Edge: The Loner

Edge was in mid-stride, unprepared for the attack and as the boy crashed into him, stumbled into the inky mouth of the alley, unbalanced. And outstretched leg caught him on the shinbone and Edge went over, reaching for his gun only to find his hand trapped between his fallen body and the hard ground. His free hand snaked across to the small of his back but a pair of eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness saw the movement and a foot stamped the forearm, sending searing pain up to the shoulder and down to the fingertips.

“Get the bastard’s head,” he heard a voice shout and from the light from the street, saw the kid who had shoved him launch himself forward.

Edge heard a sound and twisted his head clear, felt the rush of air cross his ear as a heavy foot missed its mark by a hairsbreadth. Then the kid thudded on top of him, a fist crashing into his jaw. The foot came off his arm and Edge reached up, flipping on to his back. His big hand formed into a claw, he grabbed at the white blur that was the kid’s face and closed the grip. The kid, bringing up his arm to start another blow, screamed in pain and terror as he felt the fingers dig into the flesh on his face like talons before they were drawn downwards. The skin ripped in two places, beneath the eyes, came off in matching strips down each cheek. His body went stiff with horror of what had happened and sailed through the air like a log of wood as Edge jerked him off with hand and a knee in his crotch.

There were two others and one leapt upon Edge’s back as he came up into a crouch, throwing arms around the victim’s neck, locking his feet around the front of his waist as his legs encircled the body in a vice like grip. Edge grunted and blinked, found he was now on equal terms with his attackers in the matter of picking out shapes in the darkness. The kid with the ripped face sill lay on the ground, moaning, his body now bent double to seek relief from the agony in his groin. The kid on his back was breathing hot and fast into his ear as he forced the grip on with more viciousness and the third kid was coming at Edge with something that glinted faintly in his right hand.

A fast glance over his shoulder showed Edge a vertical row of rusty iron brackets climbing the wall of the building forming a crude means of access to the roof. Despite the weight of the kid on his back, the pain of his grip and the fact that he had his arms pinned to his sides, Edge broke into an awkward backward run, Retreating from the advance of the kid with a knife. The kid, mistaking the reason for the retreat, took time to savor his imminent triumph. A grin flicked across his features, froze in the instant he saw what was happening. Edge judged his distance and launched into a short backwards jump to increase the power with which he slammed his burden against the wall. The kid cried out once as his spine snapped in three places as it met the solid obstacles of the brackets. His arms and legs went limp and he slid to the ground in a heap behind Edge, who in the next moment had sprung forward, hand flashing from his neck, holding the razor in its accustomed, concealed position.

“You killed him,” the third kid said in shocked rage as he came forward, certain that he was going up against a man who was going to defend himself only with bare hands.

“He died for ten dollars you ain’t going to get either,” Edge said as he sidestepped the knife thrust with ease and chopped down with his hand, the razor sliding forward, to be gripped by the handle with the blade fully exposed. Its keen edge made a faint hissing sound as it sliced off the kid’s right ear.

The kid dropped the knife, his hands flying to where his ear had been. “Oh my God,” he whispered hoarsely.

“He wasn’t on your side.” Edge told him.

The kid blinked, gasped, stopped and snatched up the useless lump of severed flesh. Then he spun and ran back down the alley, away from the street. Edge picked up his hat, dusted it off, donned it and continued his stroll towards the restaurant.

“Real nice town, sheriff,” he muttered.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HER name was Gail. It was said in neatly formed red letters, stitched with thread on the left side of her white blouse where the material started its slope to her neck after cresting the high, pointed peaked swell of her breast. She was a tall redhead, the skin of her face tanned a pretty brown, throwing the whites of her large eyes with blue centers into an attractive contrast. Although her breasts were large her build was slim, with a narrow waist and promisingly curved hips. Her walk was graceful as she threaded between the tables of the small restaurant and her movements agile as she dispensed the plates heaped with fine smelling food cooked by a grinning Mexican who occasionally popped his head through the door from the kitchen to see how business was progressing.