Make the first move?
Wait for him?
I move slowly, watching for the twitch of the hand. The nudge of the shoulder. The tell that he's going to stop talking and...
He slashes out… moves fast…
But it’s a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me.
Testing me…
My speed…
My reactions…
Younger than me...
How much by?
Ten years?
His knife...
Blade maybe eight inches. Well cared for.
Well used…
Left-handed…
… Thinks that gives him an advantage.
Most practice against right-handers. I've done both.
He stabs out. Hard. Fast. Teeth bared. Pupils pricked.
I jerk back and he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat. My hand locked to his wrist.
So close, I smell him.
Sweat. Sour.
The sour scent of fear.
Not excitement.
Fe
