Read Pandora's Ark for Free Online

man?”
    “Sorry. Don’t smoke.” When
Kimball tried to sidestep him the man stepped in front of him, blocking him. Kimball
could see that he was neither a teenager nor a man, but on the cusp, perhaps
twenty and wasting away.
    “What about money? You
got money, don’t you?”
    “How about you get out of
my way? That way you and your friends won’t get hurt.”
    From the shadows came movement.
Three others, all in the same condition of being wasted and thinning on drugs, were
positioning themselves so that Kimball was flanked on both sides with another
behind and the punk in front.
    “You don’t want to do
this,” he told the kid. “Trust me. You really don’t.”
    There was a snicker as a
blade shot out from a stiletto in the punk’s hand. Another three followed in
concert: … Chic! . . . Chic! . . . Chic! . . .
    In Kimball’s mind it was
an easy estimation of four knives total. 
    “Give me your wallet,
dude.”
    “The only way you’re
getting my wallet,” he told him, “is if you come and take it.”
    “Are you kidding me? There’re
four of us.”
    “I see that,” he said.
“Unfortunately for you, the odds favor me quite a bit.”
    The punk cocked his head
and gave a questioning look.
    “Last chance,” Kimball
said sternly. “Get out of my way.”
    The punk did not
hesitate, but came at Kimball with unskilled and reckless abandon, the point of
the blade going in as a straight jab.
    Kimball pivoted and
sidestepped the punk, the blade missing its mark and going wide, the punk
tripping and sprawling to the ground in the face-first approach as his chops
hit the pavement hard, his teeth fracturing and breaking.
    Kimball took a step back
to access the situation, barely able to choke back the laugh which irritated
the punks to no end.
    The attacking punk gained
his feet, and put a hand to his bloody mouth. “You think that was funny?”  
    “Are you kidding me? That
was friggin’ hilarious.”
    The punk attacked in
rage, swinging wildly, the blade cutting the air in diagonal Xs, back and
forth, side to side, Kimball falling back, waiting.
    And then the former Vatican Knight struck.
    Kimball lashed out with
his left hand, caught the punk by the wrist, and twisted, snapping the bone and
causing the knife to fall. He then brought up his right leg and kicked the punk
with such force that the young man went airborne and carried across the alley
in what appeared to be an impossibly long distance, the kid landing on a pile
of trash bags where he remained unmoving.
    Keeping his eyes on the
other three, he slowly picked up the knife.
    They faced him. And it
was obvious to Kimball that they were determining if attacking him would be the
wrong thing to do. To help them with their decision, Kimball began to play the
knife across and over his fingers like a majorette twirling a baton. The motion
was poetic and effortless, the skill taking years to achieve, the ability displayed
unlike anything the punks had ever seen before.
    “Your choice,” he said.
    The punks backed away,
two of them withdrawing their blades and pocketing their knives. The third
wasn’t so sure, keeping his knife ready.
    “We just want to take our
friend and go,” said the skinny punk with the knife.
    “Do what you want. I’ll
give you thirty seconds.”
    The punks hustled,
stirring their friend who was half conscious and murmuring nonsensical
syllables. When they gathered the punk to his feet he cried out in agony as the
pain in his wrist suddenly became white hot.
    One of the punks came
forward. “Can we have his knife back?” He held out his hand as a gesture to
receive.
    Kimball nodded. “Nah, I
think I’ll keep it for posterity.”
    The punk fell back with
his group, and then they headed for the opposite end of the alley.
    Kimball pocketed the
knife, watching. When they rounded the bend he hastened his pace. Regardless,
there were always vultures out there waiting in the shadows ready to close in
on what they think may be