He shoved her against the wall. Her foot kicked to the side and knocked over a carton of discarded electrical cords.

“Who do you work for?” he asked.

“Walters is a friend. He asked me to look for you. Wondered how you were. Said he couldn’t do it himself because of some bureaucratic bullshit.”

“You fucking bastards want to kill me. So I don’t say anything.”

He lifted the handle of the knife so that the blade pressed harder against the skin beneath her chin.

“No, I don’t. I just wanted to talk.”

“This ain’t how I’m going down in fucking history. No fucking way.”

He wasn’t listening to her. He was becoming more agitated. He’s going to do it, she thought. He’s—

“Drop the knife, motherfucker.”

Twayne Starrell stood ten yards behind the man with the knife. He was pointing a .9 mm pistol at him.

The man with the knife turned his head slightly to see Starrell.

“Step the fuck back!” Starrell shouted. “Now, motherfucker!”

The man lowered the knife and backed away from Lancette.

“Drop the god-damn knife!” Starrell yelled.

The man let it fall and slowly turned to face Starrell.

“You!” Starrell shouted, jerking his head toward Lancette. “You stand over here.”

He pointed to a spot next to him. Lancette walked to his side. Starrell tried to keep both the man and the woman in his view. He ordered the man to kick the knife toward him. The man followed Starrell’s instruction without saying a word. Starrell carefully bent his knees, kept his eyes on both of them, and picked up the knife. He threw it over a fence and into a vacant lot.

“Make him take off his vest and shirt,” Lancette said.

“What are you talking about?” Starrell snapped.

“Make him take them off,” she repeated.

“I ain’t playing no games here!” he yelled at her. “Shut up, bitch!”

“Tell him to pull up his shirt!” she shouted.

She realized she was shaking.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Starrell waved the gun at her then brought it back to the man. He noticed that the man’s hands were slightly curled, as if he were ready to spring.

“Okay, fucker, we’re all going to trip out real smooth,” he said to the man. “You’ll be right in front of me and my friend here”—he shook the gun—“and the lady will be right at my side.”

He grabbed Lancette by the arm and yanked her close to him. Shit, he thought, what the fuck to do? Homeboy with a gun leading a white man out of an alley and holding on to a white woman. That’s hard shit to pull off.

“Okay, knife-man, you walk slow. Or picture this: Mr. Niner saying hello and good-bye to your pumpkin head.”

The man took a step toward the street, and Starrell positioned himself and Lancette a few feet behind him.