Simply drops, gagging and clutching at his neck. If he coughs, there’ll be blood. Scary, but not fatal.
Punk number two pivots while yanking an object from his pocket.
Knife.
A cheap, flimsy switchblade with a serrated edge. The kind sold at flea markets and pawn shops.
Mudakí.
Déjà vu hits me. This is the farmers market incident all over again. Do these dickheads all learn from the same thug playbook?
I sidestep, swivel, and lift my arm in a dance I’ve done a thousand times, the moves ingrained into my muscles like breathing. Taking down FNGs like this is child’s play.
I drive my elbow into his clavicle. The bone snaps with a wet crack.
I know from experience that it hurts like Satan’s pitchfork.
He screams, stumbling backward into a metal shelving unit loaded with more glitter and beads. His body crashes, rattling craft supplies.
Chloe’s eyes widen with horror. “Kolya. What did?—”
“Stay back.” I step in front of her while scanning the store. These two weren’t alone. They’re too stupid to plan this themselves.
Broken shoulder boy’s still wailing like a wounded animal. Snake Tattoo chokes out wet gasps as he writhes on the floor, spitting blood.
I wrinkle my nose. Smells like he pissed himself too.
Shoppers scramble away, abandoning their carts and pulling children close. A woman shouts into her phone, probably communicating with a 911 dispatcher.
Chloe’s fingers dig into my arm, her nails leaving half-moons in my skin even through my jacket. “Just like yesterday. You hurt them.”
But did they die?
My attention is fixed on the end of the aisle, on a third man. The first two aremudaki, completely useless trash. This one, though, is taller than the others. Well-dressed. His eyes dart to his fallen companions, then to Chloe, and after that, to me.
They flicker with recognition.
Not of who I am, but of what I am. What I do.
He’s the man in charge. Unlike his friends, he might actually be a problem.
“Kolya?” Chloe’s voice sounds far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears as I calculate angles, distances, and weapons within reach. “Kolya, we should help them. They’re hurt.”
She doesn’t understand that—best-case scenario—they were going to kidnap her. She just wants to tend to the blood and the pain. Make things better. Apply a bandage and a kiss the way she does for her kindergartners. But there’s no making this better.
There’s only survival.
The third man lurches toward us. My body coils, ready for whatever comes next.
Everything about him screams professional. The way his eyes track movement, the controlled stillness of his stance, the careful distance he maintains. No visible tattoos. Just designer jeans, an expensive button-down, and eyes that have seen things.
This man has done things.
His right hand hangs loose at his side, poised to grab for his weapon. He shifts, distributing his weight between both feet.
A fighter’s stance. Reinforcing my theory that he’s no novice.
I shoot her adon’t you dare disobey meglimpse and add, “Go.”
