dialed 9-1-1. “Because I've already had a difficult day—after a bitch of a week—and this is not going to make it any better.”
The big man smiled, exposing a gold tooth, like he was some kind of villain from a James Bond movie.
“Seriously,” Dave said, “I know I don't look like much, but I'm former CIA. Plus, I just called for help and … Yes,” he said into the phone to the emergency operator. “David Malkoff, formerly with the CIA? I'm on the top floor of the Fruit Street garage at Mass General, with a thug with a knife. Police backup would be nice—ASAP.” He closed and pocketed his phone, then directly addressed the man. “If you start running now, I won't come after you.”
The man's response was to feint forward, then swipe from the left,which sent Dave dancing back, untouched, landing in a defensive crouch as he put it into plain language even an ogre such as this one could understand. “Don't fuck with me.”
Another swipe, and Dave timed it, turning and throwing his entire body into a roundhouse kick that knocked the knife from the fellow's colossal hand. It clattered and skittered across the tarmac as Dave scrambled—not very gracefully but so what, there were no judges here giving them points—to put himself between the giant man and the blade.
And yet the goliath was still between Davy and his rental car, which sucked since he'd left his slingshot back in San Diego. And then it sucked even more, when the last little bit of him that wasn't yet wet got soaked as the skies opened up and the rain came down even harder.
Cssshhhht.
The sound was almost hidden by the rush of the falling rain.
“Oh, come
on”
Dave said, as he saw that, yes, his attacker
had
opened another switchblade. “This is where you run away.”
The man finally spoke. “Not yet.”
“It should be obvious that I'm not giving up my wallet,” Dave pointed out.
“I don't want you to,” the man said, his voice a lilting Irish brogue, a surprisingly musical tenor for such a monster. “Come, man, defend yourself.” He smiled, revealing another flash of that tooth. “Or not.”
He rushed Dave then, and it was like facing down a freight train that was barreling down a mountain. There was no point in trying to pick up that other knife—Irish's arms were much longer.
But a charge of this sort had no finesse, so Dave stood his ground until the last split second, waiting to see, from the way Irish tensed his wide shoulders, which way that knife was going to go. And again, Dave kicked into it, and
again
it went sailing, but then Irish crashed into him, which wasn't as painful as it would have been had the knife been in the man's hand, but was still quite the body slam.
They hit the ground with Dave already bringing his elbow up, hard, into Irish's ugly-ass face. He heard the crunch of a broken nose even as the bigger man wrapped one huge arm around him, pinning him, too, with a leg like a tree trunk, keeping him from rolling and scrambling away.
It was then, even as Dave scraped and ground the heel of his shoe down the front of Irish's leg, even as he went for the bastard's eyes, that hefelt the piercing cold in his side. Cold and hot at the same time, and he froze for a split second, knowing his mistake had been in letting the big man get too close.
“A man who carries two probably carries three,” Irish breathed in Dave's ear, then drew his third blade out. “Give my best to Santucci.”
Santucci? Who the fuck was that?
But Jesus, now it hurt.
It wasn't cold, it wasn't hot, it was just brain-explodingly painful, and Dave knew he had to move or he was going to get sliced to shreds, so he hammered back again with his elbow as he grabbed for the monster's balls, but the man rolled, pulling his lower body away, which freed up Dave's legs, so he kicked and he scrambled and he bit and he flailed, and he turned his head and saw the crazy glint of light reflecting off that first switchblade knife that he'd knocked out
The big man smiled, exposing a gold tooth, like he was some kind of villain from a James Bond movie.
“Seriously,” Dave said, “I know I don't look like much, but I'm former CIA. Plus, I just called for help and … Yes,” he said into the phone to the emergency operator. “David Malkoff, formerly with the CIA? I'm on the top floor of the Fruit Street garage at Mass General, with a thug with a knife. Police backup would be nice—ASAP.” He closed and pocketed his phone, then directly addressed the man. “If you start running now, I won't come after you.”
The man's response was to feint forward, then swipe from the left,which sent Dave dancing back, untouched, landing in a defensive crouch as he put it into plain language even an ogre such as this one could understand. “Don't fuck with me.”
Another swipe, and Dave timed it, turning and throwing his entire body into a roundhouse kick that knocked the knife from the fellow's colossal hand. It clattered and skittered across the tarmac as Dave scrambled—not very gracefully but so what, there were no judges here giving them points—to put himself between the giant man and the blade.
And yet the goliath was still between Davy and his rental car, which sucked since he'd left his slingshot back in San Diego. And then it sucked even more, when the last little bit of him that wasn't yet wet got soaked as the skies opened up and the rain came down even harder.
Cssshhhht.
The sound was almost hidden by the rush of the falling rain.
“Oh, come
on”
Dave said, as he saw that, yes, his attacker
had
opened another switchblade. “This is where you run away.”
The man finally spoke. “Not yet.”
“It should be obvious that I'm not giving up my wallet,” Dave pointed out.
“I don't want you to,” the man said, his voice a lilting Irish brogue, a surprisingly musical tenor for such a monster. “Come, man, defend yourself.” He smiled, revealing another flash of that tooth. “Or not.”
He rushed Dave then, and it was like facing down a freight train that was barreling down a mountain. There was no point in trying to pick up that other knife—Irish's arms were much longer.
But a charge of this sort had no finesse, so Dave stood his ground until the last split second, waiting to see, from the way Irish tensed his wide shoulders, which way that knife was going to go. And again, Dave kicked into it, and
again
it went sailing, but then Irish crashed into him, which wasn't as painful as it would have been had the knife been in the man's hand, but was still quite the body slam.
They hit the ground with Dave already bringing his elbow up, hard, into Irish's ugly-ass face. He heard the crunch of a broken nose even as the bigger man wrapped one huge arm around him, pinning him, too, with a leg like a tree trunk, keeping him from rolling and scrambling away.
It was then, even as Dave scraped and ground the heel of his shoe down the front of Irish's leg, even as he went for the bastard's eyes, that hefelt the piercing cold in his side. Cold and hot at the same time, and he froze for a split second, knowing his mistake had been in letting the big man get too close.
“A man who carries two probably carries three,” Irish breathed in Dave's ear, then drew his third blade out. “Give my best to Santucci.”
Santucci? Who the fuck was that?
But Jesus, now it hurt.
It wasn't cold, it wasn't hot, it was just brain-explodingly painful, and Dave knew he had to move or he was going to get sliced to shreds, so he hammered back again with his elbow as he grabbed for the monster's balls, but the man rolled, pulling his lower body away, which freed up Dave's legs, so he kicked and he scrambled and he bit and he flailed, and he turned his head and saw the crazy glint of light reflecting off that first switchblade knife that he'd knocked out
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