Children of the Savage City

Chapter One

One

The rain was letting up.

The studio door was propped open and, through the gap, Nikki could see the deluge giving way to a mild patter. Wet cobblestones and asphalt glistened, reflecting the flash of headlamps and the red glow of brake lights. She turned back to the room and clapped her hands.

“Alright,” she shouted. “Ten minutes to go. Keep it up! Switch sides.”

The students were sweating. She was sweating. The ventilation in this place was shit.

Five groups of students were taking turns with yellow plastic prop knives, practicing disarming techniques. One woman had given up and, blonde hair plastered to her face, was sitting on the floor, back against the cinder-block wall, sucking air.

This was the fifth Krav Maga self-defense class Nikki had taught in the city center this fall.

The turnout was good tonight—a mix of Americans from the nearby US military base and local kids from the Naples neighborhoods.

Most were curious and eager to learn, and Nikki usually enjoyed teaching.

But language and cultural differences meant the two groups didn’t mingle well and, after two hours, Nikki was worn out from swapping between English and Italian.

Despite the extra effort, these lessons were a welcome distraction.

In this classroom, she was in control. She was in her body, nerves and heartbeat and breath—and these students relied on her.

She scanned the assorted collection of teenagers and military wives in jeans or gym gear—the slow, awkward movements, the way they spoke the instructions aloud, executed the sequences, the way they fumbled and dropped the plastic weapons.

It was unlikely that any one of them would become a martial arts expert.

But that wasn’t the point, was it? She needed to give them just a little more awareness, a rehearsal of the shock you felt to have someone stick a knife or a gun in your face, and a sense of being able to move, to help yourself if god forbid that moment ever came.

She was preparing to start the cooldown sequence when the door opened fully, letting in the street noises. Two men strode through. They wore puffer jackets, slick with the rain. A damp breeze wafted in as the door shut behind them, breathing diesel fumes and ozone.

“Motherfucker,” exclaimed the first man, the word reverberating in the small space.

He was muscular with a thick neck and short haircut. He leaned over to slap the water off his head, spackling the floor.

“Keep going,” Nikki shouted to the students, who were slowing, turning to look. She moved to meet the men.

“Can I help you?”

“Buona sera, signora,” said the second man. “What a lovely night for…what is this? Aerobics?”

He was tall and rangy, with wide, bulging eyes and thick eyebrows. His smile was unpleasant.

“Self-defense. I’d invite you to join but we’re nearly finished. We have other classes on the schedule if you’d like to come then. There are flyers by the door.”

She spoke the words in an efficient, clipped manner, hoping it would urge them to leave. But something about them told her that this was more than an innocent escape from the rain.

Close to them now, Nikki became keenly aware of the height difference.

She was accustomed to being the shortest person in the room, and relied on a muscular physique and confident bearing to make up the difference.

But these men were significantly larger than she, and they drew in, looming over her, a challenge in their posture.

Nikki recognized the type from her years as a bouncer: pack animals, puffing their chests, slamming their heads to assert dominance.

“Self-defense?” snorted the muscular one. “Very important. This isn’t a safe neighborhood, you know?”

“Indeed,” said Nikki, squaring herself to him. “Which is why I need to get back to teaching. The rain has stopped. You should leave now.”

The man with the bulging eyes looked over her head and called out to the group. “We’re in the same business, you know? Self-protection. How much are you paying for these lessons? Sixty? Seventy? We can protect you all for much less.”

His words jarred Nikki, the metallic flavor of adrenaline suddenly in her mouth, pulse accelerating.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Listen,” said the muscular man, pressing in closer and adopting a reasonable, brotherly tone. “We only want to help you stay safe. These are dangerous times.”

“Fifty euros,” said the other one in English, once again to the class. “It’s a good price.”

Rage surged in Nikki’s gut, in her throat, behind her eyes—hot and electric.

