Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Linoleum
Scarlett didn't scream. She didn't freeze.
As the lead man lunged forward with the iron pipe, Scarlett grabbed a heavy, metal trash can lid resting beside the dumpster and swung it with all the desperate, raw force in her body.
The metal lid crashed hard against the lead attacker's face with a deafening CLANG. The man let out a bloody howl, staggering backward as his nose shattered under the blow.
"Run, Patty!" Scarlett screamed at the top of her lungs, turning to sprint toward the back security door of the diner.
The other two men charged. One of them caught her by her apron strings, jerking her backward violently. Scarlett crashed hard against the wet pavement, her hands scraping against the rough asphalt. The second man grabbed her by her hair, pulling her head back as he drew a long, gleaming switchblade from his pocket.
"Bitch!" he snarled, raising the blade above her throat. "Let's see how much Victor likes that pretty face when—"
The sound that followed didn't belong to the night. It was a roar—a primal, terrifying sound of absolute, apocalyptic fury that rattled the iron fire escapes above them.
Before the knife could descend an inch, a black sedan tore into the narrow alleyway at sixty miles per hour, its headlights blinding the scene. The brakes locked with a screech of burning rubber, stopping mere inches from Scarlett’s trembling body.
The driver’s side door flew open.
Victor Vance stepped out. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, heavy muscles covered in dark tattoos. His face was no longer that of a smooth businessman or a quiet dinner guest.
It was the face of a demon unleashed from hell.
In a single, fluid blur of terrifying motion, Victor crossed the narrow alley. He grabbed the man holding the knife by his throat, lifting his two-hundred-pound frame off the ground with one hand, and slammed him face-first into the brick wall of the diner. The sound of fracturing bone echoed sharply through the night.
The third man tried to run, but Victor grabbed him by his leather collar, dragging him back and hurling him into the iron dumpster with a force that dented the heavy steel structure.
Victor turned, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with a wild, lethal light as he looked down at the man holding his broken nose on the ground. Victor drew a black heavy handgun from his waistband and aimed it directly between the attacker's eyes.
"No! Victor, don't!" Scarlett cried out from the pavement, scrambling toward him on her hands and knees.
Victor froze. The barrel of the gun remained steady, three inches from the man's forehead. His whole body was shaking with an unholy, bloodthirsty rage that threatened to consume everything around him.
"Victor, please!" Scarlett wept, reaching up with her scraped, bleeding hand and grabbing the cuff of his white shirt. "Look at me! Don't do this! Look at me!"
Slowly, agonizingly, Victor turned his head down toward her.
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The moment his dark, demonic eyes met hers, the wild, lethal fire inside him faltered. He looked at her scraped hands, at her disheveled hair, at the raw, desperate fear in her hazel eyes—fear not of him, but for him.
Victor lowered the gun. He kicked the attacker hard in the ribs, knocking him unconscious, before dropping to his knees on the wet asphalt beside Scarlett.
