“Oh,” Reza says, mockingly cheerful in a way that manages to be sinister, “we told them, is all. Cheers lads, have a fantastic ni—”
Vince sees the knife before Reza does. It’s a sloppy lunge from some silent bloke on his left, anyway, telegraphing his intention eons before he’s close to piercing flesh.
As if Vince would let him. No thought required to kick the knife straight out of the man’s hand, fists raised to help Vince balance a pivot into a solid punch to the side of Cardboard’s jaw when he finally, inevitably dives toward Reza.
The others pounce, raucous shouting and the glint of metal pulled from oversized trouser pockets.
Vince isn’t particularly interested to see if any of the rest have the follow-through. They’re at an advantage, on the edge of the circle with no one between
