But then she would have to explain herself to Fatima. And regardless of what Fatima herself might make of Delilah’s capability with violence, her people would have their own views, probably ones fatal to the op itself.
So she said nothing — in her judgment, the lesser of the two available evils. Fatima, less savvy, said, “What can’t you figure out?”, her tone dripping with derision.
It was a stupid move, though Delilah didn’t blame Fatima for not knowing better. In a confrontation, you don’t insult, you don’t challenge, you don’t deny it’s happening. And you always leave your adversary a face-saving exit. If he takes it, great; if he doesn’t, you act. But blustering en route serves only to engage the other person’s temper and his ego, while impeding your own opportunities for surprise. Fatima, whatever her involvement in her brother’s network, wasn’t trained, and she wasn’t experienced.
The two men stopped, so close Delilah could have hit one with a stomp to the instep and the other with a knee to the groin. The shorter one said, “What you’re doing out alone, the two of you. This is what we can’t figure out.”
Fatima laughed contemptuously. “Alone, the two of us? Here, let me ask you the same thing. What are the two of you doing out alone? Did your parents not notice you sneaking out of your bedrooms?”
They both reddened and the shorter one’s eyes narrowed. Delilah admired Fatima for her brass, but bluff was dangerous if you couldn’t back it up.
“You know what I think?” the shorter one said. “I think you’re two whores looking for cock.”
“Whores don’t look for cock,” Fatima said. “They look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either.”
The taller one grabbed Fatima roughly by the elbow. “I’ll show you what we can help with.”
“Let go,” Fatima said, and Delilah, hearing the sudden fear in her voice, knew the woman was at the end of her bluff. Turning slightly to conceal the move, she slid the second and third fingers of her right hand into the ring at the end of the Hideaway. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t use a knife to threaten — she would use it to cut. But to the extent possible, she had to stay in character. A civilian might carry a knife for self-protection. But a civilian wouldn’t use it readily, or well.
“Let her go,” Delilah said, her tone deliberately calm and commanding.
“Or what?” the shorter one said with a sneer.
Hating to do it, Delilah held up her right fist, the razor-sharp talon clearly visible now. “Or I’ll slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the sidewalk.” She kept her left side forward and dropped her knife hand close to her ribcage. If he tried to grab for it, she could tie up his arms with her free hand and attack his balls and his belly with the blade.
The taller one looked to his friend for reassurance. But his grip on Fatima’s arm didn’t slacken.
There was a blur of movement to their right. Two more dark-skinned men, heading toward them from around the side of Momtaz. Delilah felt another adrenaline surge, but then immediately realized from the stealth and speed of the approach that she and Fatima weren’t the targets. And indeed, as she oriented on the two approaching men, she saw their focus was entirely on the two assailants, not the intended victims.
The shorter guy must have read something in Delilah’s expression, in the momentary direction of her gaze. He started to turn, but the first of the approaching men had already closed the distance. As the man moved in, he flicked his right arm out and a collapsible steel baton snapped into position. Delilah watched in adrenalized slow motion as the shorter guy kept turning, turning, and now the lead man had planted his left foot and the baton was rocketing in like a tennis forehand, and the shorter guy must have picked up the problem in his peripheral vision because he started to flinch, his shoulders reflexively rising, his arms coming up, his head turtling in, but it was too late, and before he could reverse his turn, the baton whipped into his face. His head blew back and his legs went flying out from under him, shattered teeth tumbling through the air as he fell. Delilah could tell from the instant loss of rigidity in his limbs that he was out before he even hit the pavement.
The taller guy hadn’t even begun to come to grips with his shock before the trailing man had reached him. He grabbed the taller guy by the back of his collar and suddenly there was a knife in his hand, pressed against the taller guy’s throat.
“Is there a problem?” the trailing man said in English. Delilah wasn’t sure of the accent — Punjabi, she thought, though maybe Urdu. Not Arabic.
Other than a pair of extremely bulging and frightened eyes, the taller guy seemed too stunned even to respond.
The trailing guy pressed the knife harder. “I said, is there a fucking problem?”
The taller guy vibrated his head no, as though he wanted to shake it violently but was too mindful of the knife. “No. No problem.”
“Good. Then get the fuck out of here. Now.” He shoved the taller guy so hard that the guy stumbled back and had to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling. The moment he had recovered his balance, he turned and sprinted away.
The lead man knelt and took a closer look at the guy he’d decked, who was, as Delilah already knew, unconscious, or, from the force of the blow, possibly even dead. He reversed his grip on the baton so he was holding it like an ice pick and smashed the tip against the sidewalk, collapsing it. Then he stood and looked at Fatima.
“Are you all right?” he said, in an accent like his partner’s.
Fatima looked at the guy on the ground, then at the lead man. For a moment, she was speechless. Then she stammered out, “Yes. Yes, we’re fine.”
The lead guy glanced at his partner, then at Delilah. “I’m… sorry,” he said. “This place, sometimes, bad men at night. I’m sorry.”
Delilah shook her head. “No need to apologize.”
The man glanced at the Hideaway protruding from her knuckles. “But maybe you are already okay.”
Delilah eased the knife back into its sheath. “Maybe. Thank you for your help.”
The other man glanced around nervously. “You should go. Police come. Police no good.”
Fatima seemed stunned. Delilah put a hand on her elbow and said, “Yes. We’re going. Thank you again.”
They headed quickly southeast, the general direction of Paddington Station. Delilah was intuiting a lot from the encounter and she wanted to process it more fully, but she needed to stay in character. There would be time later.
“Was that a knife?” Fatima asked, glancing back as they walked. Her tone was incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
“Later. I think we should get out of here. Do you go to that shisha shop a lot? Do they know you?” This was a little more tactical acumen than she would have preferred to reveal, but she thought the risk was less than the opportunity to learn more.
“I go there sometimes. And yes, they know who I am.”
“Well, that’s not good.”
“Why? We didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything.”
“No, but do you want to have to persuade the police of that? I mean, did you see that guy’s face? I think he might have been dead.”
“Oh my God, I know, I mean, he went flying!”
She was talking faster than usual, her demeanor giddy. Normal, in the aftermath of violence. “Do you know who those guys were?” Delilah said, being careful to inject some agitation into her own tone, lest Fatima wonder how she could be so cool after what had just happened.