing that way. Got a wife."

"Oh, don't worry, me neither. I do women. I guess your friend had some complaints?" Owen gestured at Bernard, which caused everyone else to turn to him.

"Huh?" Bernard snapped toward Captain. "Huh? Huh?"

Captain Yasser stroked his stubble. "Hmm, I do seem to recall a woman being involved. Bernard, don't tell me you begged a captain that wasn't your own because of pride?" 

"Woah, woah, woah!" Bernard pointed a finger at Owen, hard. "I just told you—that's the guy! He beat me up! He made a fool of the Lions! Of us! That's why I asked you, Captain."

Captain Yasser stared at him, emotions unable to be read due to his sunglasses. "Look, man, just because you got cucked—"

"This is not what it is about! This dude beat up our people!"

"And didn't plow the college chicks you were looking at?"

See? Perfect excuse. Caused enough disruption to let him sneak out—

"Help a bro out, man. Trust me, he's going to be a pain in our ass!"

Alright, he just called out for his bro. Dammit, okay back-up plan, back-up plan. "Look, can I just hand you a hundred bucks and I can go?"

Captain Yasser looked at him. "I'm rich, so no."

'Dammit.' 

"Okay, how about—"

"Wait." Captain Yasser took a step forward, hand removed from his stubble. "Do I know you?"

Owen blinked twice. "I don't think so."

"Are you sure? I mean…we've seen each other somewhere, right?" Owen shook his head. The captain took another step. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure? Like…maybe we bumped into each other on the street or…?"

"Maybe? I wouldn't remember."

"Oh, come on. Everyone remembers me. The sunglasses and the ring, they're hard to miss. Also, the beard."

"It is a nice beard," Owen admitted.

"See? So you don't know me but I know you." Captain Yasser crossed his arms. "Curious. That idiot Ronaldo would remember."

"Woah, the football player?" 

"It's called soccer," Bernard said.

"No, it's not," both Owen and Yasser corrected. The shock and ensuing silence was deafening.

"Sorry about him," Captain Yasser said. "He's an idiot."

"Yeah, no issue. You always got guys like him around." 

"But I still gotta beat you because pride and public relations and blah, blah, blah." 

"Eh, fair enough. Let's just do this."

Captain Yasser pointed a finger at him. "Cool, cool. Sic him."

The five grunts did as they were ordered and went at him. Two grunts rushed at him first, heavier and stronger and obviously not wanting the others to get in the way. Owen quickly assessed the situation. He knew he was outnumbered, but he also knew he had the advantage of surprise and speed on his side. First, he tossed the drink in his hand at Bernard. That would keep the vengeance-seeking guy wet and busy.

As for the immediate dangers, he did a back-step and dodged the first attacker's punch. For the second grunt and his lunge, Owen sidestepped and delivered a swift elbow strike to the ribs, causing the assailant to stagger into the wall behind him.

The surprise portion of the fight was over. The brief underestimation wouldn't happen again. And so, he ran right at Bernard. Some of the guys pulled at his shirt and tried to bring him back but he was too fast and strong. He tackled Bernard to the ground and delivered a mean punch to his nose, his eyes tearing up, nose bleeding, and effectively silencing him with a single blow. Owen front-flipped and turned back, ready to face the remaining grunts.

These guys weren't ordinary. They were excellently trained. He gauged them to be on the same level as Bernard. However, that was without factoring size, weight, and fighting quirks. Owen squared his shoulders. 

"Oi, you alright?" Captain Yasser asked. He wasn't participating in the fight and glanced at the guy who he struck in the ribs. He was swinging left and right like a dizzy cartoon character. "Hey, come on, the hell are you giving up for?"

The front of the grunt's teeth were bloody. Owen blinked. 'Oh shoot, I forgot to hold back.' 

"Uh, you might want to take him to the hospital. I hit really hard."

"Huh?" Captain Yasser glanced at Owen, then his comrades, one of whom was clutching onto his ribs like they were about to fall off. 

"Rib injuries aren't to be taken lightly—nor are gun injuries. Seriously, you should get him checked out." Owen clenched his fist and all of a sudden his world felt lighter. Adrenaline was pumping through him. Not good. He had to get rid of this. 

Good thing he had a couple body bags to wipe away the excess energy. 

He darted forward—bam! A palm strike to the jaw. He spun on his heel and darted toward the punch of the surprised grunt, slipping past and slamming a fist into his solar plexus. Blood spewed out. He went a little too hard. Again. Dammit, holding back was hard. After so much time away from fighting and facing opponents that were decently strong, he was slipping back into a state of pure violence.

'Hold back, hold back—!' The adrenaline was rushing through his veins. With ghosts, he had to suppress himself in another way. He had to ignore his instincts and focus on rationality due to their strange abilities. But with people, the desire to kill threatened to swallow him. He heard footsteps. His eyes and ears worked in tandem and he rightfully identified the runner as Bernard. 

"Gah!"

The sheer speed of his roundhouse kick was absurd. The turn, the aim, the rotation, and the twist into the kick—it struck Bernard and blasted him past Captain Yasser and into the brick wall.

"No, shit…that speed. No way, you're—ngh!" The captain pulled his arms up and blocked the second roundhouse kick. He ducked under Owen's overhead swing and flung a four-finger strike to his stomach. Owen grabbed his head faster than his hand could move and slammed him into his knee. His glasses nearly shattered. Owen's hands went over to the collar of his jacket and threw him into the brick wall. 

Bam! 

"Ghh!" The captain narrowly avoided the punch to the head and reeled to the left, nearly tripping over his feet. From his pocket, he whipped out a knife. Owen promptly stopped. "Shit, I really didn't expect someone of your calibre to be here." He jerked the knife left and right, his feet spreading. 

'Fast,' Owen thought, observing his stance. Wide and careful and all-encompassing. 'He's adept with knives, eh?' 

He walked forward, unfazed. Well, too bad for the captain. He was trained to dismantle knives.