Rev’s fist swings high, slams downward like a pile driver as the henchman is surging upward. An unstoppable force meets a moving object…the impact is so violent I nearly throw up.
He hits the ground and doesn’t move.
It’s just Tony and José, now.
Rev glances at Tony, who hasn’t moved through this whole show—which has lasted all of ninety seconds. “Got no quarrel with you, Tones.”
Tony holds his hands up, empty. “I said this was bad shit.”
Rev jerks his head at the doorway. “Go. Tell my boys I said you could leave.”
Tony jogs for the door.
“Tone.”
He stops. Looks back at Rev, the question in his expression.
“Domingo call this one in? Or Javier?”
Tony juts his chin in the direction of the bedroom. “Javi. Domingo’s gonna be fuckin’livid, amigo.”
“You call him, Tone. You call Domingo. You tell him he gets this one, because I respect the fuck out of him.” He glances at the double doors leading to the bedroom. “I’ll leave his bitch-ass intact,once. But if Domingo don’t get his fuckin’ kid on a goddamn leash, I’ll start thinkin’ about breaking my vow.”
“Rev, Domingo’s got no problems with you, man. He knows you’re good for your word.”
“I ain’t said shit, I won’t say shit. All I wanted was out.” He bares teeth, and it’s not a smile. “I wasout. I was good.” His eyes go to me, and they blaze, briefly, but the fire is quickly buried. “Took my girl, Tone.”
“It was Javier, amigo.”
His obsidian eyes flick over me, taking in my cheek, my split, swollen lip. “Who hit her.”
Tone creeps backward, through the exit. I figure it’s not easy to make a guy with his skin tone go pale, but at the tone in Rev’s voice, Tony goes pale. Points at José.
“Him.”
And then Tony runs—runs.
Rev turns away, letting Tony go. Stalks—prowls—toward José. “Hit a woman.”
“Fuck you.” He draws his gun from his shoulder holster. Aims it at Rev. “Not gonna be so tough with a hole in your chest.”
Rev is between José and me—if the shot misses, if Rev dodges, it’ll hit me. His hand flickers, drawing his knife by the hilt; he draws and flips it in one motion, catching it by the blade. “Drop it, bitch. Before I pin your hand to the fucking wall.”
The gun barks—my ears ring, and I wince, blink. That blink, and I almost miss what happens. The shot didn’t miss. It hits Rev, knocks him back a step, but then before he can fire again, Rev’s hand blurs. The knife buries itself to the hilt between Jose’s knuckles, through the center of his hand, into his wrist; again, I know nothing of such things, but that seems like a nearly impossible throw. The gun clatters to the floor, but Rev is already moving.
He grabs the knife, and at the same time, his boot plants sole first into José’s chest, launching him backward so hard it’s cartoon-like. He slams into the double doors, smashes them open, vanishes through them into the bedroom.
He’s stomping toward the double doors, ready to finish off José.
There’s a kitchenette, over by the sitting area, around the corner.
A figure emerges from it, gun outstretched.
He’s medium height, good-looking, objectively speaking, wearing blindingly white suit slacks and a matching blazer over a bare torso, the sleeves pushed up. His hair is long and loose, black, glossy.
I scream.
Rev whirls, taking in the situation in an instant.
