At the same time, I s***h with the knife, but I’ve never used a blade as a weapon before, and I end up doing it at an awkward angle. He parries it with his gun. A shock moves up my forearm, and my fingers loosen.
The knife clatters to the floor.
There’s a pause where we just sort of stare at the knife. Then I scream, launching myself at him, bringing both hands to his gun-holding hand to try and wrench the weapon free. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Angelo taking a knife from a boot of one of the Albanians. With a brutal, violent motion, he stabs the man through the foot, pinning it to the floor.
It is chaos in here, filled with the scent of blood and men who are dying or already dead. All I can think of, over and over again, is: I have to survive. For me. For Angelo. For our baby.
