Mark paused, confused by the sudden shift in my tone. “What?”
“I said,” I reached into my coat and gripped the handle of the bat, “Self-defense authorized.”
Part 3: The Bone-Deep Lesson
Mark lunged again.
This time, I didn’t dodge.
I stepped inside his guard. My movement was a blur, too fast for his alcohol-soaked brain to process. I brought the bat up in a short, sharp arc.
Crack.
The sound of ash wood connecting with a kneecap is distinctive. It’s a dry, sickening pop.
Mark’s scream tore through the night. His leg buckled backward at an unnatural angle, and he collapsed onto the wet stone of the porch.
“My leg! God, my leg!”
He scrambled backward, eyes wide with shock. He looked up at me, and for the first time, he really saw me. He didn’t see the gardener. He saw the predator.
“Stay back!” he shrieked, reaching for the flower pot to throw at me.
I kicked the pot away. Then I stepped on his hand. Hard. I ground my heel into his fingers until I felt something give.
“This is for the fingers you used to bruise her throat,” I said calmly.
“You’re crazy!” Mark wailed. “I’ll sue you! I’ll own you!”
“Focus, Mark,” I said. “We’re not in court yet.”
He tried to stand up on his good leg, swinging a clumsy fist at my midsection.
I parried it with my forearm, spun the bat, and drove the pommel into his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. He crumpled like a wet paper bag.
I stood over him. The rain washed the blood from my cheek.
“You called me a relic,” I said to his gasping form. “You were right. I’m from a time when actions had consequences.”
Mark wheezed, trying to crawl toward the door. “Please… stop…”
“She begged you to stop,” I said. “Did you?”
I swung the bat again. Not a killing blow. A tactical blow. I aimed for the floating ribs on his right side.
