sorry, too,” he said quietly.
“Frisco!” Natasha launched herself at him, nearly knocking him over.
“Whoa!” he said, catching her in his left arm while he used his right to balance both of their weight with his cane. “What’s wrong, Tash?”
The little girl had both of her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and she was hiding her face in his T-shirt.
“Tash, what’s going on?” Frisco asked again, but she didn’t move. Short of yanking the child away from himself, he couldn’t get her to release him.
Mia crouched down next to the little girl. “Natasha, did something scare you?”
She nodded yes.
Mia pushed Tasha’s red curls back from her face. “Honey, what scared you?”
Tasha lifted her head, looking at Mia with tear-filled eyes. “Dwayne,” she whispered. “I saw Dwayne.”
Mia looked up at Frisco, frowning her confusion. “Who…?”
“One of Sharon’s old boyfriends.” He pulled Natasha up and into his arms. “Tash, you probably just saw someone who reminded you of him.”
Natasha shook her head emphatically as Mia stood up. “I saw Dwayne,” she said again, tears overflowing onto her cheeks and great gulping sobs making her nearly impossible to understand. “I saw him.”
“What would he be doing here in San Felipe?” Frisco asked the little girl.
“He’d be looking for Sharon Francisco,” a low voice drawled. “That’s what he’d be doing here.”
Natasha was suddenly, instantly silent.
Mia gazed at the man standing directly in front of them. He was a big man, taller and wider even than Frisco, but softer and heavily overweight. He was wearing a dark business suit that had to have been hand tailored to fit his girth, and lizard-skin boots that were buffed to a gleaming shine. His shirt was dark gray—a slightly lighter shade of the same black of his suit, and his tie was a color that fell somewhere between the two. His hair was thick and dark, and it tumbled forward into his eyes in a style reminiscent of Elvis Presley. His face was fifty pounds too heavy to be called handsome, with a distinctive hawklike nose and deep-set eyes that were now lost among the puffiness of his excess flesh.
In one big, beefy hand, he held a switchblade knife that he opened and closed, opened and closed, with a rhythmic hiss of metal on metal.
“My sister’s not here,” Frisco said evenly.
Mia felt him touch her shoulder, and she turned toward him. His eyes never left Dwayne and the knife in the man’s right hand as he handed her Natasha. “Get behind me,” he murmured. “And start backing away.”
“I can see that your sister’s not here,” the heavy man had a thick New Orleans accent. The gentlemanly old South politeness of his speech somehow made him seem all the more frightening. “But since you have the pleasure of her daughter’s company, I must assume you know of her whereabouts.”
“Why don’t you leave me your phone number,” Frisco suggested, “and I’ll have her call you.”
Dwayne flicked his knife open again, and this time he didn’t close it. “I’m afraid that’s unacceptable. You see, she owes me a great deal of money.” He smiled. “Of course, I could always take the child as collateral….”
Frisco could still sense Mia’s presence behind him. He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Mia, take Tash into the deli on the corner and call the police,” he told her without turning around.
He felt her hesitation and anxiety, felt the coolness of her fingers as she touched his arm. “Alan…”
“Do it,” he said sharply.
Mia began backing away. Her heart was pounding as she watched Frisco smile pleasantly at Dwayne, always keeping his eyes on that knife. “You know I’d die before I’d let you even touch the girl,” the former SEAL said matter-of-factly. Mia knew that what he said was true. She prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
“Why don’t you just tell me where Sharon is?” Dwayne asked. “I’m not interested in beating the hell out of a poor, pathetic cripple, but I will if I have to.”
“The same way you had to hit a five-year-old?” Frisco countered. Everything about him—his stance, his face, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice—was deadly. Despite the cane in his hand, despite his injured knee, he looked anything but poor and pathetic.
But Dwayne had a knife, and Frisco only had his cane—which he needed to use to support himself.
Dwayne lunged at Frisco, and Mia turned and ran for the deli.
Frisco saw Mia’s sudden movement from the corner of his eye. Thank God. It would be ten times easier to fight this enormous son of a bitch knowing that Mia and Tash were safe and out of the way.
Dwayne lunged with the knife again, and Frisco sidestepped him, gritting his teeth against the sudden screaming pain as his knee was forced to twist and turn in ways that it no longer could. He used his cane and struck the heavyset man on the wrist, sending the sharp-bladed knife skittering into the street.
He realized far too late that he had played right into Dwayne’s hand. With his cane up and in the air, he couldn’t use it to support himself. And Dwayne came at him again, spinning and turning with the graceful agility of a much smaller, lighter man. Frisco watched, almost in slow motion, as his opponent aimed a powerful karate kick directly at his injured knee.
He saw it coming, but as if he, too, were caught in slow motion, he couldn’t move out of the way.
And then there was only pain. Sheer, blinding, excruciating pain. Frisco felt a hoarse cry rip from his throat as he went down, hard, onto the sidewalk. He fought the darkness that threatened to close in on him as he felt Dwayne’s foot connect violently with his side, this time damn near launching him into the air.
Somehow he held on to the heavy man’s leg. Somehow he brought his own legs up and around, twisting and kicking and tripping, until Dwayne, too, fell onto the ground.
There were no rules. One of Dwayne’s elbows landed squarely in Frisco’s face, and he felt his nose gush with blood. He struggled to keep the bigger man’s weight off of him, trying to keep Dwayne pinned as he hit him in the face again and again.
Another, smaller man would’ve been knocked out, but Dwayne was like one of those pop-up punching bag dolls. He just kept coming. The son of a bitch went for his knee again. There was no way he could miss, and again pain ripped into Frisco like a freight train. He grabbed hold of Dwayne’s head and slammed it back against the sidewalk.
There were sirens in the distance—Frisco heard them through waves of nausea and dizziness. The police were coming.
Dwayne should have been out for the count, but he scrambled up and onto his feet.
“You tell Sharon I want that money back,” he said through bruised and bleeding lips before he limped away.
Frisco
