With every door slamming shut, Sam threw his head back, the top of his skull crashing into Alan’s nose, the blow scattering both of their brains. In the painful daze that immediately followed, and with Alan still tightly grasping his arms, Sam shifted his weight back onto Alan and lifted both feet, planting them against the wall, and pushed as hard as he could.

The two men toppled backwards, with the base of Alan’s spine connecting with a wooden table. With Sam’s weight on top of him, Alan lost his balance, as well as his grip on Sam, and they crashed through the table. Sam ensured he landed on Alan, crushing the man between his considerable frame and the wood below. As they hit the ground, Sam rolled backwards, free of Alan’s grasp, and stumbled lazily to his feet. He headed for the door, knowing he had a good ten seconds or so before a guy like Alan would be good to go again.

Was it enough to get away?

Unfortunately for Sam, the sound of a shotgun being cocked told him he wouldn’t find out. Slowly, Sam raised his hands, his fractured wrist throbbing with agony, and he turned to the bar. The owner, who had been so welcoming, was now standing ten feet from him, the shotgun pulled to his shoulder, and his finger on the trigger.

‘Sorry, son.’ The owner spoke, his words laced with regret. ‘You can give those Riders hell for all I care, but I can’t sit by and let you assault a government official.’

‘You don’t understand…’ Sam said, trying to catch his breath.

‘I don’t need to.’ The owner nodded to Alan, who was pulling himself to his feet with a face like thunder. ‘This man works for our country. I’ll side with him every day of the week.’

Alan finally stood, stretching out his back, and then dusted down his suit trousers. With the back of his wrist, he wiped the blood from his eyebrow and then nodded at the owner.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The owner nodded, proud to serve his country. Despite the inconvenience, Sam could understand the feeling. He’d fought for his country for over a decade, and he knew first-hand the respect that commanded. And despite his bullish nature, Joe Alan was a good man, fighting for what was right.

But something still felt wrong?

‘We doing this again?’ Alan asked with a smirk.

‘I don’t think you could handle another round,’ Sam retorted. The owner shot a glance at both men, clearly perplexed. Despite the nature of the situation, and the commitment both men had to their own cause, neither man was the enemy.

They were just on other sides of the fight.

Recognising the respect that had grown between the two of them, Sam shuffled to the nearest barstool and lifted himself onto it. Alan lowered his fists.

‘Can I get a beer, please?’