Sister María walked over to her, knelt beside her. “I’ve got some pasticho here and some arepas for you and your little boy.”
“¡Gracias!” The woman took the boxes, sniffed, smiled. She began to eat, feeding small bites to her child. “God bless you.”
Down the street, a group of five young men had taken notice, either of Sister María or the food, and started walking their way.
Dylan sensed their aggression, their desire to fight. He took Sister María’s hand. “We need to go—now.”
She spotted them. “Sí, claro.”Yes, of course.
Dylan led her across the street. “Don’t hurry, and don’t look back over your shoulder. When the fighting starts, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Footsteps.
They reached the other side of the street.
“South.” Dylan turned left, heading toward their hotel, footsteps telling him the men were almost on top of them.
To their right was the recessed entrance to an apartment building.
Dylan saw his chance. Without warning, he pushed Sister María into the recess. “Stay here, back to the wall.”
Then he turned to face their pursuers, doing his best to remember his Venezuelan slang. “¿Que hay, mis panas?”What’s up, friends?
10
Gabriela counted five assailants—all fighting-age males, two holding knives. “Mierda.”Shit.
“We’re not your buddies,” said one in a black Caracas Football Club T-shirt. “What’s in the backpack,guevón? Hand it over.”
Oh, man,these guys were stupid. Dylan had served with DEVGRU. He was among the best of the best. Couldn’t they see that he was an experienced fighter? She thought about warning them but knew she couldn’t afford to distract Dylan. Besides, sometimes people needed to learn the hard way.
“Want it?” Dylan’s weight shifted, his knees bending slightly, a subtle change in posture that told Gabriela he wasn’t going to cooperate. “Come and get it.”
Her pulse spiked, her body responding on instinct, muscle memory resurrecting her training.
He doesn’t need your help. Besides, religious sisters don’t fight.
The men moved in on Dylan, the grins on their faces telling Gabriela that they were confident they’d come out on top.
Idiotas.
The Caracas FC fan lunged, somehow slamming his face into Dylan’s boot, his knife clattering to the ground along with the rest of him.
“Stop before you regret it,” Dylan warned the others.
“¡Mamagüevo!” A second man ran at Dylan and ended up gasping and cradling his balls on the concrete.
Enraged, the others moved in all at once, fury on their faces.
Dylan made it look easy. He grabbed one attacker, slammed the guy’s face into his knee, then threw him aside in time to punch another in the jaw.
That guy staggered but didn’t fall. He came back for more, swiping at Dylan with a knife while the third tried to kick Dylan’s legs out from under him.
Dylan sidestepped the blade, caught the kicker’s leg, and flipped him onto his back. That left only the man with the knife standing.