Z was fast. The split second Marcela’s attention shifted, he moved. He rose as if on springs. Marcela saw the fist coming and tried to roll with the punch. His blow caught Marcela on the side of the head and left her ear ringing like church bells on Sunday. Luckily she’d managed to shift her head away enough not to get the full brunt of the punch. The man had heavy hands. Another blow like that and Marcela would be knocked out cold.

Marcela blocked Z’s left, which nearly broke the bone in her arm, and shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. She slammed a foot into Z’s chest, but she wasn’t yet at full strength, and it only staggered him.

Time enough. She rolled on the ground and retrieved Z’s knife. When he threw his right cross at her, she slipped under it and placed the blade against his throat. Z stood rigid. “Now tell me, big man,” she said. “Who sent you?”

Z clamped his mouth shut with defiance. Marcela dug the blade deeper against his thick neck. Blood tinted the blade.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Marcela said. “So I’m going to give you a second chance. But this is your final chance. You don’t talk.” Marcela pressed the blade deeper into Z’s neck for emphasis, and blood started gushing. “You’ll never talk again.” She took a deep breath. “Who sent you?”

Z looked behind Marcela. He opened his mouth.

And then his face exploded.