I caught the man’s arm and halted his knife inches before it reached my throat.
With the world of hit men and drug lords dominating my life at the time, I fought for my life. A knot of hands struggled for control of the knife, which was now perilously close to both of our faces.
My attacker was now, no doubt, as afraid as I was.
My fingers gripped his, prying them apart as we tousled in the street. Already, a crowd of onlookers was starting to form a ring around us.
By some twist, my hands were now on the knife’s handle and his hands were overtop mine. I was stronger, but not strong enough to completely take the knife away from him. The fray of white-knuckled fingers gave the knife indirection.
Until, bit by bit, I gained control.
As soon as I was able, I thrust the knife toward his throat with all the strength I could muster. His hands still on top of mine, he managed to misdirect it and dodge the blade.
We struggled more. Again I thrust the knife at his throat and again he dodged.
From behind him, I spotted two men breaking through the crowd and running toward us.
Police! I thought. I’m saved!
I couldn’t have been more wrong. The first man poked a knife blade against my kidneys. The second placed his knife at my throat.
They were accomplices of the man I was trying to stab.
I still gripped the knife toward my attacker’s throat, but moved my hands backward slightly. And then I let go.
The knife, again firmly in my attacker’s hands, whipped down my chest, tearing open my shirt but causing little physical damage.
I had no choice but to raise my hands in surrender. I braced, expecting the penetration of steel.
What happened next overpowered me with relief – almost joy.
The three men stuffed their hands in my pockets.
I only then realized I was being attacked by petty muggers – Thank God! These were not professional killers out to get me because of my discussions with the DEA and Jhon the assassin.
By the time they found the equivalent of about $20 and my passport, I was almost giddy with the realization that I would live.
I started to even get a little cocky.
“What could you do with my passport?” I said to the man who, moments earlier, I had tried to stab in the throat. “It’s useless to you.”
He hesitated for a second, looked at my passport … and gave it back to me.
The three ran off through the crowd.
A half a dozen bus drivers from the nearby bus stop approached me. One of them said he knows where the three attackers hang out. He named the bar.
The significance of the attack only hit me when I got back to my hotel room.
I had just tried to kill a man – twice.
I sat on my bed and let the thought wash over me in waves of surreality.
I had been raised on my great uncles’ and grandpa’s stories of World War II. Throughout my childhood and teen years, I was fascinated by the romantic tales of combat and life and death struggles.
Since I was old enough to remember, I had always posed the question – Would I kill somebody if it came right down to it?
Now I had an answer.
At the hotel bar, I dulled the feeling with one beer after another until it faded. In its place came a drunken, stupefied, euphoric bravado on top of an anger at being robbed. It merged into a feeling that would crop up again and again in coming years and lead me to battles. I felt I needed to know just how far I could push myself – at what point would fear paralyze me?
I decided, drunkenly, that I would seek that point tonight. I put my own knife in my pocket and decided to visit the bar the bus driver had said was frequented by my attackers.
My pride demanded my $20 back.
I remember stumbling out onto the dark streets and thinking that, if I found just one of my attackers alone, I would only mug him for his share – about $7.
After all, I was the good guy.
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