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Even so, my attention falls one last time on the boy, and I see him freeze in his tracks. Two men, twenty-somethings, are arguing with a woman who stands a short distance away. I’m immediately on high alert. She’s younger, and I suspect she’s either the boy’s sister or maybe a young mother.
Seeing the tense situation worsening, I change direction. Ahead, the woman backs up from the men, scooping to lift the child into her arms. One of the men, lanky and wearing a green T-shirt, speaks harshly to her.
I’m nearly there when I hear the young woman say, “Tell him no. I don’t need that kind of job.”
“Come with us,” Green Shirt says, reaching for her. “Why sit here begging for coins when we will provide?”
Fury steamrolls over my usual caution, and I slam straight into Green Shirt, shoving him so hard he falls to the ground. He darts back to his feet with a quickness that would be comical if it weren’t so startling. He swings around, teeth bared.
Perhaps, I should’ve gone for subtle, but that’s not how I operate when a child is involved. Still, though my training and skills mean I can take this man, I can’t afford to fight him in public. Trying to regain my cover and my control, I state loudly, “Never let it be said that a nun doesn’t know how to get a man’s attention.”
“Go back to God,” Green Shirt hisses. Reaching into his pocket with that same alarming quickness, he pulls out a switchblade.
My training kicks in and with my own quickness, I capture his wrist and twist hard enough to bring him to his knees.
He cries out and drops the knife. It clatters onto the stones.
“Leave, go,” his friend, a big nosed man with a sour mouth, says. Barreling toward my right side, I notice something in his hand. At first it looks like a retracted hiking stick, something he might’ve picked up at an outdoor store, but he extends with a snap, and I recognize what it is. It’s a stun baton or shock stick. I’m familiar with them, have even handled them, used them. It’s a useful tool containing twelve million volts of electricity that allows a person to attack or defend without getting too close to their target.
Well, this has escalated quickly. So much for Momma’s notion that nuns are highly respected in the area. Obviously not a practicing Catholic.
Keenly aware of what’s coming my way, I shove Green Shirt to the ground, side-step an angry swing of the buzzing baton, and nearly trip. Damn this tunic. Still, Baton Man’s momentum works against him, and he lurches past me. My heart pounds frantically.
There’s no room for nice here. Realizing I need to be quick and deadly, I turn, ready to unleash the beast. But a figure––huge biceps, veined forearms, broad shoulders, and a half-sleeve tattoo––jumps between me and my attacker.
Sean.
In a boxer’s stance, Sean ducks thewhooshof the sizzling baton. He comes up under it, sends a devastating blow into Baton Man’s big nose.
The crack is audible as the man’s head snaps back. Blood rolls down from his nose and the split skin above it.
Baton Man isn’t a fan of being punched in the face. Pinning his glare on Sean, he swings his weapon like a club.
“It’s high voltage,” I warn Sean, but I quickly realize my warning wasn’t necessary.
Sean has this fight under control. His tight muscular form dodges and weaves, treating the buzzing weapon with considerable awareness as he slams Baton Man with a series of punishing blows.
Whoops. I forgot about Green Shirt.
Rising from the ground, he charges Sean from behind like he’s about to take out a tackle dummy.
I hitch up my tunic and kick the back of Green Shirt’s knee.
He drops to his shoulder, rolls, then springs back up like a kangaroo. He’s certainly used to being knocked down. That’s it. I’m done holding back. I shift to attack, bringing up my hands.
Sean beats me to it, slamming an open palm against Green Shirt’s ear.
Green Shirt cries out, puts a hand over his ear, then pivots to Sean.
Knuckles bloody, Sean sends a perfect jab at Green Shirt’s head.
Green Shirt dodges. He’s very good at dodging.
The two men circle each other, avoiding Baton Man, who’s out for the count and sprawled on the ground.
Sean delivers a series of blindingly quick, brutal, and effective strikes.
Green Shirt grunts with each hit. His eyes widen with surprise then fill with pain as the blows continue to land. Spitting out blood, he nearly dodges the last hit, but the quick strike skims along his jaw. With growing desperation, Green Shirt looks toward his switchblade.
