The man grabs my arm and puts his knife to my throat, pressing it tightly enough that I can feel it through my turtleneck. My heart thumps like crazy. This isn’t going to end well.
After a moment of excruciating silence, he looks from Jonas to Peter. “Bugger off!”
“I suggestyoubugger off,” Jonas says. “Or you’re dead.”
They glare at each other. I don’t move an inch, lest I provoke him, and he plunges the blade into my neck.
The man with the knife shifts his bulgy eyes back to me.
“Let’s go,” the other guy whispers to him, face twitching nervously. “She’s not worth the trouble.”
Narrowing his eyes, the knife wielder ogles at me lecherously. “I think she is. Just look at her!”
I silently pray for more pushback from his associate. But none comes.
“We won’t hurt the lady,” the knife wielder says to my companions. “We’ll just have a bit of fun and then walk her home.”
His buddy sneers. “Too many shady types on the streets, you know?”
In desperation, I scream for help, hoping someone will hear us from one of the nearby apartments.
“Shut up,” my attacker growls, “or I swear, I’ll kill you!”
Jonas cracks his knuckles in an intimidating manner. “You really have a death wish, huh?”
“I don’t,” the man says. “But it looks like you do.”
“It isn’t d-dark enough,” Peter stutters.
What?
Our attackers look at him. “So what?”
“I’ve seen your faces, that’s what!” Peter is shaking with terror, but he manages to add, “I’ll be able to describe you to the police.”
The second assailant gathers the coats hanging over his arm tighter and demonstratively strokes the blade of his knife. “Are you trying to make us change our minds and kill you?”
Peter steps backward. “No, I’m just warning you that if you hurt our friend…” He takes a shaggy breath before finishing his sentence, “If she doesn’t make it home tonight, you won’t get away with it.”
Jonas widens his eyes at Peter in a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about stare.
What happens next feels like a time-lapse video. Jonas spins and kicks the first lecher’s knife away from my neck. I jump back, wrenching my arm free. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls out a black pocketknife, snaps it open into a real weapon and lashes out at the second man with catlike agility. The man, whether because he’s weighed down by the coats in his arms, or simply because he didn’t expect his prey to turn into a predator, is too slow to use his own weapon. Jonas stabs him in the thigh. Blood gushes from the puncture wound. Jonas must’ve severed an artery.
The wounded man stumbles to the ground, face contorting with pain and rage, while his blood soaks his pants and pools around him.
Peter grabs my hand. “We should run now while Jonas is tackling them.”
We should, shouldn’t we?Then why does it feel like an asshole move?
My gaze darts around me, frantically searching for the glint of the knife Jonas kicked. But the first attacker locates it faster. He lunges for it and grasps it firmly in his hand. In a matter of seconds, he and Jonas are both facing off in a fight-ready stance. This time around, Jonas won’t be able to use the surprise factor.
Will he come up with another plan?
“There are two ways this can end for you,” he says to the bully. “Number one, you fight me, I maim you or kill you, and your friend here bleeds out.”
Everybody looks at the injured man to assess his state. It doesn’t look good.
“He has twenty minutes to live,” Jonas says. “Twenty-five if he’s lucky.”
