Title: Hot Pursuit
Author: LadyNRA
Rating: R just in case, for some minor violence and gore
Spoilers: Nothing that fans don't know already
Characters: Artie, Pete, Myka for the most part
Genre: Action/Adventure (more or less)
Disclaimer: The producers and Syfy may own it but Artie is just too much fun to leave inside the Warehouse, so I set him free for a while.
Summary: Artie, Pete and Myka stop at a bar and get into a lot more trouble than they bargained for.
Author's Note: This one is short for me but I decided to follow some prompts from friends and create a quick adventure. I've been wanting to write two scenes involving Artie for a very long time and took this opportunity to do it here. Thanks to Carolyn, Kritchkow, and KJay99 for agreeing with me that these scenes would be fun to see and also huge thanks to KJay for beta reading. The group mentioned in this story is based on a real one (obviously) but the one person's name provided was changed because I wouldn't want these guys pissed off at me
HOT PURSUIT
By LadyNRA
Like any good bar fight, this one was turning out to be a doozy. Chairs were swinging onto broad backs, broken glass was flying everywhere, usually from bottles that had just connected with thick skulls. People were screaming in pain or hollering a variety of four and five letter words, usually those associated with people of loose morals or impossible bodily functions and positions.
The huge neon Budweiser sign that hung behind the bar took a hit by a flying male body and came crashing down spewing shards of glass in all directions.
For a short time the cowboys were winning but only because they had the element of surprise on their side. Initially, the biker guys were just too shocked that the skinny kid in the Stetson was actually taunting them. When the fist caught him under his jaw, he wanted to laugh at the lack of strength in an arm half the diameter of his but the chuckle died on his lips as he slipped on a puddle of beer. "Sacrilege" his mind yelled at the waste of that precious liquid even as his body was propelled backward onto a table that wasn't all that steady under the best of circumstances. As that table came crashing down onto the knees of several other western-shirted locals, they managed to lift the table and send the slumping biker to the floor.
But as with many bikers, this one was not traveling alone. There was a whole cohort of them in the bar that night. Most of them rode older Harleys that had seen a lot of miles on the road under every conceivable weather condition. The one on the floor, sporting a skull emblazoned bandana and a sleeve tat that displayed as many skulls as the bandana, groaned and tried to rise. His progress was ponderous. He was at least three inches over six feet and barrel-chested, with a beer gut that added at least another twenty pounds to his already impressive scale-breaking weight. He looked like a marine gone soft but under the fat was a considerable amount of muscle. Still flat on his back, he utilized that muscle by drawing both of his legs up and proceeded to shove two cowboy's private parts so far up their torsos that both of them thought they were going to cough up the family jewels at any moment.
Tumbling over, retching and moaning, the two local boys called for help in between heaving breaths. They got it. It was the nature of all townie versus stranger brawls.
But the bikers were also a bit too drunk to notice that they were outnumbered. Even if they had noticed such things, they wouldn't have cared. Each outlaw biker, in fights like this, was worth at least two of their weekend riding brethren. For one thing, they didn't care about keeping their faces pretty. Not that they were anything to brag about even in the best of times. And second, they lived for moments like that, to release tension and build their already considerable reps. So the cowboys willing to mix it up numbered about twelve guys but the nine bikers had a bit of an advantage. They were bigger, tougher, and meaner.
It only took seconds for the next round of blows to start raining down and a few additional seconds for everyone else to jump into the melee. The cowboys, just off the ranch and looking to have some fun, plunged into the battle with great zeal. The bikers, riding cross country because that's what they did, had stopped to get out of the late afternoon heat for a couple of quick cold ones. But they were always happy to 'meet and greet' the locals. Like a weather front of warm and cold air, they collided in the middle of the old building.
The bouncer had tried to step in early on but he was not only out-numbered, he was but one man in the midst of many ornery and seasoned fighters. No amount of bonus cash was going to get him in the middle of that. Not even threats of unemployment would get him motivated. The manager was hurling a steady stream of colorful cuss words in the general direction of the group but saw it would do no good so he hastily retired to his office. The bouncer watched him go, idly wondering if the little man was going back there to hide or to avoid the pain of watching his place demolished. Either way, he was facing his own inner battle. Stay and simply avoid trouble and be fired in the morning, or leave now and end up fired in the morning. Either way he was history.
Briefly he considered calling the police but remembered the last time a brawl had broken out in the place. The bouncer at the time was down and out for the count. Two officers had arrived and hollered for everyone to stop. Yeah right, that had worked well. At the time it had been construction workers versus Pagans. But both groups ignored the peace officers because peace was the farthest thing from their minds.
