Collateral Damage by H. Terrell Griffin

grasping something. It took me a nanosecond to recognize the knife, a big one, like the KA-BARS the Marines had in Vietnam. His eyes were boring into me, his face a grimace of concentration. He was moving in for the kill.
    I reacted without thought, a muscle memory left over from my days as a soldier, honed by my regular martial arts classes in Bradenton. I did just what he didn’t expect. I moved into him, sidestepping his thrust, turning my back to him, using my left arm to grasp his knife arm as it slid past me. I caught a bit of the blade in my side. I was aware of it, but the pain had not yet registered. I brought my right arm across my body, clasped his wrist in my right hand, twisted and pushed down hard while using my left arm as a lever to push his upper arm forward. I heard the knife drop to the boards of the crosswalk and at the same instant I heard his elbow snap.
    The man screamed in pain. I let go of his wrist, pivoted, and punched him in the solar plexus, using all my strength, aiming for his spine, knowing it would take his breath away. I thought for a second that my fist had gone all the way through him and bounced off his vertebrae,but that was only wishful thinking. He went down, and I stomped his broken elbow. He screamed again. I kicked him in the face, once, twice, backed up, stooped, and picked up the knife. I was going to carve him up like a Christmas turkey. I was filled with rage. The thought that somebody would think nothing of killing me on a rain-cloaked beach on my home island blotted out all my civilized instincts.
    I held the knife, dropped back onto the man now writhing on the boardwalk, put my knee in his stomach and the point of the knife under his chin. “Who are you?” I said, my voice sounding in my own ears like a roar. “Who the fuck are you?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “Don’t kill me.”
    I pushed the point of the knife in farther. He was a dead man. I was going to stick the knife into his brain. Then, like a curtain lifting, the rage dissipated, leaving me, as it always does, emotionally limp and drained. I asked again, this time in a quiet voice, “Who are you?”
    â€œGet off him,” I heard a feminine voice say. “Get off or so help me I’ll shoot.”
    I looked up. A woman was standing near the parking lot end of the boardwalk, a large pistol held in both hands, pointing at me.
    I didn’t move. “If I let him up, you’ll still shoot me.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “This is over.”
    â€œTell you what,” I said. “You put the pistol down on the boards, and I’ll let your friend up. He’s not going to be using his left arm for a while, so I don’t think he’s much of a threat. He and I will walk toward you, and you turn around and walk toward the parking lot. You can pick up the pistol when your back is turned to me. If you try to turn around, I’ll stab your friend to death.”
    â€œHow do I know you won’t kill him when I put the gun down?”
    â€œIf I do, you’ll have time to pick it up and shoot me. When you start walking, if I stab him, you’ll have time to turn around and shoot me. I think this will work.”
    She stooped slowly and placed the pistol on the boardwalk. I noticed that she’d been holding the gun in her right hand. “Turn around,” I said, “and pick up the pistol with your left hand.”
    She did as I told her. “Start walking,” I said. I prodded the man with the tip of the knife next to his carotid artery and we began to follow.
    The woman walked to a small sedan parked next to my Explorer. She stopped. “This is my car,” she said. “What now?”
    â€œGet in the driver’s side,” I said. “And don’t point the pistol at me.” She did as I said, keeping the weapon in her left hand. When she was under the steering wheel, I walked toward the passenger side of my