And that’s my saving grace.
I flash the grin that makes most people’s souls quiver. “This is some fucking party, so the overzealous invite makes sense. Since you mowed me down, what do ya say to having some fun?”
The one who appears to be in charge laughs like a psychotic hyena, and I’m hit with a pang of jealousy. It was arguably one of the most certifiable guffaws I’ve ever heard. If I make it out of this, I should definitely up my game in that department.
“Oh, we’ll be having fun,” he bellows with an implied plan to flay me open and wear my skin as a Snuggie.
“That’s what I like to fucking hear.” I aim my blade toward each of them with an exaggerated counting motion, slowing to note the guy they have about a hundred yards away behind the wheel of a truck. “Thirteen of you, not counting the pussy who opted to be a getaway driver.”
I make a point to look at my dead security team, grateful they’ll circumvent that skin-wearing fate. “One of me. So …” I shrug. “It would seem, numbers-wise, you have a small advantage. I think that means I get to name one rule before we face off.”
“Why the fuck would we let you do that?” a hideous guy with curly hair and a pornstache on his upper lip growls.
Pulling out a couple of more knives that I had stashed in my pocket or hung from my belt, I slant my head in disappointment. “It’s like playground basics. You’ve got the people. I make the rules. Since you’re from the 1970s, you should know this.”
His buddies chuckle, even the ones who don’t want to.
“You broke the rules when you killed Niko,” another one roars. He’s heading toward bald, but holding on to those patchy hairs for dear life. Even in the violet glow of early dawn, there is a visible bulging vein weaving through the tufts on his skull.
“I don’t know where you got your fucking information, but I didn’t kill Niko. You slaughtering a Noire without proof of guilt is going to have you all in the ground by sunup.” There’s enough unease about the facts to cause them pause, so I spear that dagger of doubt a little deeper to see which families are represented here. “The one who masterminded this fuckery is Lund’s grandson.”
The dipshit who shot my guard in the face stiffens his shoulders, as do the two near him. Those are Lund’s men. The Makarovs aren’t much more partial to guns than I am.
“Our membership has aided all of you, countless times. You know this attack means war. When this is all over and the truth comes out, if you can claim you gave me a fair fight, maybe my brothers and the numerous organizations backing them will show you some mercy.”
Another fundamental lesson my training bestowed: within the shadow of doubt, there’s enough darkness to slit a lot of throats.
“Fine,” the psychotic hyena grunts, tapping the flat edge of his bowie knife—which is gorgeous—against his palm. “One rule.”
“No guns. Fight me thirteen to one, men to man.” I fan my cutlery and eye his. “Knives to knives.”
He glances around at his troops. They might be here in a group, but they are alone. None of them are capable of working as a team. They’d stab each other for a small chunk of change. I am fighting mano a mano thirteen times. As long as there are no bullets, I’ve got a hell of a chance.
And since they’re so preoccupied with this asinine conversation, maybe Tessa does too.
With a final nod, he extends his order and turns back to me. “You die today either way. By the blade it is.”
That’s enough for me. I spring for one of the monster trucks, running up the hood, onto the windshield, and up to the roof, causing confusion. As I tromp on the vehicle, I sling three knives at the Lund soldiers, shouting my kill shots like I would in a friendly game of pool.
“Needlepoint to the eye.”One.“Stiletto to the throat.”Two.“Dagger to the heart.”Three.
Perfect fucking shots.
They shriek and groan, wobbling and gasping for breath before they collapse to the ground with lavish fountains of gore.
Ten to one. Better odds.
A blade whizzes toward me, so I twist to dodge it, roll myself into a front tuck to dismount the truck, and switch to my Karambit when I stick my landing. I hope they’re impressed. This is some of my best work, though I’m just getting started.
A nasty guy with a scar marring his cheek like a lightning bolt is the first to approach. He’s a brute. No knife for him. He swings a crowbar at my head and narrowly misses. The effort took a lot out of him though, so I seize the opportunity to hook him with my Karambit between two ribs and swipe, tearing through his flesh and muscles and internal organs. But for good measure and since he’s a dirty, cheating twat and used something other than a knife, I yank the crowbar still in his grip and thrust it through his navel. His beastly howl reverberates off the cars and weapons and berserk, armed lunatics to create a melody for this massacre. I do like theme songs.
It’s a beautiful move, but I take a gash on my hip in the process. And one on my thigh. Both superficial, but a motivation to double down.
Now that four have fallen, they’ve decided to storm me as a unit.
I slash somewhat blindly because I have a blur of assholes orbiting me. I’d prefer to target arteries and such, but that luxury isn’t available in this clusterfuck. They land some strong slices on me, but not strong enough. They’re likely cutting each other as well. Our pileup emanates strangled bleats and wailed curses, with scents of sweat, exhaust, whiskey, and tobacco that are absolutely wretched.
Trusting my instincts, I simply swipe and jump and battle until I can clear them out, all with Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2” playing in the recesses of my mind.
