“Like a Tyrannosaurs Rex.” I laughed in his face. “Oh, I’m sorry…” I gestured at his men. “Was I supposed to be intimidated?”

“Everybody knows the sun is setting on MHI.” Armstrong folded his arms. “But I didn’t come over here to trade barbs, hotshot. I’ve got something for you. Mr. Durant, if you would…” He stepped out of his way and Ultimate Fighter took his place.

I sized him up. He was much smaller than I was, but this dude was cut, and judging from the videos, not somebody you wanted to tangle with. “So, I’m guessing you’re supposed to be PT’s tough guy.”

He handed me an envelope. I took it without even thinking. “Everyone needs a hobby. I happen to enjoy competitive mixed martial arts. However, as a member of the bar, I’m also Paranormal Tactical’s legal advisor. I’m serving in the latter capacity today.”

He was remarkably well spoken for a man who had choked Cooper unconscious. “You’re an attorney?” I opened the envelope, looked inside, read, blinked, reread, and still couldn’t believe my eyes. “This is a restraining order…”

“Oh, you thought that you were the only ones that could call in favors on short notice. Last month we helped out a judge with a bad case of hobgoblins.” Ultimate Lawyer nodded at the other PT men. “You’ve been served in front of witnesses. Since we now fear for our safety, any MHI staff that was involved with last night’s altercation are required to stay at least one hundred yards from any employee of Paranormal Tactical Consulting at all times. The lawsuit paperwork for the injuries sustained by our employees during your company’s reckless and negligent rampage will be delivered to your Alabama office by certified mail.”

The order looked legitimate. It even had each of our involved Hunters’ names on it, except for Holly, because she’d managed to avoid getting arrested. I couldn’t believe this. Slugging each other was one thing, but lawyers? That was just plain nasty. “You son of a bitch.”

“One hundred yards, Pitt. Better start walking,” Armstrong suggested.

“You haven’t seen me shoot, asshole,” I muttered. “You should’ve asked for a thousand.”

He started to say something else, but luckily another person interrupted our conversation. “Owen Zastava Pitt?” A thin, tanned-as-leather young man pushed past the three PT goons. “Is that you?” He sounded Australian.

“That’s me.” I shook his hand with my right while I crumpled the restraining order in my left, glaring at Armstrong.