Three
The knife was held by a large Chinese dressed in tattered pants and shirt. His face was slack, a thin line of spittle running from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were out of focus, the pupils dilated. From the way he held his body, I didn’t think he was going to waste any time in idle conversation with me. He was already tensed to lunge forward, and I could feel my stomach trying to find someplace to hide.
There wasn’t much of a choice. My g*n was across the room in a dresser drawer beneath some shirts. I didn’t want just to stand there, waiting to be stuck like a pig on the morning of a festival day. I took the only course left.
I slashed my left hand across his wrist, at the same time twisting my body as fast as I could. The blow didn’t stop him, but it delayed his lunge by a
