The shot sounds all wrong. It should be loud, clean. Like the one that went into my shoulder—cracking through the gun’s chambers like a lone lightning bolt. Tearing time and matter apart in slow motion.
Instead, it’s muted. Like a firecracker being crushed under someone’s boot. An echo without fire or flare.
And there’s no punch. No new pain taking root under my skin. Just my shoulder and its steady, reliable throb. The one that lets me know the blood in my veins is moving. Still inside me.
My eyes open. I’m still standing. My shoulder is still meat-mushed and throbbing. The cinches of my hoodie are still tight around my throat. Longwai is still standing in front of me, but his pistol has lost its resolve. The O is no longer marking my forehead. It’s shifted, just like the drug lord’s attention. He’s looking over his shoulder, at the open yawn of the door. More shots pop through the dark, and screams tumble up the stairs.
The raid has started.
“What is this?” Longwai’s question drifts through the open door, becomes lost in the growing tempest of noise.
The knife. I don’t wait. I lunge with everything left in my body and grab the ornate, curved blade by its hilt. It’s an old ceremonial piece, more for show than for actual cut and slice.
“What the hell is th—” Longwai is just turning back when I make contact. I throw myself into him, good side first, trying my hardest to bring him down. The drug lord is more solid than I expect, like his lounge slippers are actually cemented to the floor. He stays standing, but the gun hits the floor, spinning like a game-show wheel.
I land back on my feet, facing him. Trying to ignore how my right arm is noodle-limp at my side. How Longwai’s gold-capped teeth are glint and snarl, ready to sink into my throat. How the blade in my left hand feels like nothing much.
Especially when I’m not left-handed.
Longwai is a fighter. He moves fast, throws a nasty version of an uppercut. Knuckles already covered in my blood come again for my face. But—this time—there are no ropes. I whip to the side, let him give the air a good thrashing. At the same time, I bring up the knife.
There’s a schick and his black funeral shirt splits. A long cut runs down his right forearm—straight as a plumb line, neat as a surgeon’s work. The red leaves him at the same time as his scream.
An arm for an arm. Now we’re even.
But there are so many things this god of knives and needles has to pay for, so I keep fighting.
I throw myself at him again. He falls—cursing and howling and splintering in pain.
I land on top of him. My shoulder jars on impact; supernovas of pain light my vision. Star trails swim in my eyes, eating away Longwai’s ugly face. I push through them, slide my blade up to the soft, soft skin at the well of his throat. It tangles with his gold-link chain, pulls a whimper out of him.
“It’s over, Longwai.” The growl that leaves my mouth sounds too animal to be mine, but I don’t know who else would be saying these words. “You’re over.”
I’m over, too. They’re here already, pounding up the stairs, filling Longwai’s quarters with their floodlights and screams. They flood the room like locusts—scouring every corner with bright lights and rifles. Inspecting Longwai, the blood-edged knife at his throat, centering on me.
“Police! Drop the knife! Put your hands where we can see them!” someone says as the lights gather on top of me. Even the backs of my eyelids flare orange when I shut them.
I toss the knife to the floor, out of Longwai’s reach. My good hand lifts high over my head. I brace myself. One of the cops grabs my arms and twists them behind me. The clicks and cranks of the handcuffs fill my ears. They close tight around my wrists—cold, metallic destiny.