Just a repost of the chapter to correct a few errors and tighten it up...chapter 9 will be posted as soon as fanfic will allow me to upload the file (currently giving me some issues)

Chapter 8

The congregation of frightened, wary faces sat stiffly in their seats as Lonnie stood over Starsky doubled up on the floor.

Sully reached down and grabbed a fist full of dark curls, yanking Starsky's head back, grinning. "Next round is all mine, pig, just you wait," he sneered, laughing as he shoved Starsky's head roughly back against the floor eliciting an angry groan from the cop.

Both bikers rose, smiling smugly as their gazes caught the doe eyed shocked stares of the townspeople who had witnessed the scene.

Lonnie stepped over to the hotel owner who stood rigidly, his back pressed up against the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen, smiling as he watched Calderon visibly flinch under his scrutiny. Calderon gripped the counter behind him to steady his frayed nerves making Lonnie's mouth curl even more until the thin man's eyes finally dropped down and looked away.

Snickering, the two bikers retreated from the dining room. Once out of sight, Calderon's fists clenched angrily at his sides, his nostrils flaring. He turned his head to look at Starsky still on the floor, sucking in breaths as he struggled to get back up onto his knees.

No one in the room made a move to help. Too frightened, they sat rooted in place uncomfortably aware of the three bikers still left behind standing guard.

Across the room, the young waitress' anger finally overcame her fear and she made a move towards Starsky, but Calderon held his hand firmly up, silently forbidding his daughter to interfere. A young Mexican immediately reached out and tugged the young girl protectively back to his side with quick words spoken in Spanish.

With his head pressed against the floor attempting to draw his knees up, Starsky was unaware of the silent confrontation going on between the hotel owner and his daughter. His ribs were on fire and back of his legs stung with hot needles of pain from where the chain had struck him, but Starsky stubbornly refused to give into either.

Watching Starsky struggling into a sitting position, Calderon reluctantly moved away from the counter and knelt down next to him, his jaw angrily clenched.

"Are you all right?" The question came out clipped.

Starsky groaned as he sucked in a breath, supporting his bruised side with the splayed fingers of one hand, his head pounding now on top of everything else. "Just terrific," he panted. His face scrunched up as he shifted his butt on the floor. "No offense, but I'm beginning to hate this stinkin' little town."

Calderon's voice was harsh. "You and your friend have caused much trouble here."

Starsky threw the hooked nosed man a heated glare. "Hey, we didn't start this. My partner and I were only trying to help."

"All you and your fried have succeeding in doing, senor, is to anger them more," the man retorted in an angry whisper.

"Better than to stand around and do nothin'" Starsky groused back, then hissed once more as he tried to shift into a semi comfortable position, bringing one knee up to take the strain off his sore ribs.

Seeing the pain on the cop's face, some of Calderon's anger left him. "Is there anything broken?"

"Other than my continual pride, I don't think so," Starsky muttered.

Truth be told, his ribs and the back of his legs hurt like hell and, though he didn't think he busted anything, he did wonder if he may have of cracked a rib or two.

"Your forehead is bleeding."

"Is it?" Starsky reached up, touched his fingers to his head. A spot of crimson coated his fingertips. It was followed by a slight sting. "How'd I get that?"

He surmised he must have gotten it when Lonnie had kicked him down in the dirt while he'd been trying to draw attention away from Hutch, or when he had tried to avoid getting run over by the bikers. It would certainly explain the pounding headache he was now sporting, or maybe that was just the added bonus of Sully slamming his head into the floor.

"Don't suppose ya got an aspirin on ya?" Starsky mused.

The young waitress suddenly appeared next to them, much to her father's displeasure. Calderon grabbed Rosita by the forearm, said something clipped to her in Spanish which only elicited another stubborn shake of her head as she wrenched free. Starsky didn't need to understand Spanish to understand the body language between the pair, which clearly indicated Calderon did not want his daughter getting involved.

Ignoring her father's disapproval, she knelt beside them, offering a pitcher of water and a clean cloth. Calderon reluctantly accepted it. Wetting the cloth, he dabbed it against Starsky's forehead, making the cop wince slightly.

