Broken Ground
Copyright© 2026 by Lumpy
Chapter 6
His rental car sat three vehicles down, parked nose-out for a quick exit, one of the habits he’d picked up working with Whitaker. He’d covered maybe ten feet when three men materialized from between a pickup truck and a sedan, spreading across the narrow sidewalk in a loose formation that blocked the path to his car.
Taylor stopped.
The one in the middle stood a few inches over six feet, probably two hundred twenty, with the kind of shoulders that came from actual labor rather than a gym membership. Flannel shirt rolled to the elbows and work boots caked with dried mud. He was somewhere in his forties and his face had the weathered look of someone who spent most of his time outdoors, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth.
The two on either side were younger, probably somewhere in their mid-thirties, and both built lean and hard. The one on the left wore a Carhartt jacket and had his hands stuffed in his pockets. The one on the right kept his arms loose at his sides, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. That one had done this before.
Taylor shifted his stance, angling his body to keep all three in his sight. His right hand hung near his hip, close to the Sig Sauer holstered under his jacket, but he didn’t go for it. Not yet.
“Help you?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone conversational.
The big one in the middle spoke. “You’re the one asking questions about property around here?”
“That’s right.”
“Time for you to stop asking.”
“Is it?”
“You need to stop bothering people. You’re not from around here, and we don’t take kindly to strangers. I think it’s best if you just go back to wherever you came from and leave all this behind.”
Taylor let a few seconds pass, studying their faces. None of them looked away. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent us.” The one on the right smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. “Just concerned citizens. We don’t like strangers stirring up trouble.”
“Strangers like me?”
“Exactly like you.” The big one took a half-step forward. “You’ve been bothering people. That stops now.”
Taylor didn’t move. “Or what?”
“Or you might have an accident, too.”
The one in the Carhartt jacket finally pulled his hands from his pockets, letting them hang at his sides.
“Roads are still icy this time of year. Easy to lose control, especially if you don’t know the area.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Call it friendly advice,” the big one said. “Get in your car, drive to Billings, catch a flight home. Forget about Glacier Falls.”
Taylor looked past them at his rental car, then back at their faces. “Not going to happen.”
The one on the right shifted his weight, hands coming up slightly. “Then we’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah.” Taylor’s voice stayed level. “We do.”
The big one moved first, launching forward with surprising speed for his size. Taylor pivoted left, letting the man’s momentum carry him past, and drove his elbow into the exposed ribs. The impact made a solid thump. The big man grunted but kept his feet, spinning back with more control than Taylor had expected.
The one on the right came in low, reaching for Taylor’s legs. Taylor dropped his weight and sprawled, breaking the grip before it formed, then snapped his knee up into the man’s face. He could feel cartilage crunch and blood spurted from the man’s nose as he stumbled backward, hands flying to his face.
The one in the Carhartt jacket circled right, looking for an opening. Taylor gave him one, deliberately dropping his guard on that side. The man took it, throwing a wide hook aimed at Taylor’s head. Taylor slipped inside the punch, trapped the extended arm, and twisted. The joint torqued wrong and the man yelped and tried to pull away, but Taylor held on, using the leverage to spin him into the side of the parked pickup truck. The man’s head bounced off the door panel with a hollow bang.
The big one recovered and charged again, this time keeping his hands up, moving like someone who’d been in real fights, but was still just a brawler. He threw a straight right that Taylor blocked, then followed with a left hook to the body. Taylor absorbed it on his forearm, feeling the impact radiate up to his shoulder. Damn, the guy was strong. He countered with a quick jab to the man’s throat, pulling it just enough to bruise instead of crush. Unless he had to, killing these guys would make them more of a problem than he wanted them to be. The big man gagged and backed off, coughing.
The one with the broken nose had recovered enough to rejoin the fight, though blood still poured down his chin and soaked into his shirt collar. He came at Taylor from behind, wrapping both arms around Taylor’s torso in a bear hug, trying to pin his arms.
Taylor stomped down on the man’s instep, grinding his heel into the small bones of the foot. The guy screamed again, and his grip loosened. Taylor drove his head backward, the crown of his skull connecting with the bridge of the already-broken nose. The man howled and let go completely, dropping to his knees on the sidewalk.
The one in the Carhartt jacket pushed off the truck, shaking his head to clear it. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, flicking it open with his thumb. A four-inch blade, fixed now, held low and ready.
Taylor backed up three steps, creating space, his hand moving to his hip. This took things to another level, but he still didn’t draw his gun. Not yet. He didn’t have the cover of law enforcement anymore and there was a stink to this whole town that Taylor was sure would mean trouble for him if he did shoot someone.
The man with the knife advanced slowly, keeping the blade between them, moving in small lateral steps. He feinted high, then cut low toward Taylor’s midsection. Taylor twisted away, the blade passing six inches from his stomach. The man recovered immediately, resetting his stance, not overextending.
He was good.
The big one had caught his breath and came in from Taylor’s left, trying to bracket him. Taylor couldn’t watch both at once, not effectively. He needed to end this fast.
The knife came in again, a quick slash aimed at Taylor’s forearm. Taylor pulled back, then immediately stepped forward inside the man’s guard before he could reset. Taylor caught the knife hand at the wrist with his left hand, controlling it, and drove his right fist into the man’s solar plexus. The air went out of the guy in a whoosh. Taylor twisted the wrist, applying pressure to the joint in a direction it wasn’t designed to bend. The knife clattered to the pavement. Taylor kicked it away, then shoved the man backward into the big one, tangling them both up.
The one with the broken nose was trying to stand, using the pickup truck for support. Blood covered the lower half of his face and dripped onto the sidewalk in fat drops that looked black in the late afternoon light.
Taylor moved toward him, grabbed a handful of jacket, and yanked him away from the truck. The man swung a weak punch that Taylor blocked with his forearm, then Taylor drove three quick shots into the man’s ribs, left-right-left. The man folded, gasping, and Taylor let him drop.
The big one had disentangled himself and squared up again, but the fight had gone out of his eyes. He could see how this was going to end. Still, he came forward, throwing a combination that Taylor deflected and countered, catching him with a right cross that snapped his head to the side. The big man’s knees buckled. He didn’t go down, but he didn’t come forward again either.
The one who’d had the knife was back on his feet, cradling his wrist against his chest. He looked at Taylor, then at his two partners, then back at Taylor.
“Next time,” Taylor said. “Bring more guys.”
None of them responded. The one with the broken nose stayed on the ground, curled on his side. The big one backed away slowly, hands up in a gesture that wasn’t quite surrender but close to it. The one with the injured wrist just stared, like he wanted to kill Taylor and was angry that he couldn’t back it up.
Taylor walked past them to his rental car, watching them in his peripheral vision. None of them moved to follow. He reached his car and stopped, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at them.
The big one shook his head. “You’re making a mistake.”
“From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the one who made the mistake.”
But the big one just turned away, helping the one with the broken nose to his feet. The three of them limped toward a truck parked farther down the street, the one with the injured wrist still cradling it against his body. They climbed in, the engine started, and they pulled away, heading east out of town.
Taylor stood beside his car, watching until they disappeared. His ribs ached where he’d blocked the body shot. His knuckles were scraped and starting to swell. Relatively minor damage, all said and done. He’d had worse from sparring sessions with Whitaker, who fought like she was trying to kill him even in training.
He was glad of it now. Seven years ago, he was like those guys. A brawler. If he’d stayed that way, it would have come down to having to shoot one of them.
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