Forty Seconds

I grip the screwdriver in my pocket, calculating distances. The tall one with the switchblade stands seven feet away. The one holding the girl is maybe ten feet back. The third guy hovers by the car door.

"Last chance," I say, voice steady despite my racing heart. "Let her go, walk away, everybody lives happy."

The tall one laughs mockingly. "You come to die today, eh? For some puta you don't know?"

I shrug, casual as ordering coffee. "Maybe I just don't like your face."

His expression hardens. He lunges forward, blade glinting. I sidestep, faster than he expected. Street fights taught me one thing: never be where they think you'll be.

The screwdriver comes out of my pocket in one fluid motion. I drive it toward his shoulder, not trying to kill, just disable. The tip tears through his fancy shirt, drawing blood. He howls, more surprised than hurt.

The girl uses the distraction, biting down hard on her captor's hand. He curses, loosening his grip enough for her to twist away. She stumbles toward me, eyes wild with hope.

"Run!" I shout at her, backing up to give her space to escape.

For one perfect moment, it seems like we might make it. The girl darts past me toward the alley entrance. I pivot to follow, already planning our escape route.

Then I hear the metallic click behind me.

"Stop or I shoot you in the back," comes a cold voice.

I freeze, turning slowly. The third man, the quiet one I'd underestimated, stands with a revolver pointed at the girl's retreating form. His face shows nothing, no anger, no excitement, just the blank expression of someone who's done this before.

"Chica!" he calls out. "Stop now or die running."

The girl halts, shoulders slumping. In her hesitation, the man she bit recaptures her, yanking her arm roughly.

"Smart choice," the gunman says, turning the revolver toward me. "You, not so smart."

The tall one I stabbed straightens up, blood staining his colorful shirt. His eyes burn with humiliation. "Hold him," he spits at his partner.

Before I can react, the third man grabs my arms from behind. I struggle, but he's stronger than he looks. The tall one approaches, switchblade gleaming.

"You know what happens to heroes in Miami?" he asks, pressing the blade against my cheek. "They disappear."

I head-butt him, connecting with his nose. Blood sprays. He staggers back, cursing in Spanish.

That's when I feel the gun barrel press against my temple.

"Enough games," the gunman says.

The tall one recovers, wiping blood from his face. His eyes are murderous. He nods to someone behind me.

I never see the blow coming. Something hard, gun butt probably, crashes against the back of my head. Pain explodes through my skull like fireworks. My knees buckle.

As I fall, I catch a final glimpse of the girl being shoved into the Cadillac, her terrified eyes meeting mine one last time. This is not the result I desire. 40 seconds will be enough to rewind to the beginning of the fight. These are big financial losses in my situation, but for some reason I can't let go of the situation anymore.

I feel the sensation before I see it. It feels like the world suddenly sucking in a breath. My vision blurs as reality warps around me, time stretching like taffy being pulled backward. The pain in my skull vanishes. The kidnappers' positions shift in reverse, a bizarre dance of retreating steps and un-thrown punches.

Forty dollars burn away in my pocket. I can almost feel the bills disintegrating, turning to nothing.

Then everything snaps back into focus. I'm standing at the alley entrance again. The girl still struggling in the man's grip. The tall one hasn't drawn his switchblade yet. The quiet one, the real threat, stands casually by the car door.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I know what happens next. I know about the gun.

"Hey!" I shout, just like before. Their heads turn toward me in unison.

But this time, my eyes dart around the alley, searching for anything better than a screwdriver. There, against the brick wall, an iron pipe, probably fallen from some construction work above. Must be three feet long, heavy enough to do damage.

"Mind your business, pendejo," the tall one says, hand moving toward his jacket, exactly as before. "Walk away now."

I don't waste breath responding. Instead, I lunge for the pipe, fingers closing around cold metal. The weight feels good in my hands.

The quiet one by the car reaches for his waistband. I know what's coming. The revolver.

I don't give him the chance. I charge forward, pipe raised high. His eyes widen in surprise. He expected me to run or freeze, not attack. The pipe comes down in an arc, connecting with his shoulder just as he pulls the gun. The impact sends vibrations up my arms. He howls, stumbling backward, but his fingers still clutch the revolver.

"Maldito loco!" he shouts, raising the gun with his good arm.

I swing again, faster this time. The pipe strikes his wrist with a sickening crack. The revolver clatters to the ground between us.

The tall one has his switchblade out now, lunging at me from the side. I pivot, but not fast enough. The blade slices through my left sleeve, cutting into my forearm. Pain explodes through my nerves, hot and immediate. Blood darkens my shirt, spreading rapidly.

"Fuck!" I gasp, nearly dropping the pipe. My arm feels like it's on fire.

The girl takes advantage of the chaos, stomping hard on her captor's instep. He loosens his grip just enough for her to twist away. She bolts toward the alley entrance, not looking back.

The tall one slashes at me again, the blade whistling through air inches from my face. I stumble backward, my wounded arm hanging useless at my side. Blood drips from my fingertips.

The quiet one is recovering, reaching for the fallen revolver with his uninjured hand. I need to rewind again, go back before the knife caught me, try a different angle.

I reach into my pocket with my good hand, fingers searching for bills. Nothing happens. No warping reality, no reversed time. Just three men in an alley, one of them bleeding too much.

Panic rises in my throat. Did I use all my cash? No, I still have those future bills, worthless for spending, but should work for rewinding. Why isn't it working?

The quiet one's fingers close around the revolver's grip. The tall one advances with his switchblade. The third man, recovered from the girl's escape, pulls a knife of his own.

"You die slow now," the tall one promises, eyes cold with hate.

My vision blurs at the edges. Blood loss or fear, I can't tell. The wound throbs with each heartbeat, pumping more crimson down my arm.

Something clicks in my brain, a desperate clarity born from adrenaline and pain. I don't need to rewind. I need to act.

I lunge forward, swinging the pipe with all my remaining strength. It connects with the quiet one's hand just as he raises the revolver. The gun discharges, the bullet ricocheting off a dumpster with a metallic ping. The impact knocks the weapon from his grasp, sending it skittering across the concrete.

I dive for it, ignoring the screaming pain in my arm. My fingers close around the grip, warm from the previous owner's hand. I roll onto my back, pointing the revolver up at my attackers.

My hand shakes violently, blood making the grip slippery. But at this distance, I can't miss.

"Back the fuck up," I growl, cocking the hammer with my thumb.

The three men freeze, calculating odds. Their eyes flick between the gun and each other, a silent conversation passing between them.

"The girl is gone," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Your business here is finished."

The tall one spits on the ground, switchblade still clutched in his hand. "You made big mistake today. You know who we work for?"

"Educate me," I respond, forcing myself to sit up without lowering the gun. "At least I know who I am. The guy holding a gun on you."

Blood continues to seep from my arm, forming a small puddle beneath me. I need to end this as soon as possible.

"We go," the quiet one says suddenly, touching his companion's arm. "Not worth it. This is not the end."

The tall one hesitates, pride warring with self-preservation. Finally, he nods, taking a step back. "This not over," he promises. "I remember your face."

"So will the police when I describe who tried to kidnap a teenage girl," I counter, though we both know I won't go to the cops. People like us never do.

They back away slowly, the tall one last, his eyes burning with humiliation and rage. They climb into the Cadilac, engine roaring to life. The car peels away, tires squealing against pavement.

I wait for them to leave before letting the weapon drop. My arm throbs in time with my racing heart. Blood has soaked half my shirt now, dripping steadily onto the concrete.