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moment
Jenny took Jones’s wrist, twisting the knife away, side-stepping, ramming his
arm up his back. Jones’s momentum carried him on forward, as Jenny leapt, still
holding onto his twisted arm, her knee connecting with his spine as she rode him
to the ground. Jones’s face planted the soil and he grunted, spittle exploding
from his lips. Jenny took the knife from his fingers, lifted it in the air, and
stabbed Jones in the back of the shoulder. Blood bubbled and pumped. Jones
howled and squirmed, but Jenny held him there, her body hard and taut, her face
and eyes grim.
     
    “Lie still,” she said.
     
    Jones struggled.
     
    “Lie fucking still!” she hissed.
     
    Growling and snarling, Jones was
finally still. Jenny leant forward, and into his ear, said, “You’re lucky this
time, boy. Don’t fuck with me. Next time I push it through your ribs and cut
out your heart. Do you understand?”
     
    Jones mumbled.
     
    “Do you fucking understand?” She
grabbed the hilt of the knife and twisted.
     
    “Yes!” he screamed. “Yes, I
fucking understand!”
     
    Jenny stood, and turned on the
rest of the squad. They were deathly quiet. Her eyes were flashing mad and
dangerous, and she held up the bloodied knife. “Anybody else want to be Top
Dog? Do I have to prove myself to any other cunt? Or are you all happy?”
     
    “You know we don’t all
think like him,” said Zanzibar, his incredibly deep, dark, brown eyes fixed on
Jenny. The large, dark-skinned soldier stood and moved forward, and gently took
the knife from Jenny’s hand. “Calm down, Xi. Calm down, my friend. Come on, we
go a long way back. You know you can trust me.”
     
    Jenny took several deep breaths,
and Zanzibar turned and made a hand gesture. Somebody left to get a medic.
Jones was unconscious; nobody moved to help him.
     
    Zanzibar guided Jenny to a seat,
and somebody put a glass of whiskey in front of her. She decked it in one.
     
    “I’m sorry,” she said, lifting
her head then, looking round at the gathered faces of the squad. “I shouldn’t
have...”
     
    “Don’t apologise,” rumbled
Zanzibar. “Prick had it coming, right?” There was a muttering of agreement.
     
    Medics arrived, and Jones was
rolled onto a stretcher and carried out. Jenny toyed with the knife. “You know
what? I know he isn’t a bad man. I know Jones has done... good things in
his time. He’s a good soldier. A good fighter. Good for the cause. But I...”
     
    “Hey, when your blood’s up, it’s
up,” said Zanzibar, and patted her arm. “Don’t worry about it. Now come on.
Pick up the cards. Let me relieve you of some of that hard-earned pay you carry
in your fat purse.” He winked.
     
    “Is that fighting talk?” smiled
Jenny, breathing deep.
     
    “Always,” smiled back Zanzibar.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    FROM
BEHIND HER cards, through the smoke, fuelled by whiskey, Jenny surveyed her
squad. Many were new to each other, these men and women, and new to her -
except Zanz. But she felt like she already knew them. She was also sure they
had been informed about her previous squad; killed to a man on an assassination
mission. It happened. What looked mildly suspicious was that she was the
only one who’d survived, and she didn’t like that. Made her look like she was
either a coward, or on the inside spitting out. And she was neither. Jenny
licked her lips, rubbed her eyes, and rolled a fresh cigarette. Sometimes, it
was better to die with your men.
     
    “Your hand, girlfriend,” said
Randy, in his effeminate voice, and Jenny grinned over at him. She’d seen Randy’s
profile. Randy was tall and slim, with masses of long curly black hair. He had
designer stubble and a designer uniform. Even his boots were decorated with glitter.
It had led to a lot of misunderstandings, and a lot of agony - for other
people. Just because Randy sounded like a squeaky girl didn’t mean he fought
like one; he was an expert in martial arts and street fighting, and a dab