The air smells like stale beer and bad intentions, the kind of stench that sticks to the back of your throat. The leader of the three thugs is leering at me, his mouth moving, but I don’t hear the specific words over the thrum of blood rushing in my ears. I’m calculating the angle of my knee to his groin when a shadow detaches itself from the gloom behind him.
A massive wooden plank comes out of nowhere, swinging with the force of a wrecking ball. It connects with the leader’s skull with a sickening, wet thud—a sound like a melon shattering on concrete. He drops instantly, a sack of wet cement hitting the pavement, his eyes rolling back in his head before he even settles.
The other two scramble backward, their shouts sharp and panicked, tripping over their own feet. I stare past them, tr
