Page 32 of Tank
The moment the blade flashes under the streetlight, my breath catches. Long. Thin. Deadly. Terror seizes me, choking off my air until I can barely force the thought through my head: a knife. My body locks up. I’m paralyzed. Shit. Behind me, Vanessa lets out a strangled whimper, a sound of fear that cuts worse than the blade will if I let him make good on his threat.
The dealer shifts his grip, smirking like he’s already won. “You should’ve just walked away, you fucking cunt.” The words are low and full of menace. It’s what I want to do, what every instinct screams at me. Walk away. Back off. Keep my mouth shut and let him do what he came here to do. Get out with my life intact.
But I don’t.
Because behind me, there’s Vanessa, weak and crumbling with desperation, caught in a moment she can’t see past. She’s better than this; I know it, even if right now she doesn’t. She’s stronger than this. But if I step aside, if I leave her to this weakness and let these drugs reclaim her, she’ll be lost for good. And she deserves better. A heat rises in my chest. It’s a furious, indignant fire that burns with the rage left in my heart from every time some violent, full-of-himself man thought he could corner me, threaten me, make me back down. The dealer takes a step forward, the blade angling toward me.
No.
That fire flares. It reaches my spine and I lift my chin. “Are you kidding me?”
The dealer blinks, confused, hesitating. “What?”
“You’re pulling a knife? On me?” I straighten my posture, incredulous, shoving terror aside and letting out a sharp laugh that echoes in the empty street. “What, were you bullied as a kid and decided to make up for it by terrorizing women?” His smirk falters. It’s a tiny crack in the armor, but it’s enough to push me forward, jabbing a finger now toward his chest. “You think I’m scared of you?” My voice is loud, fiery, blistering. “I’ve met rats with more spine than you. You’re pathetic. You’re weak.” Every word is an attack, a blow to his sad, fragile ego. “You think I’m running away because you flash a little metal? You sad, sorry, scared little man.” Saying it makes it true. He’s small, he’s weak, and I can do this. If he doesn’t scare me, he can’t hurt me. Not where it really matters, anyway. “You’re gonna cry next?”
He’s rattled, stammering. “I—”
“Yeah. I thought so.”
His grip on the knife tightens, knuckles whitening, his lips pulled into a thin, relentless line.
Vanessa sucks in a breath behind me, high and panicked, the sound desperate and pleading. “Bianca, you should…” Her voice cracks with urgency and fear as she trails off, but I don’t let it finish me. I won’t let myself crumble. He might have a knife, but I have the fire. I just need him angry. I just need him distracted. Because I know that I’m not a fucking idiot, even if right now I’m acting like one, taunting him, like I’m some reckless fool with nothing to lose. I have something to lose — I have my life, I have Vanessa’s life, and all of it will slip through my fingers like water if I don’t play this right. I know I need help.
But this street, even though it looks empty, even though it feels like there’s nothing standing between me and this knife-wielding son of a bitch, is not actually empty at all. Vanessa and I are not alone.
I raise my voice, sharp and loud, cutting through the night.
“Hey! This lowlife, piece of shit drug dealer thinks he can pull a knife on me.”
The words echo, and for a breath, there’s nothing but silence. I think for one terrible second that maybe I really am alone. But then—the door behind me flies open with brutal, wonderful force. Safe House opens. And Safe House is not empty, not by a long shot. Feet thud against the pavement with the sound of thunder approaching. A wave of women surges out of Safe House — my home, my sanctuary, the place I built with my blood, my sweat, and my tears — and at the front of this furious tide of women stands Alex, rock-solid and fierce as hell. Every single one of these women wears a mask that echoes the rage burning inside me. They are tired; they are angry; they are fucking fed up with pieces of shit like this man in front of me who thinks he can use and abuse us with no fucking consequences.
“Oh, fuck…” The dealer’s face shifts, his expression changing from anger to alarm. He’s surrounded. A dozen furious voices rise at once.
“You think you’re tough? You’re nothing. You’re fucking pathetic.”
“Get out of here, loser. No one wants you. No one likes you.”
“You don’t scare us. You’re shit. Just pure fucking shit.”
He looks from one woman to the next, and each face staring back at him is blazing with fury. He turns the blade, ready to fight, but there’s no fear in their eyes, only rage. This is a different kind of threat. It’s one he doesn’t know how to handle. He’s surrounded, trapped.
“Go back to your mommy, you ugly piece of shit!”
He’s the one caught now. He’s the one cornered.
Alex crosses her arms, stepping beside me. “You’ve got two choices,” she says coolly. “You run. Or we make you wish you had.”
In that moment, I can see it: he’s rattled, losing his grip on the pathetic power he thought he had. He’s outnumbered, and he knows it. His mouth tightens. His expression shifts from anger to panic.
Then — he bolts.
The knife clatters to the ground as he takes off, sprinting, stumbling, running for his life like the coward he is.
I don’t breathe again until he disappears down the street.
Vanessa lets out a sound, a broken, heartbreaking sob that erupts from her throat and echoes in the night, shattering the strength she tried so hard to hold on to.
“I — I didn’t mean — I didn’t want anyone to get hurt,” she chokes out. Her voice trembles, uneven and cracked. “I just — I can’t do this. It’s too hard.” She’s falling apart, collapsing under the weight of her own despair, so fragile I think she might slip through my fingers.
