“I don’t need your kind of help.”
The rangy man began laughing, too. “We’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said.
They left, and Nikki watched the door swing shut behind them. She fought an instinct to rush forward and turn the bolt; it would only signal fear to those assholes.
Slowly, she turned back to the class.
“Good work,” she said. “Let’s cool down and do some stretching.”
—
Afterwards, as the students left by twos and threes, Nikki gathered her gear, shoved it in a duffel bag, and swung this across her body. She was drained, and ready for bed.
The past few months had been unexpectedly difficult—and Nikki often felt as if she were wading knee-deep through sludge. She prided herself on her resilience, an ability to pick herself up off the mat and come back swinging. But the events this past summer had cost her more than she wanted to admit. She hated the vulnerability, the sense of weakness in body and mind. She wanted something solid to slam with her fists. But there were only shadows, rumors in the dark. She moved ever onward to the next thing, and the next, but couldn’t shake the sense that some terror was breathing down her neck, scraping at her heels. She steadfastly refused to give it attention, yet this only seemed to intensify the dread.
—
She checked the toilet, switched off the lights, locked the door to the storefront studio, pulled down the graffiti-tagged metal grate, and locked that, too. Rent for this place was inexpensive—an arrangement made through a friend of a friend. It had seemed like a good deal at the time, and she liked that it was accessible to the metro so that her students could come from across the city. She’d spent a few evenings tidying it up, scrubbing away some of the grime, and getting a plumber in so that the toilet flushed properly. But Nikki didn’t know the neighborhood well. More important, she didn’t know the neighbors—so there was nobody to keep an eye out, to whisper in the right ears that she was one of them, someone who could slide by without excuse or toll. Being an outsider put her and her students at risk, and she didn’t like it.
She didn’t know exactly what had prompted this impractical urge to start teaching again. She’d instructed the occasional course on the US military base, but that had been easier—requested by the base commander and readily supported by her supervisor, Angelo. This, by contrast, was her own initiative, and it had been difficult to work out with her schedule and duties as a Phoenix Seven liaison officer. Phoenix Seven was staffed by Italian security investigators and served as an interface between the US military and local law enforcement. They worked on shift schedules, and Angelo had seemed particularly unwilling to accommodate Nikki’s new teaching duties.
“Your work should come first,” he told her. “What you decide to do on your own time, and how you manage it isyourresponsibility.”
He seemed to deliberately plan her shifts during the times she was scheduled to teach. So, she stopped sharing her schedule requests with him. She bartered with the other members of the unit, trading shifts when necessary—more often than not taking the night shifts. She could have predicted Angelo’s obstinacy, but watching it play out, maneuvering around it, was exhausting.
—
The sounds of the city echoed on the stones and storefronts around her, the traffic noises somehow altered and amplified by the clarity of the rain. Rain spattered her face, dripped down her neck.
Nikki was almost to her Honda Hornet when the attack came—a rapid slap of sprinting feet. Before she had time to turn or brace, thick arms lashed suddenly around her from behind, gripping her in a bear hug. His body stank of sweat and cologne, his breath the stale acrid odor of coffee, beer, and cigarettes. He was taller than she, and stronger, and she felt almost like a child, upper arms pinned at her sides. He shook her like a rag doll, lifting her once, twice. Her feet came off the ground. She hammered down a fist, aiming for his groin. Then, gripping his hands with both of hers, secured them away from her chin so he couldn’t maneuver her into a headlock. But he was lifting, dragging her backwards and into the shadows of an alleyway.
No way. No fucking way.
She counted, waited until her feet were both on the ground again. Then, tucking her head to her left shoulder, she shoved her right hip out and, with the same motion, raised her right elbow, creating just enough space to pull herself out of his hold. She’d practiced the maneuver plenty of times in training, but this was different. Her attacker was motivated, and gripped harder, swearing and grunting, as she slithered from his grasp. She’d just gotten free when he caught hold of her bag strap and yanked her inward. The sudden impulse jolted her and she raised her elbow as he brought her into him, aimed it for his throat. But he was tall, and the strike glanced off his chest. And nowhe grabbed her wrist. She was off-balance. Leaning, she struggled to regain her center as she brought her knee up again and again.
Suddenly, without warning, he released her. She didn’t wait to find out why. She lashed out hard with elbows and knees, then danced backwards, putting distance between them. To her surprise, he didn’t pursue.
Her attacker was frozen, breathing hard, hands raised. He stared at her with bulging eyes, and she recognized him: the rangy man who’d come into the studio tonight. She scanned the street for his companion. He was nowhere to be seen.
For a wild moment, Nikki thought he was surrendering to her. But the truth became evident when she saw the dark shape of a gun pressed to his head, and a low voice growled, “On your knees.”
The bulging-eyed man descended slowly to the hard wet stone, and behind him, Nikki saw the man with the gun more clearly.
He was short and compact, with a neatly trimmed beard and arched nose, his lips in the delicate shape of a crooked cupid’s bow. He held the Beretta with practiced ease, as if it were merely an extension of him. She had seen him only twice before, but knew him immediately.
“Signor De Rosa.”
He didn’t respond, only kept his attention, his gun turned on her attacker. He stepped around the man, facing him.
“You’ve made a poor decision,” said De Rosa to the kneeling man. “Do you know who I am?”
The man nodded, but De Rosa said with slow emphasis, “Use your words. Say who I am.”
“You’re Tito Calandra’s man.”
“Good boy. And do you know who this is?”
He lifted his chin towards Nikki. The man shook his head.
