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There’s a knock on the door. It makes me stiffen up, tension flowing through me. No one ever knocks on Ruthie’s door.
I go to the door, peering through the peephole.
Mrs. Faulkner fidgets on the other side, hand raised to knock again.
I slide home the thirteen deadbolts, opening the door.
"Mrs. Faulkner, Ruth isn't here right now —"
I'm bowled over as two massive slabs of muscle in black ski masks rush out from either side of the door. They wrestle me to the ground, one on each side, wrapping my arms up in theirs. Two years of training and preparation come back to me in a roar of rage.
Mrs. Faulkner cries out, but one of the men twists to point a finger at her.
"Shut up! Shut up, or I'll —"
The distraction is all I need.
I pull my arm free of his single-handed grasp and smash it across his face.
My assailants are wearing identical uniforms. Black sweats with knit ski masks above. In the rush of a fight, they look like matching blobs. One of them is fatter, though; the mask doesn't entirely hide his double chin.
“Motherfucker,” the first man whines through his broken nose. Blood pours down beneath his mask.
I try to free my other arm, but the big one has a firm grip with both his hands. I strain, twisting to kick at him, but hands find my leg and hold it down.
"Fuck he's strong," the big guy rumbles as I twist in their grip. Some of Broken Noses' blood gets on my hand, making it too slick for him to grip.
I reach up and grab his mask.
“Hey—”
Taking advantage of his disorientation, I slam him into the other guy, freeing myself. I lurch to my feet, squaring up against my opponents. They’re not in great shape, but there’s two of them, and they’re mean. Not expert fighters, but experts at hurting people.
“Boss said he wants him alive,” the larger one says, cracking his knuckles.
“Yeah, but he didn’t say how many pieces he needed alive,” the skinny one says, pulling out a knife.
These guys made a serious mistake, coming for me here. I memorized every inch of Ruth’s place in my quest to keep her safe. Including where all the things I can use for self-defense are.
Skinny rushes me, but I’m already reaching back, grabbing the hatrack by the door. He catches the prongs to the stomach as he blindly charges at me. The impact lifts him off his feet, and I smash him sideways into his chubby friend.
They go down in a heap of bodies, the knife clattering across the floor. I toss the hatrack aside, getting in close on the big guy and pounding into him with my fists.
“Come here!” Skinny snarls, leaping to his feet and throwing himself onto my back. I spin, trying to dislodge him, but his arm is locked around my throat tight.
There’s a crash as something breaks behind us. The arm at my throat tenses and relaxes. Skinny slips off of me and falls to a crumpled heap.
I turn to see Ruth, panting, holding Snickers in one arm and an extendable baton in the other.
“Ruth, get out of here —” I snarl, turning back to grab the big one and slam him into the ground again.
“No. I’m fine. The cops are on the way, but we’ve got tons of witnesses this time. Is that guy still conscious?”
I punch Tubby again, then let him slump limply to the ground.
“Not anymore. Get the handcuffs?”
Ruth blushes but doesn't say a thing. She dashes into her bedroom and returns with two pairs of handcuffs. One is the standard metal pair that I keep in my go bag at all times. But the other —
