Page 17 of Delta

The start of his swing is low, which gives him good leverage and force, but leaves him off balance when I dance backward out of each. I slice my blade across his hand, bloodying his knuckles. He's tough, though, I’ll give him that—he hisses in pain but keeps hold of his knife. He turns the upper cut swing into a lunging swipe; I twist out of the way, and the blade barely misses my tits, slicing along the front of my bicep. A sharp, hot line of pain blooms as the edge bites skin—it's shallow, nothing to worry about, just painful.

And it's a prime opportunity.

Twisted to the side, his arm is now parallel to my torso. I use Auntie Cuddy's self-defense training to wrap an arm around his elbow, twisting my body further while crushing his arm the wrong way against my hip. The joint snaps, and he screams, dropping the knife to cradle his broken elbow.

No mercy. No hesitation.

Again, it's instinct. Training is taking over. Dodge, break, stab. My blade whistles upward, digging under his ribcage on his left side just like Uncle Duke taught me.

I'm not sure this blade is long enough to reach his heart—there's a lot of pudge in the way. The tip scrapes over bone with a judder that sets my teeth on edge, like scraping your fork on a plate. I push harder. Deeper. His fat swallows the blade, and I keep pushing, putting my nose to his and letting him see the hate in my eyes.

I feel the moment I pierce his heart—there's resistance, and then a give, and then his eyes flare wide and his mouth falls open, and a soft gasp leaves his throat. He sags toward me, dark eyes going flat and vacant.

I stagger backward, letting him topple to the floor with a hard, wet smack. Blood pools under him, spreading in a dark ruby stain.

At that moment, the brakes squeal and I’m thrown backward as the train slows. I land on my ass and then smack my head against the floor. Dizzy, seeing stars, I scramble to my hands and knees, coming face to face with the sightless, vacant stare of the second man I've killed in less than five minutes.

I retch, but only a string of bile comes out.

I hear a scream back the other way; someone has found the corpse in the toilet.

I stagger to my feet and put distance between me and the corpse. Through to the next car, staggering, horror, nausea, and confusion swiftly taking the place of the rage that’s fueled me so far.

I just killed two men.

"Fräulein? Entshuldigung? Bist du verletzt?"

I don't speak German either, but I know concern when I hear it. An older man, tall and thin with white hair and a neat goatee, stands in the doorway of his compartment, looking worried. He’s quite literally wringing his hands.

"Ihr arm… es blutet." He gestures at my…well, arm. That's the same, I guess.

I glance at it, and suddenly it stings and burns like a bitch. "Oh, shit, yeah, I guess I’m bleeding, huh?"

"English?"

"American."

"You are not wearing enough clothing for this weather, fräulein. It is winter." Vearing…zis…vinter.

"Tell me about it, dude." The train lurches forward, scuds a few hundred yards at a crawl, and then stops again. Outside, nothing but darkness. "Why are we stopped?" I ask.

"Weiss nicht. Is a train. Who knows?" He frowns at my bleeding arm. "You are in trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." Ha. Right. But I'm in shock, and I don't know this guy.

He's dressed in a tailored navy suit with a pale blue tie and pocket square; he removes his tie and pocket square, presses the pale blue swatch of silk against the cut, and then winds the tie around it several times, tugs it tight, and knots it. Next, he removes his suit coat and settles it on my shoulders.

"Here, fräulein. We will arrive to Berlin soon." He checks his wristwatch. "Ja, Berlin in eleven minutes, I think. Will you allow me to assist you when we arrive?"

I want to. But a worm of worry wriggles in my belly. This is a kind old man. And some unsettled instinct tells me this super fun adventure I've gotten myself into isn't over yet.

I clasp his hand in mine. "Thank you, sir. You're very kind. But you're right—I am in trouble." I glance past him; his wife is asleep in their compartment, her head resting against the window. She's a sweet little old lady. Someone's grandmother. "I won't involve you in it."

"But fräulein, I have friends—"

"I appreciate the offer, truly, but no, thank you." I gnaw on my lip. “Actually, do you have a cell phone I could borrow?"

He winces. "Nein, es tut mir leid. I do not own a mobile phone. My grandchildren think I am so crazy, ja? Who does not have a mobile phone in this day and age, hmm? But this way, they come to see me." He reaches into his hip pocket and pulls out a folded stack of euros, peels off several of the larger bills, and hands them to me—it looks like four or five hundred euros. "Please. Take this."