Part 42 (1/2)
But I couldn't tell where he was.
”Bud. Talkin' to you.”
There.
Some tall, lanky guy in dark rags was loitering in the shadows just ahead. Hanging out near the airport. Stepping out from the dark to confront me. Looking for easy prey.
He thought that I fit that bill.
I almost laughed.
”Your wallet and your phone,” he growled, flicking out a particularly vicious switchblade.
I continued walking up, and he took a step towards me. As he saw that I wasn't going to comply, he a.s.sessed me briefly, deciding that I was somehow bluffing in my confidence.
f.u.c.king strung-out junkie.
I was half a foot taller and a lot broader.
”Stop,” he growled again.
”f.u.c.k off,” I replied coolly.
He was tense.
Probably wasn't used to this.
Criminals lacking imagination never know what to do when people don't act according to plan. It's early in the morning, the roads are deserted, and he has a knife.
The plan says, the victim stops.
The victim is terrified.
But me?
Hah.
I am, sure as s.h.i.+t, no G.o.dd.a.m.ned victim.
The downside is that this tends to make a tweaked-out thief like him unpredictable. When the script in his head goes awry, even he doesn't know what he's gonna do, half the time.
Two choices: Back down.
Strike.
But I had this guy pinned, and I knew exactly what he was gonna do. As he jumped forward with the knife, I easily sidestepped him. Channeling my momentum into a wide swing, I brought my suitcase up in a sharp arc.
He whirled back around to face me, but the case connected with his head, throwing him off balance and against a nearby building. As he reeled from the blow, I dropped the case to the side, stepping forward to try and tightly grasp his wrist.
Surprisingly, the f.u.c.ker was agile.
He dodged my grip and slipped to the side, las.h.i.+ng out with the blade in an unpredictable volley of jabs.
We were back to square one.
Only this time...we were both ticked off.
”Couldn't make it easy, could ya?” He grumbled. ”Just had to go and make this a f.u.c.king mess, didn't ya? You piece of s.h.i.+t!”
”Go the f.u.c.k home,” I commanded him.
He merely grit his teeth, taking a ridiculous defensive stance. His blade still stood at the ready, catching just the slightest bit of light.
n.o.body else was out here.
It was just him and me.
”The wallet, and your phone,” he repeated.
Out of my peripheral, I took in my surroundings...and a dangerous but workable idea formed in my head.
”Go to h.e.l.l,” I grinned.
With a snarl, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d lunged again.
I was ready. I dodged out of the way, carefully planting my sneakers against the ground. He whipped around and whirled towards me again, but I jumped backward and gave his strike no purchase. His desperate lunge put him off balance. Out of control...
He was right where I wanted him, lined up to be on the receiving end of one solid punch. A certain satisfaction rolled through me as I connected.
I watched him clutch at his gut as he stumbled back from the blow, but he managed to maintain his grip on the switchblade. Carefully but swiftly, I delivered a kick to his head before throwing my weight into a shoulder tackle, pinning him by the chest up against the wall as I scrambled to get control of his arm.
Persistent f.u.c.ker that he was, the switchblade was still in play, but he couldn't maneuver it with my grip. I twisted his arm round into a submission worthy of my wrestling days back in school.
”Drop it,” I growled.
He chose to spit into my face...
So I broke his arm.
He screamed, finally relinquis.h.i.+ng the blade to the wet concrete as he fell to his knees, I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
”Wrong time for this s.h.i.+t,” I told him. ”I just came home with a girl who makes me crazy and now I have to leave her for a few days. Unlucky for you, I was already p.i.s.sed off. I ever catch you on the streets again, I'll break a whole lot more than that arm...”
I let go of him, and he curled up against the slick ground. The junkie probably wasn't even listening to me through the sobbing and the pain.
I pitied him, almost.