Next, one of the cops had fired a warning shot outside just to get their attention. It worked. In seconds the fight had miraculously managed to shift. Like an amoeba on prey, the group had surrounded the officers. Knives were drawn. In no time at all, one cop was dead and the other maimed for life.
No, the bouncer told himself, Not going to let that happen again.
Consequently, he decided to stay and watch the 'fun'. Not long after, he found his safe spot and gestured for a large mug of Sam Adams from the tap. Soon, he found himself surrounded by most of the ladies and a couple of 'suits' who had the same idea which was to steer clear of the action and enjoy the entertainment.
"He's the one," the sole professor type half-yelled over the bellows of pain and cracking of bone against bone. His finger jabbed in the direction of the people pile that was not far away, a churning, writhing mass of stabbing elbows, pumping fists, and jabbing knees.
"Really?" the tall dark haired woman asked in consternation. She tilted her head to survey the mess. "Which one again? And while you're at it, would you mind telling me how you expect to get close?"
The short heavyset 'professor' in his oversized slacks, loose fitting cotton shirt and black old-man's vest, gestured again at the pile. A groping paw nearly wrenched his arm from its socket and he jerked it back with a mild expletive. He quickly switched communication tactics. "That one, the guy with the silver skulls bandana."
"They all have silver skull bandana's!" the well muscled man, pointed out, as he unconsciously threw a couple of air punches by way of encouragement to the band of fighters. "Oh! That's gotta hurt!" he flinched and made scrunchy faces as he turned away from his boss. When he finally glanced back, he stated, "Please don't tell me it's one of the bandanas. I mean, I've heard of the Silver Skulls and I really don't want them pissed at me. They hold onto a grudge like a pit bull hangs onto a bone."
"Not the bandana," the short guy ducked as a body hurtled past. He ran thick fingers through his brown and silver curls which only made them reach for the ceiling. The act did nothing to help him search for the item he was seeking. It only made him look a bit more insane than he already did. "I think it's a wallet. I remember hearing rumors of-"
"Biker wallet?" the woman interrupted, wrinkling her nose. They all wore those wallets. Worse still, they were all chained to belts. True, opening the snap band looping the belt wouldn't be hard, but she had no doubt that even being pummeled, the guy being robbed would know it. Unless she was a skilled pickpocket, which she wasn't, there was no way to make off with a wallet before someone beat the crap out of her for it. Being a woman wasn't going to save her from a world of hurt.
The older man locked his brown eyes on her green ones and narrowed them. "Obviously! Now keep your eyes open. If it's the one I think it is, it'll be pretty beaten up given its age."
The handsome younger man stated, "Artie, they're all pretty beaten up." He poked a finger at one bobbing body. "I think that guy rode his down the pavement for about fifty feet without benefit of the motorcycle seat beneath him."
"Not it," Agent Artie Nielsen informed him after eyeing the wallet in question.
"How can you tell?" the female in business casual attire said as she lashed out with one foot, connecting with a rump with a meaty thwack. She was rewarded by a glimpse of butt crack as the man fell forward and was pounced on by a cowboy who intentionally mistook him for a rodeo bull.
Suddenly, like a human volcano, the combatants managed to rise en masse and then the wave of bodies, surging and parting like stormy seas, engulfed the nearest spectators.
"Artie!" the woman howled above the din.
"Myka!" the man answered. But that was all there was. He offered no further advice or any assistance because he fell under the bodies of one biker and two cowboys who barely paused in their zeal to pound each other. They simply stepped over him and then stepped on him when he was too slow getting out from under foot.
The biker crumpled suddenly as something seemed to slice him off at the knees. He crumpled and howled in agony as a palm flew up to meet his jaw, snapping his head back.
Artie's retaliatory strike dropped him precisely as the little man knew it would then a blow to the chin took the beefy biker down the rest of the way. In less time than it took for a breath Artie rolled clear and staggered to his feet. An instant later he was surrounded by another group of locals deciding to join the fray. With a look of grim determination, Artie's fists balled again as he prepared to confront them.
Myka Bering edged around the throngs of fighters, trying to keep an eye on her superior. "Pete, we have to help him," she ordered, her voice growing strident with worry.
"Easy for you to say," answered her partner. "I can't get through this. Where's a bulldozer when you need one?"
"I'll get you one for Christmas," Myka promised with a wry smile. Then her chin tilted up. "Whew, what is that?"
An almost palpable odor was building around them. The stale odor of spilled booze mixed with the overwhelming stench of sweaty testosterone driven male bodies, layered over by the cloying cloud of perfume. All of it merged into one stinking miasma that seemed to cast a nauseating haze over the combatants.
Flinching back a few steps, Myka debated getting into the fray. Neither gunslingers nor Hell's Angel types would enjoy meeting her one on one, but she wasn't sure that getting involved would be helping Artie.
