"Do you want a sheath for that?" I asked a guy in front of me, John I believe his name was.
"Umm, no, I'm good. I got a couple back at my house. Thanks though. This is 250, right?" he asked.
"Plus tax, always remember the tax. 257 dollars. Cash or credit?"
"Cash," came the curt reply.
While I waited for him to gather all his cash to pay, I looked at the assemble of knives he was buying. There was a Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife, a needle-point blade, symmetrical, highly tapered, with a twin-edged blade. Commonly used as fighting blades. A Bowie knife, the blade 6 inches long, another a long, curved machete better suited for jungle life. He also has 6 concealing knives, Izulas knives with a skeletal handle, used for close quarter combat or to throw it. As I looked at all this, a question formed in my mind and I asked this question to my customer, John.
"With all these knives you got, I take it you're some kind of assassin, or maybe you just run into trouble with them wannabe tough kids."
"No, I'm no assassin, I'm just a silent, calculating serial killer with a thing for sharp things. I practice off them kids to brush up on my skills," he replied with a dead serious face then his faced lit up in humor,” at least, that’s what I do in my dream. I also dream skinning you alive."
I laughed, knowing his dark humor. He is an expert hunter, and goes hunting at least twice a month for bears, deers or whatever suits his mood. He often said that knives were better in a survival situation than a gun should he ever get lost while hunting or something like that. Of all the hunting he did, he was in shape and no doubt strong for someone who supposedly fought back a grizzly bear with nothing but a knife. I think, what a load of bull, but hey believe what you want to believe.
"John, you will not get within 6 feet of me if that was your intention. With my bare hands," I shot back,” I sell knives, don't you think that maybe I might have some skill in using knives of any kind?"
"One day I might get you, but I'm no killer so no worries. Here's your money, and thank you. I'll see you sometime, O.D." he yelled the last over the cacophony that burst into the store when he opened the door to go outside.
"Later!" then I turned around, to check the inventory, silently berating myself for ever letting him call me O.D which stands for my name, Omar Daniel Barboza. I took out two Mini Bow Kri throwing knives out to check its condition. As I started to clean it, I heard the chime of the door bells. Stopping what I was doing, I looked up, preparing to say hi and stopped in my motions when I saw the person that entered my shop. Figuratively, my jaw dropped because a foot away stood a beautiful woman.
She, first of all, is a brunette with a blonde highlight in there, brown eyes, full glossy lips, killer curves but what grabbed my attention the most was the blood streaming from a cut in her scalp and scuffs and scrapes on her leather clad attire, and in both her hands, silenced Heckler and Koch USP pistols.
In a meek voice I heard “Help me,” No sooner had she said that, she jumped over my counter rewarding me a view of her leather tight butt, then she crouched and said “Please tell them I’m not here.” Then two guys busted through my door, both holding P7 pistols, silenced obviously. They panted visibly and one of them gave me a hard look.
“You seen a leather wearing girl run through here?” he asked me.
“Yes I have, she went out the back door,” I eyed their pistols as well to show my disgust for them. Whether they noticed that or not, I don’t know but the one who asked me the question told his partner to stay behind and keep watch on me, so I don’t pull any tricks. Hurray…
As he left his partner behind, I watched his partner, cataloging his face and his act. When his buddy left, he assumed a “tough” stance and fixing a stare on me that supposedly should scare me. I’ve seen plenty of that tough guy character before so I didn’t give it any attention. He was about 5’9, 4 inches shorter than me, but heavily built. He had close cropped sandy blonde hair, 2 day stubble on his cheeks and a noticeable scar on his cheek. Probably a burn scar, most likely. On top of that he had on shades. Really? Shades, wearing shades indoors. Shows how hard he’s trying to be tough. I scoffed loudly, turned around, grabbed towels and commenced to shining my throwing knives.
“If you don’t mind, you may put those knives away,” came a deep, gravelly voice.
I took my time stopping to clean my knives, slowly lifted my head at him, and then put them aside. I stared at him, then I had an idea. I turned around to look at my shelf, grabbed something and turned to face Tough Guy, brandishing two wicked looking scimitars. I inspected them, gave them a shine and then took it for a practice swing. Out in the corner of my eye, I swear I thought I saw him cower. Again came a deep, gravelly voice.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Put.Those.Away.” I sighed, put my scimitars away and stared at him.
“Why? You feel threatened?” I asked him. At that moment, his buddy came in. I took a look at his face and I knew I faced trouble.
