Page 84 of Not So Goode

Hold back.

But when someone comes at you with a knife, there is no holding back. He swung, and I danced backward, the tip missing my belly by a whisker. Danced back again, and again. Then he did something stupid. Tried to fake me out with a feint.

I faked like I was going to counter his strike, and he turned the feint into a real strike, which brought him off-balance.

I used my free hand to snag his wrist, twisted, turning his elbow and wrist the wrong way, and I brought my baton down, hard. His elbow turned inside out.

He dropped the knife and went to one knee, growling through gritted teeth.

I backed away, hoping it was over.

He lurched up, the knife in his off-hand. He moved faster than I’d have believed him capable of, and I only just barely managed to twist aside, so the knife sliced along my ribcage, opening my skin deep, but not penetrating the way it could have.

He was way off-balance, having put everything he had into that charge. I was forced into a spin, my own twist taking me around a full three hundred and sixty degrees to land outside of his range; my baton swinging, hard. It was a black blur, my foot stomping to plant a blow to his head.

I hit his temple with the baton.

He collapsed, instantly.

It was over—with Yak down, the fight was over.

I staggered to my bike. Braced my hand on it, tossed the baton to the ground and pressed a hand to my bleeding ribcage.

I saw Charlie tear herself away from the bartender. “Stay over there, Charlie,” I called. “Don’t need to see this.”

She ignored me. Stepping over bodies, blanching at the sight of limbs bent the wrong way, blood everywhere, she prepared to take her shirt off, grabbing it by the hem.

I snagged her wrist with my good hand. “Much as I’d appreciate a gander at your big ol’ titties again, Charlie, this ain’t the time.”

“For your wound, you idiot.”

I pointed at the saddlebag. “In there. Got a spare T-shirt. Use that, not your own.”

She fished it out and pressed it to my wound, holding it tight. She pulled it away to peer at the damage. “You need stitches.”

“Nah, fuck that.”

She was shaking all over. “Crow, you’re very badly cut.”

“Stitches mean questions.”

Leif was on the phone as he stood in front of the door, barricading it to keep onlookers inside.

“What are you going to do, then, just bleed everywhere?”

I moved around to the other side of the bike, dug in my other saddlebag, and found the roll of duct tape I keep there. I folded the T-shirt into a thick rectangle and pressed my hand against it, and had Charlie wrap the duct tape around my middle, tight and bracing.

“There. Good as new,” I said when she was done. I faked a breezy grin and tone I didn’t feel—that shit hurt like a motherfucker, but I wasn’t about to show that to her, though. “Come on, babe. Let’s ride.”

I popped my helmet on my head, clipped it. Plopped hers onto her head, clipped it on. Collapsed my baton, tossed it into the saddlebag, and swung on. Dug my key out of my pocket and started the bike.

She was staring at me, and then she turned to look at the pile of limbs and bodies. “Crow…”

“We gotta go, babe.”

“What about them?”

“He’s got it,” I said, gesturing at the bartender.