Page 77 of The Thief
She staggers back, genuinely surprised, one hand pressed to her side. "Not bad. You move like someone who's had proper training."
"Dad was thorough."
"Apparently." She rolls her shoulders, reassessing me with new understanding. "Let's try this."
She moves to a weapons rack and produces two training knives from seemingly nowhere. The blades are dull, rubber-coated, but weighted to feel like the real thing. She tosses one to me with casual precision.
"Knife work. This should be interesting."
This is where they expect me to falter. Where the Belfast bar girl should be out of her depth, overwhelmed by a weapon she's never handled. If only they knew how wrong they are.
But Dad's voice echoes in my head: Never let them see weakness, mo stór. The moment they think you're soft, you're dead.
I catch the training knife one-handed and let it settle into my palm, testing its weight, its balance. It’s lighter than the real thing Dad trained me with, but close enough. I roll it between my fingers once—a nervous habit he never managed to break me out of—and settle into a knife fighter's crouch.
"Jesus," Makenna breathes, eyes widening slightly. "Where did you learn to do that?"
The room goes quieter. I can feel their attention sharpening, see the way Malcolm straightens up, the way Danny leans forward. Even Marcus looks interested now, his cold eyes fixed on my hands.
Makenna comes at me with professional skill, her knife dancing in complex patterns designed to confuse and overwhelm. She's fast, precise, and deadly. This isn't the kind of training you get in a gym; this is military, specialized, the kind of knife work that's meant to kill.
She weaves a net of steel around me, probing for weaknesses, testing my defenses. A thrust toward my ribs that I deflect. A slash at my throat that I duck. An upward cut aimed at my wrist that I avoid by inches.
She's showing off now, I realize, demonstrating her skill for the family, proving that she's the one who should be training me. The movements are beautiful in their own way, like a deadly dance.
But they're also wasteful. Too many flourishes, too much art instead of efficiency.
I let her drive me back across the mats, let her think she's winning. Let her get comfortable with the rhythm she's established, the pattern of attack and retreat.
Knife fighting isn't about looking good, mo stór, Dad's voice whispers. It's about going home alive. Everything else is just showing off.
Makenna commits to a particularly elaborate combination, a high feint followed by a low thrust. She telegraphs it with a slight shift of her weight, a tiny tell that most people would miss.
But I'm not most people.
I step inside her guard as she lunges, trap her knife hand with my left arm, and bring my blade up to rest against her throat in one fluid motion. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds.
The room goes dead silent.
"Fuck me," Malcolm breathes.
Makenna's eyes are wide, staring down at the rubber blade pressed against her carotid artery. She's completely still, barely breathing, professional enough to know that even a training knife can hurt if applied with enough force.
"Where the hell did you learn that?" she asks quietly.
"Dad taught me. He said knife fighting wasn't about fancy moves but about ending things fast."
"Jesus Christ," Danny mutters. "That's advanced military technique. Special forces level."
"How the hell did Killian know how to do that?" Denis asks, his voice careful.
I step back, releasing Makenna's knife hand. She immediately brings her free hand to her throat, rubbing where the training blade pressed against her skin. I notice a thin white scar at the base of her neck, barely visible unless you know what to look for. Someone's held a real knife to her throat before. Someone who wasn't training.
"Dad knew everything," I say simply.
"Right," Makenna says, her voice slightly hoarse. "Maybe you don't need as much training as I thought."
"Maybe I don't need any training at all."
