He shoves me away and I stumble and land on one knee. Gravel and rocks tear at my jeans, sending little shards of pain to the skin. When I look up, there’s a knife in his hand. I can’t tell in the dark but I’m willing to bet it’s the same kind of knife rammed into Sasha’s bedroom door. Just the thought of it enrages me all over again. He sees the anger in my eyes and laughs.
This is where it ends, I think. Because with the look in his eyes I know that he will have no problem cutting my throat.
“I’m not going to kill you. Unless you force me to.” He has a thick Irish accent. Tank’s intel was good then.
“That knife isn’t just for show,” I remark. “Clearly you have no problem using it, either.”
“Your last name is the only thing that saved you, boyo. That message was a warning. Most people don’t even get one.”
“My last name?” I pant, holding a hand to my aching ribs. When I pull my hand away, it's stained with blood.
Fuck.
“I had to come, to see what could make a man turn his back on his family, his country and his duty. This isn’t how I wanted things to go but you brought this on yourself when you stole from me. I saw you at the warehouse.”
His ramblings make no sense but all I care about is clarifying the last point. “I didn’t take anything from you.”
“Not at first. But you sent back your little friend. The redhead. He took something from me and I need it back.”
“I didn’t know." Damn Cole and his sticky fingers. "I’ll get it back. Just leave Sasha alone!” Pain flares anew from the exertion of yelling and I struggle to calm down. Deep breaths cause a firestorm in my chest. I keep my hand pressed to my side as hard as I can.
“Get me my ring back and we’ll see.” His accent thickens as he points the knife at me.
“And you’ll leave her out of this?”
He doesn’t answer, just smiles that creepy smile. Then he’s moving toward me.
“What do you mean about my last name?” I ask desperately.
He flips the knife, the blade glinting in the moonlight like a shooting star, before he catches it. “It’s the same as mine.”
I never even saw the punch coming.
* * * * *
When I wake up, the only thing I feel is pain. I can’t even cry out. It would take energy I don’t have to even make a sound so I just lie in agony hoping that someone will come along and put me out of my misery. Until I hear Tank’s voice. Then I think, anyone but him.
I’m never going to hear the end of this.
Tank kneels next to me. “I told you not to do anything stupid.”
He slips an arm under my shoulders and then hoists me up. My voice returns then, either that or the pain needs an outlet.
“That fucker hits like a freight train. I think his knuckles are made out of titanium.”
Tank glances over at me, walking slowly so I can lean on him. “Looks that way. You haven’t seen what your face looks like yet. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I had to, Tank. He can’t hurt Sasha. I can’t let that happen.”
“Sasha is fine. Eli took her to his house. I’m more concerned about you right now. We need to get you to the hospital.”
I scoff. “I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ve been beat up before.”
We’re almost to the end of the street now where Tank’s SUV waits idling at the curb.
“Are you going to be able to get in by yourself or do you need me to help you? Maybe to fasten you into your car seat and give you a bottle, too?” Tank chuckles.
“You’re enjoying this way too much. And the only bottle I need has Johnnie Walker on the label.”
When he's helping me in the car he lets out a curse. "You were stabbed? Jesus."
That's when I pass out for the second time.
Over the next few days things are a blur. There's a lot of noise and voices and then I'm floating on a blissful wave. Fluorescent lights overhead, antiseptic smell all around. That can only mean one thing. I wake briefly to a nurse adjusting my IV line and whatever she gives me knocks me out again.
When I wake again, I hear Zack’s voice. “Shouldn’t he have woken up by now?”
Someone answers, a soft feminine voice I don’t recognize. I open my eyes and then immediately squeeze them shut when the bright lights in the room send a sharp pain through my head.
I glance over at Tank. “I guess the hospital was a good call.”
He lets out a little laugh, relief in his eyes. “Surgery went well. The knife missed the important stuff. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the police haven’t caught the mugger who did this to you.” His eyes narrow and then lift to something on the other side of me.
I turn my head to see a young woman with light brown hair and glasses observing us. She’s wearing a white coat so I assume she’s the doctor. It’s confirmed when she pulls out one of those annoying little penlights that all doctors seem to have and shines it right in my eyes.
“A mugger. Right. How long have I been here?"
She moves the light back and forth. "It's been four days. Do you know where you are?"
"I didn't get hit that hard. Seven times twelve is eighty-four, my birthday is June 17 and ESPN is on channel 561. Can I go home now?”
The doctor frowns. “Mr. Marshall, we need to be sure that you don't have any complications.“