She caught sight of him dodging fists that appeared almost as big as his face then catch one blow to the shoulder that made him grimace and bare his teeth. At his age, old wounds healed slower and though the gunshot by HG had healed on the surface, his shoulder continued to be sensitive on bad days. His hand came up to ward off another blow and slid sideways.
As the muscular Silver Skull followed behind the punch, he felt a tug at the chain by his wallet.
"Not it!" he heard a baritone voice growl again and the pressure on the chain released.
"Any luck, Artie?" Pete Lattimer hollered over the din. Another body was being hurled through the plate glass window and Pete was answered by something that sounded more like "Argh" than anything else. Finally, he heard, "Not yet."
"Want help?"
The hoarse voice that answered him was definitely sounding irritated. "No! Stay put! No sense in all of us ending up unconscious." His superior was starting to sport a bruise on one cheek and a tear on his lip was dripping a small amount of blood.
That was by no means the only blood spilled in that place at that moment. Droplets of it flew everywhere. Teeth were sprouting wings. There was gobbet of something that looked suspiciously like a piece of earlobe. It plopped at Myka's feet. Not normally squeamish, she instinctively grimaced and stepped back. This was getting out of hand. Even Pete, who loved watching those UFC bouts on Pay Per View looked moderately unhappy.
Myka couldn't tell if he wanted to join in or if had simply decided this was a losing battle. Either way, he obeyed orders although his crouched stance implied he didn't like it.
The fight shifted slightly around the room. There were surprisingly few bodies on the floor. Most of the combatants were going down and getting back up again once they regained consciousness. The cowboys weren't looking happy about getting beat to a pulp but the bikers were relishing the fact that their opponents were giving up easily.
Eventually, one of the cowboys hurled a right cross at Artie who caught sight of it in his peripheral vision just in time. It clipped his jaw with a glancing blow. He went to one knee beside a damaged chair but his opponent wasn't interested in letting up on him, despite Nielsen being smaller, older and stouter than he was. The battle had dredged up the bully in him and he didn't care who paid for his pain. Closing on the downed man, he drew back for another blow but there was something he hadn't counted on.
Artie may have been short and physically unimposing but he grew up on the streets of Philadelphia. His haven may have been his piano in his own home but he still had to make the trek to school and back every day, running the gauntlet of bullies most overweight kids had to face at one time or another. What made matters worse was that he was bright thereby escalating the abuse. But he didn't waste that intellect and befriended Jerry, considered the resident street thug of his neighborhood. Jerry needed academic help to stay on the basketball team, and Artie needed…at first he thought he needed a bodyguard but Jerry wasn't a fool. He knew his chubby friend needed independence from fear. And so he taught him one of the most valuable lessons Artie would ever learn. To fight, not like a boxer, but like a street brawler.
So as Artie went down and the cowboy closed in, the guy was shocked to hear a loud cracking noise as a chair leg was broken free of the already damaged seat, and further surprised to see stars as that same chair leg met first his stomach then his skull. Then he only saw the floor rush up to meet him and blackness.
From that point on, he wasn't the only one to drop from that piece of wood. Artie's patience had totally evaporated. When the chair leg was knocked free, he found a bottle that was amazingly still intact and smashed it against someone's temple. The fallen biker felt a dirty sneaker roll him onto his stomach so that the wallet could be checked.
Another downed biker, this one with the huge Playboy Bunny tattoo on his forearm, didn't even see what hit him. He felt hands jerk the wallet free of his back pocket.
"Damn," the little man's voice muttered.
And then all hell broke loose. The biggest of the bikers, all six foot eight and three hundred fifty pounds of him, started baying like a foghorn, arms flailing at everything that moved. His eyes had taken on an eerie light. Madness sparked out of them, seeming to set the rest of his body ablaze as he hit one cowboy so hard, the guy's jaw shattered. It was when he started breaking the ribs of his own guys that Artie knew who his target was.
"Pete! It's him!" He pointed with one thick finger at the big man. He staggered around two guys duking it out and whacked another one with a table leg without bothering to see what damage he'd inflicted. He needn't have worried. They guy face-planted right behind him.
Eyeing the huge bear of a man, Pete gulped. Take on a few smaller guys, yeah, he was game for that, but this was one opponent he wasn't going to be happy tackling.
"Are you sure?" he asked, hoping for a negative answer.
Artie's voice grew louder than the noises around him. "Yes. I can see a portion of SB tooled into it. Now you can help me. In fact, I insist on it."
Pete turned to Myka with a raised eyebrow and a half-hearted smirk. "Ladies first?"
Despite the tense situation she gave him a smile. "Twenty bucks says I take the first one down and he stays down."
