Blood

I see the knife twirling in the man’s hand, and then I see them dragging Scarlet away.

Scarlet is screaming, kicking, but with one man to grab each limb of hers, there’s nothing she can do to stop them. I look around, hoping that there might be somebody else to save the day, but there’s only the kid on the ground, groaning and clutching his stomach. A second later, the thugs have taken her around the corner and out of sight.

My stomach drops as I see their leader approaching me.

There are a lot of things that I can do.

Winning a knife-fight with my fists is not one of them.

“Let’s make this quick,” the man grins, swishing his knife through the air. “I don’t want to miss out on some of the action, if you get what I mean.”

I take a couple steps backwards, holding up my hands.

They’ve taken Scarlet away.

One bad cut, and I could be out for the count. I can’t do anything to help her if I’m dead myself. There’s only one thing for me to do here.

“I’m just her bodyguard,” I say, raising my hands. “I’m not paid enough to fight you. Have your way.”

I slowly turn around and face the other way, taking a tentative step away from him.

“You know your place,” the man says approvingly. “Now, are you going to run off and tell anyone about what we’re doing?”

I shake my head, stiffly.

I feel the cool of his machete graze the edge of my neck, taking off a tuft of my hair.

“That’s a good man,” he says, and then I hear the clack of his shoes as he turns away.

That’s when I spin around, sweeping out with my foot, catching him off balance. My hand shoots out to his right, the one with his knife, pinning it to the side of his leg. We fall to the ground together, the knife clattering against the hard pavement, still tight in his grip. I’ve got his legs under my control, locked tight under mine, but the man’s a tricky one.

He bashes his head into mine, and I feel my skull reel backwards, the sky flashing black for a split second. His wrist twists to the side, breaking free of my grip, and it’s pure reflex that causes me to flinch to the side, his knife tearing a shallow gash through my shirt and across my skin.

But the move leaves his arm up in the air, and now I’m well inside his guard. I drive an elbow into his arm, ignoring the pain that sears through my side, and his hand goes limp for a second. It’s enough to send the machete clattering to the ground once more.

He tries to headbutt me again, but this time I’m prepared for the move. I shift aside, letting his head crash against my shoulder blade, twisting with the blow to soften its impact, and then I pivot that momentum into a punch lined straight down his chest. He slumps back as it connects, letting out a weak groan.

“Not so scary without your machete, eh?” I say, easing off him to snatch the knife off the ground, ready to finish the job.

But as soon as I let up, the leader of the gang rolls to the side, his wits still intact. He crouches low, facing me, and pulls a serrated tactical knife out of his waistband. It’s a short thing, only a few inches in length. I’ve got the longer knife, and I level it at him, keeping my distance.

He might be taller than me, but I’ve got the reach now. That means everything. As he lunges forwards, trying to jab the knife into my gut, I step backwards, slashing my blade out, forcing him to duck to the side at the last second. He can’t get close to me without suffering a fatal wound himself.

He realises this, dancing backwards out of the series of swipes I launch at him, never able to get his own countermove in.

“Lying bastard,” he curses.

I continue driving him backwards, until he takes a hop back and feels his back press against the wall.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” I say, holding my knife at the ready.

He’s panting, eyeing me warily. A thin line of blood trickles down my left side, the earlier wound almost forgotten through our knife-play. We stare at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move, to end this fight. I’m aware of the clock ticking away the seconds in the back of my head. Every second I delay is another second Scarlet is left alone with those men.

“You’ve lost,” I say. “Give it up and I won’t hurt you any more than I need to.”

The man only laughs, baring his throat at me, and then he charges at me.

It’s a wild attack, reckless swings that bite the air inches in front of me. I block with my machete, metal sparking off metal as our blades meet, and it’s clear this guy has more experience in this knife-fight, the way that he moves from one jab to the next, my parries hardly giving him pause.

But that’s fine. I deflect one of his blows and he immediately moves to strike again, aiming for a cut to my left. He’s expecting me to parry this cut as well, because it’s what I’ve done to meet all of his attacks. So when I instead shift to the right, letting my footwork carry me to safety, he’s suddenly overreached, all his weight thrown into an attack that he thought would be blocked. He stumbles a step forwards, and that’s all I need to stick him with my own knife.

He looks down at the tip of his own machete, embedded an inch or two deep just below his ribs, and then he stares up at me with shock.

I have no time to sympathise with him. I twist the blade out, and fountains of blood gush out with it.

“Turn around. Drop the knife you’re holding,” I snap.

He does. I snatch it off the ground.

“Your place. The place they’ve taken Scarlet to. What’s the address? How do I get there?” I bark.

He stares into the wall, silent.

It’s my turn to put the knife, slick with his blood, against his neck now.

“Talk,” I order.

He mumbles out a series of directions, telling how to get to his place. It turns out to be only a couple blocks away.

I let him finish talking, and then I slash open his Achilles tendons, and then I rush, running, running, desperately hoping that I am not too late in getting there.