Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(13)
The diner Flush hadn’t yet realized he was a dead man when the other two surrounded Nena.
He gurgled out, “Bitch,” as he held his hands to his throat, blood seeping through his fingers. She should have saved him for last, since he was to blame for what she was about to do.
Nena was no longer a fourteen-year-old girl, cowering at every movement of the men around her. This time, she was thirty-one, with a whole lot of death notched on her proverbial belt.
These boys wanted to play at being killers, but she was the real thing.
The diner Flush dropped to his knees, his life spilling out of him. The giant one lunged at her, his force throwing her onto her back. He let loose a flurry of blows, as she attempted to dodge the brunt of them. She twisted her hips upward, springing her feet out at his midsection to buck him off. She got to all fours, scrambling behind him before he could gather his bearings. She wrapped one of her arms around the back of his neck, the other beneath his chin, one hand locking over the other wrist in a reverse choke hold that quickly had him upside down and staring at the building rooftops.
Systematically she began squeezing off each breath he tried to take, pulling, contracting her muscles in her arms like a boa constrictor. He flailed at her, as they always did, trying to tug her arms away, but she had the upper hand. She could feel panic rising in him when he couldn’t get her off, while his energy, his breath, oozed out of him like his partner’s blood.
With all her strength and as fast as she could, she bore down, a move so sudden and unexpected she caught him unaware, and they both heard the sickening crunch of his neck as the delicate vertebrae cracked and dislodged from each other.
She released him, and his body hit the ground. Nena whipped around, prepared to take out the last one, briefly wondering why he hadn’t attacked while she was occupied, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe after witnessing his leader’s stabbing and the tree crumbling like the Berlin Wall, he’d run for his life, his rep be damned.
Only Nena and the girl remained. The girl was staring at the dead bodies, her eyes wide and her breathing so loud Nena worried it would call attention to them. Or worse, that the surviving Flush would find some friends and return.
“We need to go,” she said.
The girl looked up at her, and Nena assessed her as best she could in the dark. She didn’t look physically harmed. Maybe her stomach would be sore the next day. Nena couldn’t attest to her emotional state. She’d been through a lot just now, seen even more, but after only a moment’s hesitation, she got to her feet and followed Nena to her car.
Once they were buckled in the Audi, and Nena’s gun was back in its rucksack and her dagger wiped clean and sheathed once again, she pulled away from the curb. She didn’t speak until she got some distance between them and those guys.
When she was more comfortable, Nena asked, “Where do you live?”
The girl rattled off her address—one Nena instantly recognized.
She turned her head to stare at the girl harder, her eyes narrowing. What were the chances? Slim to none, that was what. Nena keyed the information into her GPS while her mind raced. Coming across this girl meant something. It was a sign, had to be, and Nena wasn’t one to believe in signs or kismet or any of that.
“Aren’t you a ways off from home, yeah?” she asked, recalibrating her tone so the girl didn’t notice anything might be wrong—aside from all the wrong that had just happened, that was.
The girl watched the city lights passing by her window. “I like taking rides around the city.” She sounded tired, her adrenaline crashing, likely. “Beats staying home alone all the time. My dad works crazy hours.”
“You have a dangerous hobby.”
The girl shot her a look. “And yours isn’t?”
Nena’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. The cheekiness! She regained her composure, opting to confirm what she had already begun to suspect. “What is your name?”
“Georgia,” the girl answered. “Georgia Baxter.” She let out a huge yawn, resting the back of her head on the headrest and closing her eyes.
Georgia Baxter. Daughter of Cortland Baxter, the federal attorney who was about to try Dennis Smith. The same federal attorney who the African Tribal Council had marked for dispatch by Nena’s hands. If Nena were one for laughter, she’d do it now, because the chances of this meeting were a zillion to none.
Nena guessed she wouldn’t bother with a lecture about making wiser decisions about where the girl roamed at night. Georgia Baxter had a parent for that. At least for a little while longer.
10
BEFORE
An unwise decision echoes in my mind as Paul makes a motion with his hand and Attah strikes my father again, hitting him with the butt of his rifle. The force is so massive my own teeth rattle. Witnessing Papa struck in front of me is too much to bear, and I pry Wisdom’s fingers from around my mouth, twisting away from the mesh of limbs that are his and Josiah’s arms.
I am on my feet, rushing to Papa before I have a chance to consider what I am doing. My father tries to wave me back, but I ignore him. He’s been hurt. Blood trickles from his lip. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, something I’ve always done when in need of his comfort. But this time our roles reverse, and Papa needs my protection.
I hear scuffling, an uprising of some of the villagers, the swelling murmur of the few men not yet silenced. Papa holds out a silencing hand when the villagers’ murmurs increase toward indignation.