"You're on," Pete acknowledged.
Together, the two younger agents waded into the fray, fists and feet flying. They saw Artie trying to keep out of the big guy's way and only succeeded at it because he was grabbing other bodies and interjected them between himself and the giant. Those poor souls ended up taking a lot of abuse.
The pressure cooker finally blew when the enormous biker bellowed and jumped on top of a group of guys, cowboy and biker alike. They all sagged to the ground under his prodigious weight.
It was then that Myka spied the wallet poking out of his right rear pocket. It honestly didn't look much different than any of the others. But she knew better than to argue with Artie. If he said that was the guy, then that was the guy.
Only problem was that the big oaf wasn't in the mood to be touched by anyone. He was roaring and bellowing like a wild beast and nobody, not cowboy or his own boys, wanted to be near him. It was evident that they'd seen him like this before and they parted like the Red Sea to let him through.
The cowboys, realizing this was no longer fun, struggled to back up to the wall which was already lined with other male townies, nearly all of the women, and the bouncer, who was clearly thrilled to have all his bones and his handsome face remaining intact.
As the crowd split apart, only the three agents were left facing him. He glowered horrifyingly at them, his missing and broken teeth giving him a monstrous visage.
"Uh, Artie? Are you 100% positive the wallet is on him? Because if it is, I want my hazard pay up front. After he kills me I won't be able to enjoy." Running long fingers through his close cropped hair, he resumed his crouch. Things were going to get ugly, he knew it.
Without taking his steely gaze from the face of the giant, Artie answered over one broad shoulder, ""Absolutely positive."
"But you haven't even seen the wallet yet?" Myka intruded, ever the voice of reason.
"Don't need to," was the succinct reply. He reached sideways, grabbed a western shirt in his fist and shoved the horrified cowboy at the biker. The poor guy knew what was coming.
"Maybe you should reconsider your decision," suggested Pete through tight lips. He watched the cowboy struggle to free himself from the crushing clutches of his gigantic opponent.
"Pete, the wallet. Belonged to that Hell's Angel? Remember what I told you?"
"Uh, yeah, sort of. You said it belonged to one of the meanest bikers ever. And he loved beating the crap out of everyone he met. But, Artie, that sort of describes nearly every outlaw biker that ever lived."
"Well, this one bears Spike Barnett's initials."
Two more people tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid those enormous, beefy fists lashing out to the sides. With all the trashed tables and chairs, there weren't many places to go.
Myka added, "And we should point out we still can't say for sure he has the wallet we want."
Positioning himself just out of reach of the pummeling paws, Artie explained, "Everyone who has ever possessed it turns into a berserker once a fight starts, hitting his opponents and his own guys alike. The guy has been leaving a trail of wrecked buildings and broken bodies for at least four months. I'd say he," and he jabbed a forefinger at the man, "is doing his berserker thing right now, wouldn't you agree?"
Another fleshy projectile came hurtling in their direction and although all three agents tried to avoid him, only Myka was successful in getting out of the way. She rolled the bruised biker off her partner and was helping him up when King Kong simply kicked a bunch of tables out of the way and marched out the door into the waning sunshine. Myka noted his wallet had fallen from his pocket and was dangling from its chain, unheeded, as he disappeared from sight.
The sound of a hog trying to start followed his departure. His compatriots were struggling to regain their footing and hobbled or crawled or limped after him only to find that most, if not all, of their bikes had been tampered with. Howls of rage filled the air along with a great deal of argument.
Together, Myka and Pete helped Artie up. There was a bit of blood trickling through the hairs of his goatee and he absentmindedly swiped at it. None of them wanted to go outside at that moment for fear of being blamed for any damage to the bikes. Artie edged toward the broken window and cautiously peered around the window frame, using the wall as a shield…just in case.
And then it happened. There was a roar as a sleek red 'crotch rocket' raced up to the group of Silver Skulls and a young man in riding leathers and a full face helmet rode through a gap in the line of bikes. He swung his hand out and grabbed King Kong's wallet chain. The snap holding it to the belt opened and the newcomer gunned the throttle and took off, leaving a trail of flying dust behind him.
Even as he doing that Artie was yelling, "Follow him, don't let him get away!"
"Cliché much?" Pete muttered but ran for his SUV anyway with Myka in hot pursuit.
As they piled into the vehicle, Myka whirled and said, "Aren't you coming with us?"
"No. Go. Now." And he went over to check on the big biker, who was slumped forward over his gas tank as if his body had been totally drained of all energy. His buddies, accustomed to these fits of rage, just stood and watched, particularly when they realized the pudgy little guy was no threat to them.
After finding a pulse, Artie backed away from the group and stared at the empty road where the SUV had disappeared.