Dressed all in black, black pants, black hood, black gloves, black ski mask, I could see nothing but his dark eyes. A gleam of metal on the floor caught my eye.
A push dagger.
My stomach somersaulted. First Mac, now me.
He’d obviously lost hold of it when I’d kicked out the door.
I instinctively lunged for the weapon, but the bastard grabbed my ankle and I lost my balance. My head whacked against the kitchen counter, momentarily dazing me.
There was a male grunt before I felt the heat of his body, trying to force me to my stomach on the trailer floor. Panic would finish me. If I let him pin me there, I’d have a hard time getting out of it.
My training cleared my mind and before he could grab my right arm, I twisted backward, elbow out, and smashed it into his face. It missed, but he flinched backward to avoid it and loosened his grip. I lunged forward and snatched up the dagger. He climbed over me, grappling me for it.
I needed to get him off me or this was over.
I slammed my head back and felt the pain of it connecting to his chin.
He fell off to the side, and I slid out from under him, swiping the dagger as I got to my feet.
The attacker scrambled to his feet to face me, his hands up defensively as I held the dagger expertly in my hand, body in fighting position.
If the attacker knew me, and I was pretty sure he did, then he’d know I could defend myself. Maybe he’d underestimated me because I was a woman.
Moron.
I had to hope the idiot hadn’t clocked the block of kitchen knives on the counter behind him.
“Who are you? Huh?” I yelled. “Is that you, Jared? Huh? Coward!” I swiped the dagger at him, showing my intention to maim, not kill. A push dagger was called a push dagger for a reason. It had a T handle designed to be grasped in the hand so the blade protruded from your fist. People also referred to it as a punch dagger.
That’s what Mac’s neighbor saw happen to my father. He thought someone was punching Mac in the gut. Instead, it was this asshole stabbing him.
Rage flooded me, and I swiped at him again.
Mac was right. His eyes were an unrealistic purple. Contacts. He bowed back against the counter, and his alien eyes flew to the door that lay partially open, suitcase collapsed in front of it.
Oh no, he was not getting away. I wanted this over with.
“Don’t even think about it, you fucker,” I hissed, blocking his path. “You’re going to stay right there, and I’m going to call the police.”
His eyes narrowed.
Who are you?
Then he did what I feared and turned to remove the largest kitchen knife from the block.
I bent my knees, lowering into a defensive position as he mirrored me. Then he lunged with the knife with a lack of skill that told me he had no clue what he was doing. I swerved to my left to avoid the blade, grabbed his biceps with one hand, and brought the push dagger down through the inside of his upper arm at the same time. He yelled in agony, dropping the kitchen knife, and I tugged out the dagger with mean satisfaction, ready to take him to the ground.
But his fighting inexperience had lulled me into a false sense of security. I’d expected him to crumble under the pain of his wound.
Instead, he shocked me by slamming his fist into my face.
Throbbing pain exploded across my cheekbone, blinding me, and I stumbled back.
It was only seconds of distraction, but it was enough for him to lope over the suitcase and shove open the door. I roared in fury and dove for him, my fingers grasping the hood of his sweater. He grunted as I tried to haul him back, but I tripped over the suitcase, the trailer door slammed back toward my face, and I lost my grip on him as he took off.
Kicking the suitcase out of my way, ignoring the pain of my pinkie toe catching a metal buckle on the damn thing, I pushed open the trailer door, letting it slam against the side of the caravan.
Swiping up the kitchen knife, I checked left and right outside my temporary home and saw nothing.
No moving shadow in the distance.
No sound of gravel underfoot.
“Coward!” I shrieked my rage into the night.
Aware now of the adrenaline shooting through my body, I tried to control it as I hurried back into the trailer and grabbed my cell. Minutes later, the emergency services operator told me the police were on their way.
Hands shaking, I called Mac next.
He answered after four rings.
“Robbie?” he asked, sounding groggy with sleep.
The fear I’d felt when I’d heard the man breaking in came back, and I stared anxiously at the open door of the trailer. “Dad …” I rarely called him that. Then I told him what happened.
His worry was palpable as he ordered me to find a neighboring trailer. But I didn’t want to endanger anyone. “Stop arguing with me!” He sounded panicked.
“I’ll lock myself in my car,” I compromised.
“Fuck!” he bit out. “I’m on my way. I will be there in minutes.”
“Don’t kill yourself trying to get here.”
I did as I promised. I yanked on some socks and hiking boots, shoved my phone inside my left boot, armed myself with the dagger and a kitchen knife, and wrapped ice in a tea towel. I then hurried out of the trailer and into my rental car.
The bleep of the locks didn’t make me feel all that safe, but it was better than being a sitting duck in a tiny, static trailer.
* * *
I was wearing only a camisole and shorts, and the adrenaline was wearing off. Between that and the ice pressed to my cheek, I