"It is not bad, just a small bump and a cut," Calderon said after a careful exam of the cut.

"Terrific. I'll just add it to the rest of my collection I've got going at the moment."

Starsky coughed, and then realized his mouth felt like the Sahara desert, the taste of dirt coating his tongue, his throat parched.

Calderon offered him some water. Starsky drank it gratefully.

"Thanks."

In a low voice, aware of the guards posted nearby, Rosita asked. "Your friend. Where is he? Did he get help?"

Starsky glanced up at the girl, reading her concern which was matching his own for Hutch right about now. Although he hadn't expected such a violent turn of events, he still hoped his little diversion had given Hutch the needed time to call for help and then get the hell out of there.

He shrugged slightly. "Wish I knew. Unfortunately we got separated."

Rosita looked worriedly up at her father who appeared like he was barely holding it together. She put a hand on her father's arm, patting it reassuringly. Calderon smiled slightly before covering his daughter's hand, trying to reassure her, before his face suddenly tensed up. Starsky followed Calderon's line of vision to see one of the bikers guarding the group openly leering at the young woman.

Calderon spoke again to his daughter in Spanish. Rosita said something back, shook her head defiantly but Calderon's clipped response cut her off. His daughter's eyes dropped, almost hurtful, before she gathered up the pitcher and cloth and scooted away, back to the protective fold of her mother's side. Her brother and the other young Mexican huddled close to her and Starsky didn't miss the accusing glare that came from the young Mexican who appeared to be a few years older than Rosita.

The biker just smiled at their reaction and Starsky could feel the anger growing in Calderon once again and understood, remembering the way the biker had grabbed the girl earlier leaving bruises on her wrists.

Calderon went to stand up, but Starsky's hand suddenly reached out, clutching his forearm stopping his retreat. In a low whisper that could only be heard between the two of them, Starsky asked. "What are you going to do with that key, Calderon?"

The hotel owner visible startled, his face paling.

Hutch hadn't been the only one who'd seen the hotel owner slip something into his pocket while Starsky had been collecting all the keys earlier. Starsky had seen it too.

Calderon jerked his arm angrily away and retreated back to his position at the counter. Starsky watched as the hotel owner's eyes lifted across the room to his nervous wife, the two silently communicating something between them. Starsky frowned, wondering what that was all about.

Left to sit awkwardly on the floor, Starsky nursed his bruises and tried to assess his current situation. It didn't take a genius however to come to the quick conclusion he was in one hell of a mess.

So much for a fun little weekend, Hutch!

He sighed deeply, his thoughts turning once again back to his partner. Starsky sensed more than knew that Hutch was somewhere close by watching, waiting and hopefully thinking up a plan. He inwardly snickered at the thought, his mind easily picturing the tiny wheels spinning about in his blond counterpart.

Where Starsky's nature tended to lean towards quick assessments followed by an immediate action, an inherited trait bred into him from his experiences in Nam where all hell could break loose at the pause of a breath and the slightest hesitation could make you dead really fast, his partner's nature was more analytical, calmer as he processed a situation then worked out an effective strategy.

In their partnership it wasn't unusual for Starsky to often defer the question to Hutch, "What'ya wanna do?"

It wasn't that he didn't think he was any the less capable of making a decision, it was just that he trusted and valued Hutch's opinions and insights, the same way Hutch trusted Starsky's instincts. Often the two detectives came at a case from opposing ends, but worked together like a well oiled hinge, so well, often times very little verbal communication was needed between the two of them as they worked a situation out.

So even if separated, Starsky knew two things for sure. He knew Hutch was nearby, and knew his worried partner was busy working out a plan.

So right now, his job, Starsky thought, was to do his best to keep the bikers from trying to harm any more innocent people. He shifted, wincing again as his sore ribs protested. He just hoped he could manage to do it though without adding any more bruises to his already aching body, he mused sorely.

Propping his back against the wall and at the moment being apparently ignored, Starsky let his hooded gaze wonder about the room, trying to make his own quick assessment. Three bikers had been left to stand guard, two near the lobby, one near the kitchen. The rest, for the moment, had disappeared, either out into the lobby beyond his visual range, or outside.