“I checked out the alley. There is no door in both ways except yours and the wall is at least 8 to 9 foot high topped off with barbed wire. I would have seen the lady still running…and I haven’t. You’re not telling me the truth son. I suggest you don’t lie to the CIA,” and to top it off, he fixed me a stare that was more effective than Tough Guy next to him. I guess I’ll call him the Evil Eye. Although no visible changes happened on my face or on my body, I blanched inside at the mention of CIA. However, wasn’t it their custom to brandish their badges or something like that?
“CIA, huh? You got a badge to show me or something?” Saying this I glanced at the lady and saw her mouthing that they’re lying. Oh Jesus, I got possible CIA operatives staring at me and a possible fugitive next to me OR the CIA may be posers, claiming they’re CIA but they’re not and the lady is the one that’s in trouble. Sometimes, I hate my tendency to help people at the first sign of distress. Who should I trust, the tough guys or the lady?
“We don’t have any badges on us, but trust me we’re CIA operatives and I suggest you comply. Where is the lady?” Evil Eye asked me.
I looked at both of them, carefully and subtly putting both my hands on the throwing knives I put aside early. First, I don’t trust them because what CIA people doesn’t carry around their badges? Posers, that’s who. They must have sensed my intention for they lifted up their pistols and pointed at my head. Still I remained calm, because if it’s anything I learned while I was in the Marines, you must always be calm no matter the situation. At this point, I had my hands on the knives and I noticed that I held them in a death grip so I relaxed my hands. I looked at the lady again, to gauge how much I should trust her, taking in her already drying blood, her scuffed leather attire, silenced pistols in both hands. God, its things like this that I hate. Who to believe, the tough guys or the seemingly fugitive looking woman? 2 seconds have passed while all this was being processed in my mind. I looked at my hands holding the knives. I have reached to a decision. I relaxed my hands even more.
The guys, upon seeing my apparent calmness, had taken it as an act of submissiveness and relaxed their shooting stance. Wrong move. Swiftly and as deftly as possible I threw both my knives at their heads, satisfaction when I heard the thunk of my knife burrowed deep into Tough Guy’s head above his right eyebrow but I misjudged the distance for the Evil Eye and I missed by mere millimeters and I though, I am seriously screwed. By the time I would turn around and grab more knives from my shelf, Evil Eye would have already put me down with successive shots to my back. I stared at his eyes, waiting for my impending doom when I heard the woman say look next to me and I did and I saw one of her pistols in the air. Without conscious thought to the actions, I just turned my head back around, grabbed blindly for the pistol, swung it over to aim at Evil Eye’s head and fired a 2 shots quickly but not before he made a shot himself, scoring my right shoulder. In slow mo I watched his head snap back and see the splatter of blood on the wall behind him and grimaced, partly for the pain in my shoulders and partly that I killed two guys today. Then I fell.
The shot in my shoulder was no big deal; I dealt with bigger and deadlier rounds before, one in my stomach and one through my thigh. So the shot in my shoulder was a walk in the park compared to those. Still, I took off my shirt and applied it to my shoulder, putting pressure on it.
“Thank you so much, name’s Linda by the way. Here let me hold that for you,” I looked up to see the woman, erm Linda, remove my hands from the wound and hold the towel herself, “in case you’re wondering, those guys are not CIA, but the organization they’re from is far more powerful than CIA. The reason why they’re after me is because I have evidence of this secret organization and their illegal activities. I broadcast this evidence nationwide, and they will go down. Right now, you’re in deep shit. But thanks for covering me. Come up, I got a place where we can hide.” Hmmm…interesting. I got up, grimacing at the pain, which felt like a dozen of red hot needles just poking through my right shoulder.
“Sounds good, but let me call my buddy,” upon seeing the look on Linda’s face I explained, “Marty will keep this a secret, even die to protect it. I swear it on my life. He’s also a techie junk and creates false documents too. If what I heard coming out of your lips is true, we’re going to have to literally and figuratively fall of the radar of those guys.” After I said so, I turned to lift my phone, but Linda stopped me.
“Most likely those guys will access your phone records and see who you called. I suggest you don’t use that phone. Here use this. It’s disposable and untraceable too.” I thanked her and made a quick call to my buddy, Marty. After telling him what I, or we, need, I hanged up and looked at Linda.
“Well I suppose I’m going to have to hotwire a car and swing it around. Is the alley big enough for a car?” she asked me.
“Last time I checked, yes. I’ll wait out back” I replied.
5 minutes later, I walked painfully into a red Camaro, a grinning Linda in the driver seat, and off we go into the west to this supposedly safe house. The next few days should be interesting.
