Page 120 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I see it coming in the set of his neck and take it on the crown of my forehead where it won’t ring.
He grunts and goes for my jacket, off-balance now, small panic showing.
I pin his wrist against the door frame and put my knee into his thigh.
It folds the way bad training folds when it finally meets a wall.
He tries to yell.
I squeeze his windpipe enough to turn the yell into a cough.
More bodies gather at the far end of the hall.
I don’t need a crowd.
I need an exit.
“Rafe,” I say on the mic. “Elevator four. Up.”
“Two floors down,” Rafe answers.
The man stops being clever and starts being an animal.
He grabs for a fistful of fabric and finds none.
He reaches for the knife that isn’t there.
I feel the instant he remembers where he kicked it.
He shifts his foot to recover.
I step on his instep.
He pops with pain and goes low.
I ride him down and keep his arm locked.
Hospital security rounds the corner at a jog, two men with belts and radios who have seen enough brawls in waiting rooms to know not to get in the middle of one.
One points.
The other calls in a code I know they save for family fights.
Elisa is pressed to the wall, eyes sharp, not panicked.
She sees me look and gives one short nod.
I feel it in my chest like a second breath.
The elevator pings. Rafe steps out, big as a door.
He takes one look and moves to the flank.
The man under me clocks the new odds and makes a choice.
He goes limp for half a second like he’s quitting.
It’s a trick.
