“I know you’re dumb enough to try.”
Silence. The sun had died behind the clouds, dusk now an ugly bruise across the parking lot. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Rex popped his neck, then took one last, deliberate look at the clerk.
“Hey, shitbird,” he called, never taking his eyes off me. “Call the cops if you want to keep breathing.”
The clerk ducked under the counter and dialed with frantic, pecking fingers.
Rex moved first, hand dropping to the switchblade at his belt. I took a step back, putting the pump between us. “You’re not that fast,” I said.
He smiled. “You’re not that smart.”
He feinted left, then came around the pump with the blade out, a blur of stainless and shadow. I was ready, but not for the wild swing that took a chunk out of my leather jacket. Close. Too close.
We circled each other, both grinning like idiots, until I heard the station door swing open behind me.
Melissa. Of course.
“Get in the bathroom,” I hissed, never breaking eye contact with Rex. She hesitated, then ducked inside, the door slamming behind her with a hollow clang.
Rex laughed. “Real hero. Real fucking hero.”
I didn’t answer. He flicked his knife open and closed, a nervous tic, and in that millisecond, I saw it—the old wrist injury, a slight hesitation in his offhand. I pivoted, grabbed a handful of gravel, and flung it at his face.
He swore, blade whipping blindly. I closed the gap and jammed the heel of my palm into his solar plexus. Hedoubled over, then caught me in the ribs with a punch that felt like a crowbar.
We broke apart, panting, circling. The clerk was making little animal noises behind the glass, phone still glued to his ear.
Rex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blood leaking from a split lip. “You’re fucked,” he said.
I smiled and let him see all the teeth. “You wish.”
He charged, knife up. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, twisted. He grunted, but didn’t drop the blade. Instead, he brought his knee up into my thigh, hard enough to make my leg go numb.
We hit the wall of the building, a mess of limbs and curses. I tasted copper. He pressed his forearm into my throat, pinning me. “You’re gonna bleed,” he said.
“Not before you do.”
With my free hand, I drew the Glock and pressed it into his ribs.
He froze.
“Go ahead,” I whispered. “Give me a reason.”
He looked down, then back at me. The blade hovered an inch from my cheek. For a second, neither of us moved. Then Rex backed off, hands raised. “You won’t shoot.”
“Try me,” I said, lowering the gun but not holstering it.
He spat blood onto the concrete, then gave me the finger. “Fucking psycho.”
“Says the guy with the knife fetish.”
He shot a look at the station door, then at his bike. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice low.
“It better be,” I replied, “or next time you’re not walking away.”
He slunk back to his hog, climbed on, and peeled out, back tire screeching like a banshee. The stench of burnt rubber mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
Inside the station, the clerk stared at me, phone trembling in his hand.
