Jim didn’t stop to consider the odds. He attacked without warning, pouncing on the closest boy, grabbing a handful of clothing and thrusting his leg upward into the young man’s face. Bone smashed against teeth. He felt his kneecap split open. The young man collapsed at his feet.
Jim saw movement in the corner of his eye. He turned and uncoiled into a lightning fast, spinning back-kick, knocking the MAC-10 from the second boy’s hands. The boy screamed. His eyes grew wild. Jim braced himself. The boy attacked, fists flying recklessly, filthy curses spewing from his lips. Jim ducked, coiled up and lashed out with a sweeping roundhouse kick that caught the boy in the jaw. His foot met bone. He heard a sickening pop. Without hesitation he moved in closer and unleashed a wicked back-kick. Caught the boy in the side of the head. The young gangster dropped.
Jim picked the gun up, tossed it over the fence, and then turned to face the one boy who remained standing. Or was he a man? He stood Jim’s height or more, with wide shoulders, muscular arms, and a single blue “J” audaciously tattooed on the side of his neck. Jim felt his eyes widen. His fists tightened. His muscles flexed. I know you. I saved your life once. You just killed my friend.
“J-Rock!”
“I don’t know who you used to be, bro—” J-Rock’s eyes bored in on Jim’s. His hand disappeared behind his back, reappeared with a click. “—but you a dead man now.”
Jim crouched and waited, his eyes, his ears, his every sense focused on his enemy, all of his training, all of his experience, all of his anger wrapped up in that single moment in time. J-Rock teased him with the blade, moving it in and out, making small jabs, and then finally lunging and swinging the blade in a vicious upward arc. Jim sprang like a cat, diverted the blade, and lashed out with a roundhouse kick aimed for the man’s head. He missed. The blade came back down, slashed across his cheek.
Jim touched his injured face. His fingers came back sticky and wet. The flesh burned. He tasted his blood. The blade jabbed again. Jim ducked and spun into a sharp back-kick, but before his leg could snap he felt something slice across his upper back, tearing through his shirt, ripping his skin.
He backed away. He suddenly realized he was up against a powerful opponent. An experienced street fighter. A true killer. The flesh and muscle between his shoulders began to scream. He began to pant. His fingers began to tingle. He crouched even lower. He waited.
“Yo! I know how to move too,” J-Rock said, his voice taunting. “Now…time for you to join the preacher.”
Jim felt something explode inside of him. He jumped up and threw everything he had into the next attack. The blade flashed. He ducked beneath it, flung himself to the ground, kicked with all his might. His right leg connected. His knee locked. The heel of his boot drove deep into the center of J-Rock’s belly.
Jim leapt to a standing position and watched with fascination as his enemy collapsed. A deep, guttural groan emanated from J-Rock’s throat as he dropped. He fell to his knees, spewing vomit. His face turned blue. Jim attacked again without mercy. He kicked him in the side of the head and then pounced on him, pummeling him with both fists until he lay limp on the ground, unconscious, blood squirting from his flattened nostrils, his lungs gasping for air.
Jim picked up the knife and then, slowly, ever so deliberately, placed the serrated edge against J-Rock’s throat. One deep pull, he knew, and the blade would open jugulars and carotids while reducing the tracheal tube to a useless severed hose. Death would be agonizing. Revenge would be sweet! He placed his hand over J-Rock’s mouth. Prepared himself. He felt a wicked smile form on his face. His eyes widened with glee. His fingers tingled at the thought of justice. I have you, you murderous animal.
“You lose!”
His own words seemed to wake him from the trance. Jim suddenly realized what he was doing. He loosened his grip on the blade and backed away. “Jesus,” he cried. “What am I doing?”
“You!”
He jerked his head toward the sound. A hefty uniformed police officer stood behind him, gun drawn, arms extended. Another officer ran from the between the buildings to join him.
“Drop the knife,” the big cop shouted. “Now!”
“No!” Jim turned and peered at his opponent, torn with indecision. The gangster appeared to be grinning, laughing from within. Jim felt his anger boil. He gripped the blade tighter, felt his muscles tense.
“On the ground,” the cop ordered. “Face down.”
Jim hesitated.
“Now! Do it!”
Jim gazed at his enemy, absorbing the man’s hate, turning it around, allowing it to take a firm hold in his mind where it would fester and grow until they met again. And, he knew, they would meet again. He ignored the police officers’ repeated orders and leaned down. He whispered into his enemy’s ear.
“You killed my best friend. This is not over…”
Jim heard the sound of rushing feet. A police officer charged him and hit him from the side. He felt the breath knocked from his lungs. Someone else hit him from behind. He toppled over and hit the ground hard, buried beneath the weight of the officers, arms and legs entangled with theirs. He could barely breathe. He rolled over. He broke free and tried to lash out, fighting madly, swinging his fists. Men shouted from all sides. More hands grabbed him. A hot stinging hand slapped him across the cheek.
Jim felt stunned. Overwhelmed. He felt his body lifted and spun. Suddenly he was back on the ground, his face in the dirt, wrestled into submission by the small army of cops. A crushing knee fell into the small of his back. He heard a click. Cold steel tightened about his wrists. He panted and strained, tried to break free, but it was no use. The cops had won. He gave up and went slack. The knee eased off.
“Call Rico,” Jim said. “Rico Rivetti, he’s my—”
“Quiet!”
“But I’m—”
“Shut up! You are in no position to give orders.”
Jim listened as the cops began to argue amongst themselves.
“We can’t hold him,” someone said.
“Why not?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He’s one of Rico’s friends.”
“He’s bleeding,” someone else broke in.
“So, call the paramedics.”
“That’s the point. He is a paramedic!”
“Paramedics are supposed to heal people, Jack. Look what he just did.”
“Yeah, but those punk gangsters he beat are probably the ones that killed Drake.”
“May be. But this guy’s no death squad.”
“We better call an ambulance.”
“Better call the Captain.”
“Before you do anything,” a deep voice boomed, “better let him go.”
Out of the corner of his eye Jim spotted the familiar stocky frame of an old friend. Rico Rivetti emerged from the alley with a daring expression on his face. He stopped beside the other cops and looked down at Jim. “Rico! I wasn’t going to do it! Tell them I wasn’t going to do it!”
“Rico,” one of the cops shouted. “He was just about to slash that guy’s throat!”
“Yeah? Then it’s a good thing you got here when you did, Corporal.”
“You want us to let him go?”
Rico nodded. “And quick.”
“He’s crazy!”
“He’s my friend.”
The big cop hesitated, then shook his head and reached down with a key. The key turned. Jim heard a click. Suddenly his hands were free.
“It’s your funeral, Rivetti.”
“That’s right,” Rico said, pocketing the blade. “It is. Now call an ambulance for these three hoods. I’m taking my friend to the hospital.”
* * *
