If they had only asked for my wallet. But, no. The three knife-wielding punks surrounding us say they’re taking Jennifer, too. No way.

I move as if to hand one my wallet, and drop it. As his eyes reflexively follow it, I jump up, grabbing the back of his head and driving my knee into his face. One shot, and he’s out cold.

She deals with the second punk as quickly. She drops to one knee as he slashes at her, his blade passing safely over her head. She punches, hard, fast, and straight. His grandchildren will have bruises. He drops, clutching his groin as if they’re about to fall off. He probably wishes they would.

The third one has circled behind us. He grabs Jenn’s hair, arm drawn back, ready to stab her. My right leg sweeps up and around. Before he can strike, the heel of my boot catches him in the throat. I hear a crunch as the blow crushes his windpipe. He might not live, but I don’t care. He was going to kill her, after all.

Neither of us sees the fourth one. The one with the gun. Two shots. End game.