Lonnie and the other biker, Sully, had also disappeared.

Starsky's thoughts turned to the angry young biker. He didn't like the wild glitter of hate he'd seen in the kid's eyes. He'd seen that look too many times before, from too many perps, that twisted pent up hate solely focused on revenge. It made him think too close home, to Terry, to Prudholm…

He inwardly shuddered.

Prudholm. The mere thought of the ex-con still left Starsky with so much bitterness, so much hate inside. It was still hard to let all that go, knowing all the man had done to him and to the innocent families he had destroyed in his insane need for revenge.

The ex-con had blamed Starsky for the death of his son, stabled to death in County Lockup, soon after he and Hutch had busted the kid for dope dealing. Afterwards, Prudholm had made it his personal obsession to see Starsky pay.

His hate, his twisted need for revenge had left three cops Starsky hadn't even known dead while Prudholm had played out his sick little game. Three cops who left behind families, wives and kids, mothers and fathers.

It had been a hard bitter pill for Starsky to swallow especially when a few of his fellow officers had verbally lashed out at him, trying to place the blame for the deaths of their comrades squarely on Starsky's shoulders. Hutch had immediately come to Starsky's defense, ready to deck one officer right on the spot for even making the suggestion and made it clear he wasn't about to accept any talk like that from anyone against his partner. Starsky had appreciated Hutch coming to his defense, but the damage had been done and the guilt had eaten away at him until they had finally caught Prudholm.

But it had been nothing compared to the pain of loosing Terry after Prudholm had been let out of the mental institution he'd been sentenced to a few years later on of all things a damn clerical error.

By then that man's insanity was solely aimed at bringing as much pain as he could to Starsky and he'd almost won in the end. He had almost killed Hutch, he had killed Terry and Starsky had almost given into that hate, to the need for revenge himself, but in the end, he couldn't do it, not in cold blood, not even for someone as sick and vile as the crazed ex-con.

But it still hurt. Every damn day it still hurt knowing Terry had paid the price simply for loving him.

God, Terry. I'm sorry, so sorry. You didn't deserve it. It should have been me, honey, not you, Starsky thought sadly, not for the first time.

The image of her smiling face looking up at him flashed through his mind renewing his grief but movement out of the corner of his eye forced Starsky's thoughts suddenly away from Terry, away from Prudholm and back to his current situation as Python returned.

The tall lean biker in suede moved into the room with an air of complete authority.

His gaze locked briefly on Starsky before he dragged a chair into the center of the room and propped one booted foot on top of the seat.

"Now that all of you have had a little time to think, where were we?"

~S/H~

Hutch peered out through the slit in the shade to the street. It was still quiet. He let the shade down and moved back into the center of the room where Rosa stood, arms still hugging her waist.

For more than the hundredth time, he'd wished he had brought his magnum. Rarely did Hutch ever go anywhere without it. Sometimes Starsky would even tease him over it, saying he probably wouldn't even go visit his own mother without the chunk of iron strapped to his side. And for the most part, that was a pretty true statement. But Hutch had really wanted this trip to be just about fun for he and Starsky, to forget about the cesspool they worked in, knowing the Mexican police, even after getting the extradition papers on Martinez, wouldn't be ready to release the man back into U.S. custody for another week.

Hutch scanned the small room and then asked Rosa if she or the old man owned a gun.

Rosa shook her head in denial.

Hutch rubbed his forehead. The only other pistol then that he knew of was the Sargento's, locked away in the drawer at the jail.

From his observation, Hutch hadn't seen any of the other bikers carrying weapons, but that didn't necessary mean they weren't armed. So far just their numbers and looks had been intimidating enough to keep the townspeople in line and afraid.

With the phone lines down, Hutch needed to find some other way to get help. It was then he remembered something, something he had practically fallen into in his haste to escape the telephone office. It had been tucked away behind the building, partially hidden under a tarp.

"Rosa, who's motor bike is that behind the telephone office?"

The girl's eyes widened, as if startled by his question.