I didn't wait for them to get within range, but charged the closest one. He probably hadn't been attacked by an unarmed man in years, and the shock seemed to throw his timing off. I deflected his knife hand easily and gave him an elbow across the face as I passed him. The others, yelling obscenities, ran forward, trying to encircle me again. One came too close and got his knife kicked from his hand. He backpedaled fast enough to avoid my next kick and drew the metal pipe from his belt. Clearly surprised by my unexpected resistance, my attackers hesitated, and I used the breathing space to pull my bowie knife from my boot.
For a second we stood facing each other. "All right," I said in the deadliest voice I could manage, "I'll give you punks just one chance. Drop your weapons or I'll carve you into fertilizer."
I'd never fought with a knife in actual combat, but the training was there, and it must have showed in my stance and grip. "Duke...?" the boy I'd elbowed began.
"Shut up, Al," Duke said, but without too much conviction.
A sound from the cabin door caught my attention. Heather, struggling against an arm across her throat, was being forced outside by the punk who'd been chasing her earlier. "Not so fast, you son of a bitch," he called at me, panting slightly.
"Attaboy, Jackson," Duke crowed. He turned back to me, eyes smoldering. "Now you drop your knife, pal. Or else your broad gets it."
"Don't listen to him, Neil!" Heather shouted, her sentence ending with a little gasp of pain.
"Leave her alone!" I took a half step toward the door—and heard the faint sound of cloth against skin behind me.
Heather shrieked even as I started to turn, my left arm rising to block. But I was too late. The whistling iron pipe, intended for my head, landed across my