A splintered knife flashed and my boot sent a thug flying into a stack of crates.
"All of you shut up!" I said, because words sometimes do the work fists don't.
"Lady, that knife—" the biggest one, the henchman with the missing front tooth, started. He was still on his feet but wobbling. His partner made the mistake of reaching for his belt.
"Hands slow," I said. "Keep them slow and you'll get to keep them."
"She talks funny," another thug said. He laughed. That laugh died when my heel found his ribs.
"Who sent you?" I asked while they tried to catch breath and dignity.
"Nobody," the toothless man lied. His voice went thin. "We're just taking a—"
"Valuables," the smallest one finished for him. He grinned like a dog at leftovers.
"You picked the wrong woman," the toothless man said, louder, leaning on bravado.
"You picked the wrong century," I said, and the crack of the crate under the man I kicked made the alley applaud in broken wood.
"Take her!" One of them finally shouted. He lunged. I moved. He didn't.
"Look at you all," I said. "Moving like you still think you own the streets."
"She hits like a freight," one of them muttered.
"She hit hard enough to break your swagger," Lina called from the mouth of the alley.
Lina pushed in, apron still tied, a small knife in her hand and her face set the way it does when she
