“Later.” I lead her away from the old man and the apples, keeping my tone steady and my attention fixated on the two wannabe gangsters. They shadow us, maintaining their distance. “Tell me more about your classroom plans.”
The request is calculated, meant to keep her talking and distracted while I assess the situation.
It works.
She launches into an explanation of apple-themed mathematics and the nutritional benefits of homemade applesauce versus store-bought.
I hear nothing but the slow, steady thud of my heart, my focus narrowing on the imminent threat. These guys are idiots to approach with me here, but there’s no solving stupid.
Must be my attire. Maybe they have some absurd notion that men in tailored suits can’t fight. My mind races, assessing angles, distances, response times…
We’re near the damn zucchini when they strike.
The taller guy closes the distance too quickly for the casual market atmosphere. His hand darts out, grabbing Chloe’s purse strap and wrenching the bag from her shoulder.
Chloe reacts with surprising speed, her hand clamping down on her bag before even I can grab hold.
She yanks it close to her body. “No! We do not take things.”
Shock temporarily roots me in place as she wags her finger at him like she just caught one of her kindergartners stealing crayons.
The thief’s face twists in confusion and rage while the second guy steps right in front of me, brandishing a small knife with a cheap plastic handle. “Don’t move, asshole.” The blade trembles in his grip.
The tall guy then pushes Chloe, who stumbles backward, arms flailing as she crashes into a pyramid of tomatoes. Produce cascades around her, rolling across the pavement in a chaotic scatter.
Red blurs my vision. Who the hell shoves a woman like that?
Rather than slow down, the world sharpens.
Colors intensify. Sounds clarify. Time keeps its pace, but my perception accelerates, processing information at combat speed.
I don’t even glance at the knife-wielder. That blade is a secondary threat, his awkward handling telegraphing his inexperience.
My focus zeroes in on the first attacker. The one who dared to touch Chloe.
I glide past Shorty with fluid precision and strike the purse-snatcher in the throat with my elbow.
A choked gasp escapes him.
He collapses to the ground.
The knife-wielder reacts in a clumsy and predictable manner.
I sidestep his advance and clamp my hand onto his wrist.
A sharp twist and applied pressure to his radius and ulna do the trick. Beneath my grip, the satisfying, sickening crack of bones is just barely muffled.
The knife clatters to the pavement.
A guttural grunt of pain erupts from him as my boot connects with his knee, driving the joint sideways at an impossible angle.
The joint gives way with a wet popping sound. A victorious symphony.
The guy crumples.
Screaming.
Silence descends over the rest of the market.
