Page 19 of The Thief
"Depends how nice you ask."
The implications are clear. They don't want money. They want payment in flesh, to take back whatever pride they lost last night.
"And if I'm not feeling particularly apologetic?"
Sean grins, showing his bloody and broken teeth. "Then we'll have to extract it from you."
One of his friends produces a knife. Nothing fancy, just a kitchen blade that'll do the job. The other's have brass knuckles, probably thinking they make him look hard, rather than what they can do in a fight.
Amateurs.
"Three against one," I say. "Hardly seems fair."
"Life's not fair, love."
"No," I agree. "It's not."
I drop the shopping bag, letting the milk carton hit the ground with a wet splat, then reach behind my back for the knife Dad made me carry since I was sixteen. Seven inches of tempered steel with a grip worn smooth by years of practice.
"Fuck me," one of them breathes. "She's armed."
"So are we," Sean snarls. "And there are three of us."
"There were three of you last night," I point out. "How'd that work out?"
But they're committed now. They can't back down without losing face, and men like Sean would rather die than look weak in front of their mates.
He comes at me first. I sidestep, let his momentum carry him past me, and open up his forearm with my blade. He screams, drops his knife, and clutches the wound like it's mortal.
One down.
The second one's smarter, more cautious. He circles me like a predator, looking for an opening. The brass knuckles catch the streetlight, throwing shadows on the alley walls.
"Come on then," I say. "Let's get this over with."
He rushes me, swinging wild. I duck under his first punch, drive my knee into his stomach, and bring my elbow down on the back of his neck when he doubles over. He hits the ground hard and stays down.
Two down.
The third one's already running. Smart lad. He knows when he's outmatched.
Sean's still whimpering over his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. It’s nothing serious. Dad taught me where to cut to disable, not kill. Though right now, I'm tempted to finish the job.
"Next time you want an apology," I say, "try asking nicely."
I bend over to retrieve my shopping, when I hear footsteps. A fourth man, moving fast, is coming from the mouth of the alley. He must have been waiting as backup.
I spin, knife ready, but he's already on me. He’s bigger than the others, and faster, too. His fist catches me in the ribs and drives the air from my lungs. I stumble and go down hard on the wet concrete.
He's got a crowbar. Where the fuck did he get a crowbar?
"Stupid bitch," he snarls, raising it above his head.
The metal whistles down toward my skull.
And then Freddie's there.
He’s moving like liquid violence, faster than should be possible, his hand catches the crowbar mid-swing and twists it from the man's grip like he's disarming a child. The follow-up is brutal: knee to the ribs, elbow to the temple; a combination that drops the attacker like a sack of cement.
