Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(32)

The guy with the knife stuck it toward Lawrence. “Your wallet and your watch. Hurry.”

I watched closely, wondering what the big ex-boxer would do.

Lawrence licked his lips. “Please,” he said. “Take the money and don’t hurt us.” His big hands fumbled in his back pocket.

Katherine was handing over her purse. She took off her necklace and wedding ring unprompted. Extended her hand out, palm up. Like a child feeding a horse an apple. “Please,” she said. “Please.”

“Shut up, bitch. Shut your damn mouth.”

Ethan was next. He held out his wallet. Obedient as always. “Here, take it.”

“Hurry up.” The A’s guy shoved Ethan backwards, hard.

I took in a breath. Blew it out. There hadn’t been a need for that.

He turned to me. Working fast. Not wanting to be out here all night. “Purse, bitch.”

I met his eyes. Breathing evenly. Deep inhales, deep exhales. My purse still slung over my shoulder. Feeling familiar adrenaline fill me. Breathing. Controlling it. Feeling my senses sharpen. “You should know something important,” I told him quietly. “I don’t like knives.”

He stared at me. “Well, this one’s about two inches from your damn face. So give me the damn purse.”

I felt Ethan’s whisper close to my ear. “It’s going to be okay, Nikki, just do what he says. I know you’re scared.”

“Put the knife away,” I said. “Please. And then we can work to resolve this.”

I heard Lawrence’s voice explode, angry, edged with panic. “Are you nuts, woman? Shut up and give him your purse! Are you trying to get us killed?”

The knife blade was in front of my face. Close enough that I saw the blade crosswise between my eyes. Blurred by proximity. Like trying to look at the tip of your nose.

“Last chance, bitch. You don’t give me that purse, I’m gonna cut pieces off you.”

I shrugged.

“Okay. Have it your way.” I held up my purse. “I guess you’ll be happy, then. I have cash. A lot.” I reached inside. “Here. Let me give it to you.”

I took a wad of bills. I knew they were hundreds.

Slowly removed my hand. Letting him see.

“Shit,” he said. “That’s what I mean. That’s right. Gimme all that.”

I extended my hand. Let him start to reach for the money.

He reached.

Opened my fingers.

The bills fell gently to the ground like dry fall leaves.

“Whoops.”

He cursed. Kneeled, started picking money off the ground with one hand. The other hand still holding the knife. The gleaming tip still pointed up at me.

I took a look around. Everyone’s eyes on the money. Hundred-dollar bills did that to people. You could have ten million bucks in your bank account and your eyes would still be riveted by a hundred-dollar bill falling to the ground.

I took a single step back. My hand back in my purse. Finding what I wanted.

When my hand emerged the second time I gripped a rubberized handle.

This particular object was illegal in multiple states, California included. It was also useful as hell in situations like these. I pressed the latch button and a powerful thirty-pound spring mechanism caused a twenty-inch black steel rod to materialize out of the handle. Like a switchblade action. Telescoping out faster than the eye could follow.

The metal tip was weighted. I was effectively holding a steel baseball bat.

He was still on the ground, still picking up the last few bills. Starting to look up toward the unfamiliar sound. Instinctual.

Not fast enough.

I took a breath in.

Blew it out.

Swung the baton in a downward arc as hard as I could. A careful, controlled motion.

The baton struck his forearm above the wrist. About where the carpus joined to the radius in a mass of small, delicate bones and nerves and tendons.

I was conscious of a few different sounds coming in quick succession.

The sound of bone shattering with an audible crack.

The metallic noise of the knife clattering to the pavement. Steel scraping tar.

The instantaneous, childlike howl of agony.

And then the shocked noises from everyone around us.

I looked down. The man was rolled into a ball. His hat had fallen off and he clutched his arm. I could see why the batons were illegal, more or less. They tended to have a nasty effect on whatever part of the body they encountered. The hand hung limp, bleeding, useless. It would be a long time before anyone got his autograph.

There was general confusion for the next second or so. Things could go many different ways. It was important to assert control.

I took a deep breath in. Blew it out.

Extended the baton outward. Pointing toward the other two men.

They watched me. Frightened, unsure. Not fully comprehending what had happened. But starting to. Starting to process why their friend was now curled up on the ground.

I saw a hand creeping toward a pocket. “Choices,” I said. “We all get to make them. He did. Now it’s your turn.” I hovered the baton roughly between them. Arm’s length away so they couldn’t grab it. Daring one of them to try to pull something. I was pretty sure I could crack a head faster than they could raise an arm. Or two heads, if need be. I was willing to bet on it. Maybe we’d find out. Maybe not.