I smell cigarettes. Cool air dragged underground.
He doesn’t look rattled. Doesn’t look like some idiot trying to snatch a bag.
He looks calm. Controlled.
Like he’s been waiting for me to make this hard.
“Come quietly,” he says under his breath.
I almost laugh. “Or what?”
I rip my arm, trying to break his grip, but he only tightens it.
The guy with the cap goes for the duffel again, yanking hard, trying to split my focus.
Two to one.
Fuck.
I jerk my elbow back and twist, reaching with my free hand for the knife at my waist.
The man holding me shifts with me, like he expected it. Like he’s done this before.
“Easy,” he says.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
I bring my heel down hard, aiming for his foot. He moves just enough to take the worst of it. The cap guy swears as I slam the bag into his chest.
For one flashing second, I think I can still get out of this.
Then the third one comes in behind me.
I don’t see him. I feel him.
A rush of air. A body at my back. Then pain detonates at the side of my head.
White.
Blinding, sickening white.
My knees buckle instantly. The whole station tilts in a nauseating lurch, fluorescent lights smearing into long bright streaks overhead.
Sound goes strange. Muffled. Warped.
Somebody catches me before I hit the ground.
I fight on reflex. Try to wrench free. Try to get my hand to the knife.
Nothing listens. My fingers are numb. My mouth tastes like metal.
“Careful,” someone says near my ear, voice stretched and underwater.
The duffel is torn out of my hand.
The platform slides in and out of focus. Concrete. Shoes. A dark sleeve. The filthy yellow edge near the tracks.
Then even that is gone.
