11

He had his fingers wrapped around the door handle as she raced forward. He took a half step back to give himself space to open it as she quickly – almost silently – closed the distance. The handle turned. She was two steps away. She pulled the knife back, close to her side, ready to unleash with an upward jab toward his back. The knife would puncture through skin, flesh, bone, through his lung. A nasty blow. Fatal? Possibly. If not that one, then the second certainly would be.

But the first indication that her plan was awry was when she noticed his fingers slip from the handle. Her arm was already in motion at that point, the tip of the knife accelerating forward. She roared with determination, her intent the same as before, too late now to switch tactic…

He ducked and jumped aside as he spun around and she tried to adjust the knife’s trajectory but couldn’t do so enough and the blade glided through the air and sank into the door. Wedged deep. She went to yank it out but saw his counter move coming. He’d try to take hold of her outstretched arm, twist it, break it. So she let go of the knife’s handle and stepped back into a defensive pose and blocked his flying fist then countered with a kick to his back as she circled around him and swiped his back leg. Then she grabbed him around the throat and pulled back to haul him to the floor.

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled the choke hold as tight as she could but he bucked and writhed and threw elbows at her and he was just too strong. He swiveled to pull himself – and her – onto his front. Angel dragged her body back, pulling his neck up, his face nearly pointed to the ceiling such was the crazy angle of his head to his body. She roared again with effort, envisaging tearing his damn head right off as he spluttered and clawed at her.

Then he found something. Desperation. A second level of fight. He dragged himself to his feet and charged forward with her still clinging to his back like a koala, still with her arms wrapped around his neck like a boa. Swiveling in the air, he propelled Angel hard against the wall. Her right shoulder took most of the force and she yelled out in pain and could do nothing about her arms coming free from him. He grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm around as he bent forward and sent her tumbling over him and into a heap on the floor. She screamed in pain as fire erupted in her shoulder – was it dislocated?

But it wouldn’t stop her. She leaped up as he came for her again. She blocked a fist, a kick. She returned with a punch to his kidney, another to his chest which had him momentarily fighting for breath. He went to take hold of her again but she spun away from him, back for the door.

She grabbed the knife, pulled it free, swung it, saw his block coming. So she tossed the knife to her other hand, sent a knee up into his groin, then a push kick to his chest to send him up against the wall. She pinned him there with her left forearm as she pulled the serrated edge of the blade up against his neck.

Pause.

Sweat covered both of their faces. Both of them breathed heavily, chests rising and falling nearly in unison.

‘You’re gonna kill me?’ Andre asked.

Angel didn’t answer. Andre moved his weight forward, pushing his neck onto the blade as though testing her. She didn’t budge and blood trickled out onto the blade and wormed toward the far edge.

‘When did you know?’ he asked.

‘From the moment you first looked at me.’

He scoffed. Doing so caused the knife to dig a little deeper and this time she did pull it back, ever so slightly, and inwardly chastised herself for doing so.

No weakness, she told herself.

‘What gave me away?’

‘Everything about you, Andre. You’re not an alcoholic. Probably never even had one too many at a party.’

He actually laughed at that, as though he found the situation amusing.

‘Was it my six-pack that gave it away?’

Shit, was he really that vain?

‘No. It was every one of your cringey answers. Like you’d learned about the disease from a kid’s textbook. And you’d tried to cook up as many similarities to me as you could. You’re not even married, are you?’

‘No.’

‘I can tell the ring’s a prop,’ she said. ‘Too clean for a man who’s been married for… What was it? Fourteen years? And there’s no mark on your finger underneath. I checked while you were doing you know what to me last night.’

He kind of shrugged.

‘You still let me fuck you?’ he said.

‘You thought that was for your benefit? How about, I got what I wanted from you? You were desperate for me. I saw it.’

‘You’re crazier than I was told.’

She dug her forearm further into his chest, pinning him closer to the wall, renewed the knife’s position, the original small gash zig-zagging underneath the blade.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Take the knife away and I’ll tell you.’

Instead, she pushed the blade closer to him and a second line opened up along his skin and he squirmed as though only now doubting she had it in her.

‘Five seconds, Andre. Fuck. Is that even your name?’

‘No.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Mason. Mason Black.’

‘That true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘I told you. Take the knife⁠—’

‘And I said five seconds. And this time I’m counting. Five… Four… Three… Two…’

‘OK, OK. I’m here because⁠—’

She had no clue how he even did it. The move was impossible. The knife was so tight up against his throat. Still, he managed to find, not strike, just find a spot on her side where a cluster of nerves was located. As sudden as turning on a light, a surge of agony swept into her lower back, down her legs. It unbalanced her, sent her torso back only a few inches even though her feet remained planted. He turned his head and ducked under the knife and took hold of her wrist and turned it inside out. He hammered a fist down onto her already raw shoulder and swiveled her around as he took the knife from her grip. He swiped her feet from the floor and followed her down to the carpet where she smacked onto her back with a painful thud before he dropped down onto her chest, pinning her arms.

She cried out, eyes bulging as the knife flew toward her face…

Then just like that it stopped. Absolute precision. She dared not move but the tip of the blade was so close it felt like it had already moved beyond the edge of her pupil. Maybe it had, just a millimeter or two literally inside her eyeball.

‘So what now?’ Andre— No, Mason asked, sounding as calm as anything.

‘Would you believe me if I said I’m sorry?’ Angel said, not sounding anywhere near as cocky or confident as she’d wanted.

‘Do we have a problem?’ he asked.

‘So many fucking problems, Mason.’

‘I didn’t come here to kill you,’ he said. ‘That should be obvious.’

‘Then why?’

‘To assess you. To see if you have it in you still.’

It?’

‘Ability. Fire. Hatred.’

Damn, she had so much fire and hatred. Ability? That depended.

‘Who do you work for?’ she asked.

‘I’m asking the questions,’ he said. ‘I’ll say it again. I didn’t come here to kill you. So if I pull this knife away and toss it… This fight is over. Got it?’

She hesitated but then said, ‘Got it.’

He did what he said he’d do but remained in place on top of her and even though she really, really wanted to throw him off and have another go at slitting his throat open… she didn’t.

‘Come on, then,’ she said, sounding more sure of herself now that she didn’t have a knife about to slice into her brain. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’

He didn’t answer.

‘I passed your damn test, didn’t I? Why are you here?’

‘To offer you a chance at redemption.’

‘I’m too far gone for redemption.’

‘OK, so I’ll put it more bluntly. I’m offering you a chance for revenge.’

‘Against who?’

‘The man who destroyed your life.’

‘You want me to kill my ex-husband? Shit, Mason, he’s really not that important that some spook needs to come all this way⁠—’

‘No, Angel, not Paul,’ he said, sounding a little frustrated. ‘Think more big picture.’

She thought she knew what that meant, but she wouldn’t say it even if she couldn’t figure out why.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘I already said, the man who destroyed your life.’ Mason broke into a wide smile. ‘Ismail Karaman.’