“Huh?” the punk demanded out by the tow truck. “What the fuck you doin’?”
Elle narrowed her eyes on the tow man. He was staring at the one who was talking, eyes unblinking, body utterly still. She had a thought that the punk needed to be careful. As much as he seemed to think he was in control, something about what was going on here was not in his favor; he just didn’t seem to be aware of it yet. Then again, maybe Elle was the one who was reading this wrong.
Yeah, ’cuz really, her judgment had been so great tonight already.
Then again, the way the tow truck man was staring at the punk was… way too focused.
Like how a cobra might look at a bare foot that had invaded its territory.
She almost cracked the window to yell that the punks needed to run. But it was just a tow truck guy, right? And maybe she was making a dangerous superhero out of him because he was all that stood between her and a whole lot of even-worse happening. She’d thought he was a threat and she’d been wrong. But she was not wrong about the three who had come out into the street.
“You fucking deaf?” the one in front said.
“I’m going to tell him,” Elle whispered as her head got buzzy with fright and she closed her eyes. “I’m going to tell Dad. This was a horrible mistake and I need to be responsible for it.”
“I wish he were here.”
The fact that it didn’t dawn on either of them to call their mother was lost on Terrie, and something that lingered for Elle. But she should be used to it by now, she supposed—
The sound took her back to Labor Day, when her father had been carrying that cooler full of soda and ice and had dropped things: Loud, dull, and with a rattle.
Her lids popped open.
Outside, at the tow truck, one of the taller kids was slumping off the side of the hood, a streak of blood marking the path of his seemingly unconscious flop to the snow. The man in leather didn’t pay him any mind. He lunged forward, grabbed the shorter one who’d thought he was in charge by the throat. As the leader of the pack Three Stooges–slapped at what was locked on the front of his neck, all the man with the mismatched eyes had to do was point at the remaining boy—
And the kid took off at a dead run, his ski hat flying off his head.
Elle blinked. And blinked again. But what she was seeing did not change. The tow truck man just kept squeezing the neck in his grip, the kid clawing at the hold with his gloved hands, boots kicking at the snow… until he was lifted up high enough so that just his tiptoes made contact with the icy road. Meanwhile, the man stared with absolutely no expression at that reddened face with its gaping mouth and wild eyes. He might as well have been making himself a sandwich—
Close to where he was standing in the snow, there was a knife, dropped by one of the kids.
The punk who’d had his face banged on the hood flopped onto his side—and saw the weapon at the same time Elle did. Before she could yell, he moved faster than he should have considering he had blood dripping out of his nose and one of his eyes wasn’t working right.
Elle yanked the door release, but forgot she’d locked everything. Banging on the window, she shouted, “Watch out!”
The tow truck man glanced toward her—just as the punk got the knife and surged upward, leading with the sharp point of the blade.
“No!” Elle screamed as she threw open her door.
The knife went right into the tow truck man’s stomach, buried to the hilt.
“Get back in that car!” he snapped at her.
Then he threw the short one he had by the throat away. Like, literally, tossed the entire body of the kid he’d been strangling off to the side like someone littering with an empty soda can. The former leader of the attack landed in a heap, and he didn’t hang around to see what was next. He tore off in a sloppy retreat, snow flying behind him.
Not that the tow man paid any attention to the bye-bye.
He was all about the stabber. Not at all about the knife.
How was this possible?
Even with the blade embedded six inches into his stomach, he bent down to the kid who’d done the deed—who was now back on his ass and staring up with a look of confusion Elle could totally relate to. Clearly, he couldn’t believe that he’d stabbed the Terminator, but the tow man didn’t give him any time to square up reality with expectation. He grabbed the kid’s arm, yanked him to his feet, and forced the limb back until there was a loud crack! As the screaming started, and Elle felt a sickening urge to vomit, the man spun his attacker away like a top—with the kid taking the hint and racing off around the building.
Looking down at the handle of the knife, the man seemed more annoyed than anything else. Which was not the typical response when something that could cut steak was at a ninety-degree angle with somebody’s belly button.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered as he took out a cell phone.
Just before he dialed, he listed to one side. Then he fell down to his knees.