Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“I wouldn’t ‘nibble’ an attacker,” I said. “I was demonstrating on you.”
“Next time you demonstrate,” he said low and gravelly in my ear, “feel free to sink ’em in. I’ve been looking forward to unleashing your wild side.”
“That makes one of us,” I muttered.
I felt his silent laugh against my back as he straightened. “If you’re going to rely on inflicting pain, you’d better not miss, and you’d better not be half-assed about it. If you go for the eyeballs, gouge them. If you bite, draw blood.”
I shuddered. “You’re going to teach me to gouge out someone’s eyeballs?”
“No. Max is,” he said. “He’s an expert at it.”
“What a weird expertise,” I said.
“How do you think he got his glass eye?”
I shuddered. “Yuck.”
“Yeah. Anyway, the point is—if you try to hurt the assailant and fail, you may anger him.” Cristiano repositioned the knife under my jaw. “Listen. You don’t want the blade to go sideways or up, or else you’re dead. So what does that leave?”
“Down.”
“Right. Now, the weakest part of me within your reach is my wrist. Sneak your hands up—slowly,” he added as I followed his instructions, “so I don’t know it’s happening. If you can create some kind of distraction—asking random questions, for example—that helps, too.”
I slid my hands up the front of my body. “Have you ever been to Disneyland?” I asked.
He barked a laugh, and I seized his wrist. “Not yet,” he said. “Now pull down, away from your throat.”
“I just did that. I’ll never be able to budge you.”
“That’s why you have to know a man’s weak spots. My forearm is a bar—you won’t move that, but with practice, you can move my wrist.”
I didn’t see how that was possible, but I tried. I focused on the weakest part of his wrist until I’d drawn the knife a short distance away. “Like that?”
“Yeah. Now trap my forearm with your right shoulder, and rotate—no, don’t twist,” he corrected. I resumed my original position and tried again with less twist, and more rotate. “This is where you leverage your body weight,” he said. “Always put your body into it. Rotate toward me.”
Since Cristiano wasn’t using his full strength, I was able to keep a hold on his wrist and turn into him, contorting his arm at an unnatural angle so the knife was now aimed at his side. “Then you’d stab me,” he said. “Keep going.”
I glanced up at him. “Stab you?” I asked hopefully.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “No. Keep rotating.”
I reversed under his arm, bringing his wrist with me until he was forced to bend at the hip, and I was standing over him.
With his face inches from my hip, I suddenly remembered the phone. My heart, already thumping, began to pound as his eyes shifted.
How would I explain it if he found it? Would he even give me a chance to?
My mouth dried as possible punishments ran through my head. Cristiano had earned his nickname, El Polvo, for a reason. The Dust. He’d poured sand down the throats of those he’d deemed deserving of a slow, painful death—and no doubt he’d find a certain poetic justice in that particular fate for a snitch with a big mouth.
“Wrestle the knife from me if you can,” he said.
I released my breath finally, praying I could get upstairs soon and stash the burner.
“But if not,” he added, “at the very least, you can knee me in the face and run away.”
I released him. “You’d catch me.”
“I would, yes.” One corner of his mouth quirked as he straightened. He looked almost comical in a loosened tie, wrinkled dress shirt, and slacks, with sweat dotting his collar. “But we’re going to train you so nobody can catch you, mariposita.”
“Who’s we?”
“Solomon, Alejandro, Max, me. We all fight differently, so you’ll learn from each of us.” He unknotted his tie and slid it off. “Your main goal is to incapacitate the attacker long enough to run away,” he said. “You’re tall but skinny—we’re going to build up your strength so you can fly. Solomon will teach you to assess the situation and make a quick decision—outrun him, stab him, or knock him unconscious. It’ll depend.”
“Kill him?” I suggested.
“If that’s what it takes,” he said grimly.
“Who’s Solomon?”
“Our resident expert on martial arts. As former Israeli military, he’s got experience in street fighting, Krav Maga, Muay Thai, and more.” He sniffed, wiping his upper lip on his sleeve. “Let’s try again.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” I asked. “I’m not the one breaking a sweat.”
He scowled. “I weigh twice what you do, and the sun is fucking strong today.”
I shrugged, not bothering to hide my amusement as I turned my back to him.
As his arm surrounded my shoulders, and he pressed the knife to my skin, he said, “Natalia?”
“Yes?”
“If we’re going to keep doing this, don’t wiggle your hips. It won’t do either of us any good if I develop a conditioned response to holding a knife at your neck.”