“Or what? You’ll do something stupid in front of seventeen witnesses, everyone taking pictures? Get the fuck out of my class.”

She stared unblinking at them, a sort of mania in her fury that she held back with effort.

The muscular man met her gaze for a few beats, then laughed. “Aren’t you adorable? No offense, signora. No offense at all. We’re just here to help.”

“I don’t need your kind of help.”

The rangy man began laughing, too. “We’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said.

They left, and Nikki watched the door swing shut behind them. She fought an instinct to rush forward and turn the bolt; it would only signal fear to those assholes.

Slowly, she turned back to the class.

“Good work,” she said. “Let’s cool down and do some stretching.”

—

Afterwards, as the students left by twos and threes, Nikki gathered her gear, shoved it in a duffel bag, and swung this across her body. She was drained, and ready for bed.

The past few months had been unexpectedly difficult—and Nikki often felt as if she were wading knee-deep through sludge.

She prided herself on her resilience, an ability to pick herself up off the mat and come back swinging.

But the events this past summer had cost her more than she wanted to admit.

She hated the vulnerability, the sense of weakness in body and mind.

She wanted something solid to slam with her fists.

But there were only shadows, rumors in the dark.

She moved ever onward to the next thing, and the next, but couldn’t shake the sense that some terror was breathing down her neck, scraping at her heels.

She steadfastly refused to give it attention, yet this only seemed to intensify the dread.

—

She checked the toilet, switched off the lights, locked the door to the storefront studio, pulled down the graffiti-tagged metal grate, and locked that, too.

Rent for this place was inexpensive—an arrangement made through a friend of a friend.

It had seemed like a good deal at the time, and she liked that it was accessible to the metro so that her students could come from across the city.

She’d spent a few evenings tidying it up, scrubbing away some of the grime, and getting a plumber in so that the toilet flushed properly.

But Nikki didn’t know the neighborhood well.

More important, she didn’t know the neighbors—so there was nobody to keep an eye out, to whisper in the right ears that she was one of them, someone who could slide by without excuse or toll.

Being an outsider put her and her students at risk, and she didn’t like it.

She didn’t know exactly what had prompted this impractical urge to start teaching again.

She’d instructed the occasional course on the US military base, but that had been easier—requested by the base commander and readily supported by her supervisor, Angelo.

This, by contrast, was her own initiative, and it had been difficult to work out with her schedule and duties as a Phoenix Seven liaison officer.

Phoenix Seven was staffed by Italian security investigators and served as an interface between the US military and local law enforcement.

They worked on shift schedules, and Angelo had seemed particularly unwilling to accommodate Nikki’s new teaching duties.

“Your work should come first,” he told her. “What you decide to do on your own time, and how you manage it is your responsibility.”

He seemed to deliberately plan her shifts during the times she was scheduled to teach.

So, she stopped sharing her schedule requests with him.

She bartered with the other members of the unit, trading shifts when necessary—more often than not taking the night shifts.

She could have predicted Angelo’s obstinacy, but watching it play out, maneuvering around it, was exhausting.

—

The sounds of the city echoed on the stones and storefronts around her, the traffic noises somehow altered and amplified by the clarity of the rain. Rain spattered her face, dripped down her neck.

Nikki was almost to her Honda Hornet when the attack came—a rapid slap of sprinting feet.

Before she had time to turn or brace, thick arms lashed suddenly around her from behind, gripping her in a bear hug.

His body stank of sweat and cologne, his breath the stale acrid odor of coffee, beer, and cigarettes.

He was taller than she, and stronger, and she felt almost like a child, upper arms pinned at her sides.

He shook her like a rag doll, lifting her once, twice.

Her feet came off the ground. She hammered down a fist, aiming for his groin.

Then, gripping his hands with both of hers, secured them away from her chin so he couldn’t maneuver her into a headlock.

But he was lifting, dragging her backwards and into the shadows of an alleyway.

No way. No fucking way.