Page 16 of Delta

Well, fuck it. There's nowhere to run and only so many places to hide.

He approaches, waving his knife at me with that sick little grin that suggests he'd probably fuck my body while I bleed out.

I watch him move, assessing him the way Duke taught me. He’s holding the blade low, down near his belt buckle, blade pointing down from the bottom of his fist, because that’s how they do it in the movies. His whole body is facing me, empty hand at his side. Yeah, this guy has zero clue.

Still dangerous, but he's no knife fighter.

Neither am I, but I was trained by some of the best warriors on the planet. I was taught to survive. Taught to use my wits.

I stand my ground and let him approach. His jiggly, porcine jowls are coated in sweat and stubble, cheeks red, huffing and puffing from chasing me all of fifty yards.

He shuffles to a halt a few feet away. "Pange nuga käest. Tule vaikselt."

“Yeah, fuck you too, fat-ass." I flip him off. "Come and fuckin' get me."

"Not need you, American bitch. You die, no one care."

I laugh at that. "You could not possibly be more wrong, dumbfuck. You have no idea who the fuck I am, do you? You kidnapped the wrong extra girl."

This makes him pause. "Who you are?"

"Ever hear of Nick Harris? Alpha One Security?"

"Everyone know him."

"He's my father."

"You lie."

"I might be, sure. But what if I'm not? Whoever you work for, they're fucked."

He just grins at this. "Him I work for, he is not scared of your papa. And I am not scared of you."

"Neither was your friend, and he's dead in the toilet with his pants around his ankles."

This gets him. "You lie."

"Yeah? Where is he, then? And how do I have his knife?" I wave the weapon. I twirl the knife in a come-here gesture. "Come on, fat ass. Come and get me. I'll cut you to pieces like the fat ugly fucking pig you are."

"Fuck you, American bitch."

Yeah, he's pissed. So I needle him a bit more, hoping anger makes him stupider, which it typically does with idiot men like this.

“Awww, is your sad little prick even gonna work, fat ass?" I mime jerking off with the knife. "I bet the only way you can get hard is by forcing yourself on innocent girls. You know why, fat ass? Because it's the only way anyone would ever fuck an ugly, stupid, sad, fat sack of shit like you. I bet you can't even pay for sex. I bet even the most blownout old hooker wouldn't take your money to let you fuck her."

Oooh boy, he’s big mad, now.

“I will fucking kill you, bitch," he snarls. "But I will make you scream, first."

"You wish you could make me scream. I bet your fat, ugly mother screamed when she saw you the first time. Probably thought she'd given birth to a tumor, you're so fucking ugly."

Yeah, I’m resorting to your mama jokes. You try coming up with witty banter while a knife-wielding rapist tries to kill you.

And you know what's funny? It's the stupid joke about his mother that sets him off.

I would laugh at that, but he's charging me, yelling, swinging that six-inch black folding knife up toward my gut.

Thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints for the hours of training with Uncle Duke, because the moment I see that knife-tip hurtling toward my belly, my training kicks in. It's not even conscious.